Califi v LH THE POETICAL WORKS OF WORDSWORTH F WARHE & C9 THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WORDSWORTH LONDON FREDERICK WARNE & AND NEW YORK Stack Anne* 5850 UNIV. OF CAUf. LIBRARY. LOS ANGELES PUBLISHERS' PREFACE. THIS present Edition of Wordsworth has been carefully revised, and numerous additions have been made to it. It now comprises all the Poet's best and finest poems (with his latest corrections), and is indeed complete, with the exception of " The Prelude," his last work, which was published after his death, and is not generally considered equal to his former poems. - . IF thou indeed derive thy light irom Heaven, Then, to the measure of that heaven-born light Shine, Poet 1 in thy place, and be content, The stars pre-eminent in magnitude, And they that from the zenith dart their beams, (Visible though they be to half the earth, Though half a sphere be conscious of their brightness) Are yet of no diviner origin, No purer essence, than the one that burns, Like an untended watch-fire, on the ridge Of some dark mountain ; or than those which seem Humbly to hang, like twinkling winter lamps Among the branches of the leafless trees ; AH aie the undying offspring of one Sire : Then, to the measure of the light vouchsafed, Shine. Poet 1 iu thy place, and be content CONTENTS 5iubcnik poem*. Memoir xxviii-xliv PACK Extract from the Conclusion of a Poem, Composed upon Leaving School . i An Evening Walk -..... .1 Lines Written while Sailing in a Boat at Evening 6 Remembrance of Collins ^; .'' i> . 7 Dsnriptive Sketches taken during a Pedestrian Tour among the Alps . . 7 Lines ictt upon a Seat in a Yew-tree 16 The Female Vagrant T 7 $oems Heferrmg to t&e ^eriofc of My Heart leaps up when I behold 20 To a Butterfly 20 Foresight. .20 Characteristics of a Child Three Years old 21 Address to a Child during a Boisterous Winter Evening ..... 21 The Mother's Return . ... 21 Lucy Gray ; or, Solitude . ....22 Alice Fell ; or Poverty . . . . %. . . . . . .23 We are Seven . . . . . . . . ... . 2 3 Anecdote for Fathers ^ , ' ' . 24 Rural Architecture ... 25 The Pet Lamb . . . . . .. . . . . . .'.,.. . 25 The Idle Shepherd- Boys ; or Dungeon-Ghyll-Force 26 To H. C., Six Years old /'.. * '*. . 28 Influence of Natural Objects ..... -,., < .28 The Longest Day, Addressed to 29 CONTENTS. $oems Jountefc on tfje Affections. PAT.B The Brothers ...... 30 Artegal and Elidure 35 The Sparrow's Nest . *s*\* '-'Vt " 38 To a Butterfly . . & . l. -- 3 8 A Farewell 3 8 Stanzas written in my Pocket-copy of Thomson's " Castle of Indolence" . 39 Louisa * 4 Strange Fits of Passion I have known 4 She Dwelt among the Untrodden Ways . . 41 I Travelled among Unknown Men ........ 4 1 Ere with Cold Beads of Midnight Dew 4 1 To 4i 'Tis said that Some have Died for Love 4 2 A Complaint 4 2 To . . 42 How Rich that Forehead's calm Expanse 43 To ... 43 Lament of Mary Queen of Scots on the Eve of a New Veal 43 The Complaint of a Forsaken Indian Woman ....... 44 The I.ast of the Flock 45 Repentance 4 6 The Affliction of Margaret . 4 6 The Cottager to her Infant 47 Fhe Sailor's Mother 47 The Childless Father ... 48 The. Emigrant Mother 4 8 Vaudracour and Julia ....... ... 49 The Idiot Boy Michael 57 The Waggoner 6 3 of tf)* jfancg. A Morning Exercise 7 1 To the Daisy ' 7 2 A Whirl-blast from Behind the Hill 73 The Green Linnet - ... 73 The Contrast 73 This Moss lined Shed, green, soft, and dry . 74 To the Small Celandine ..... ; . 74 To the Same Flower 75 The Waterfall and the Eglantine 75 The Oak and the Broom 76 CONTFNTS. t-ong for the Spinning Wheel ..,.,. The Redbreast acd Butterfly 6 The Kitten and the Falling Leaves ..... A Flower Garden it. To the Daisy . . . i - t To the Same Flower . * * . To a Sky-lark . . To a Sexton .....,, The Coronet ' he Moses Art . Jttemortals of a &oui fa cotianu. 1803. Departure from the Vale of Grasmere ........ 146 To the Sons of Burns, after Vis'ting the Grave ol their Father .... 146 Ellen Irwin, or the Braes of Kirtle 147 To a Highland Girl . 147 Glen-Almain, or the Narrow Glen 148 Stepping Westward 149 The Solitary Reaper 149 Address to Kilchurn Castle upon Lot:. 4 . #y 149 Rob Roy's Grave 150 Composed at Castle 151 Yarrow Unvisited 151 In the Pass of Killicrankie 152 The Matron of Jedburgh and her Husband . . 152 Fly, some Kind Spirit, Fly to Grasmere date ....... 153 The Blind Highland Boy ..... ..... 153 (tUmouals of a oui in &cot!anfc The Brownie's Cell ....... t . iq Composed at Corra Linn .......... 157 Effusion in the Pleasure-Ground on the Banks of the Bran, near Dunkeld 158 Y.- TOW Visited ..... ....... itg CONTENTS. on tin Naming of places. PAGE It was an April Morning ; Fresh and Clear ...,,<. 160 To Joanna . 161 There is an Eminence, of these our Hills 162 A Narrow Girdle of Rough Stones and Crags ..,-... 162 To M. H . 163 When, to the Attractions of the Busy World . . 163 Inscriptions. The Embowering Rose, the Acacia, and the Pine 165 Oft is the Medal Faithful to its Trust 165 Ye Lime-trees, Ranged before this Hallowed Urn ..... . 165 Beneath Yon Eastern Ridge, the Craggy bound ...... 166 Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast Seen , , 166 Stay, Bold Adventurer ; Rest a while thy Limbs ..',. . 166 Stranger ! this Hillock of Mis-shapen Stones ....... 167 Hopes What are They ? Beads of Morning . . ... . . , 167 Pause, Traveller ! Whosoe'er Thou be ........ 168 Troubled Long with Warring Notions . , , . . . 168 Not Seldom Clad in Radiant Vest 168 Stranger ! this Shapeless Heap of Stones and Earth 168 Sbonmts Be&tcatrtJ lo Fair Star of Evening, Splendour of the West 169 Is it a Reed that's Shaken by the Wind . . . . . . . . 169 Jones ! While from Calais Southward You and I ... . . 169 I Grieved for Bonaparte, with a Vain 169 Festivals Have I Seen that were not Names . . . . .'"'-* . 170 Once did She Hold the Gorgeous East in Fee ....... 170 The Voice of Song from Distant Lands shall Call ...... 170 Toussaint, the most Unhappy Man of Men . . , .' . , . 170 Driven from the Soil of France, a Female Came . . . . . 170 Here, on our Native Soil we Breathe Once More . . . . . . 171 Inland, Within a Hollow Vale I Stood . . . . . . . . 171 Two Voices are There ! One is of the Sea . . -.- . . 171 O Friend ! I Know not which Way I Must Look . ... . . 171 Miiton ! Thou S^ouldet be Living at this Hour .... . 171 Hreat Men have been Among Us ; Hands that Penned 171 CONTENTS. It is not to be Thought oT that the Flood 172 When I have Borne in Memory what has Tamed 172 One Might Believe that Natural Miseries . 172 There is a Bondage Worse, Far Worse to Bear ..... . 172 These Times Touch Moneyed Worldlings with Dismay ..... 172 England 1 the Time is Come when Thou shouldst Wean .... 172 When Looking on the Present Face of Things ....... 173 Vanguard of Liberty, Ye Men of Kent ........ 173 Shout, for a Mighty Victory is Won 173 Another Year ! another Deadly Blow . 173 Ode Who Rises on the Banks of Seine ....... 173 A Roman Master Stands on Grecian Ground ....... 174 When, Far and Wide, Swift as the Beams of Morn 174 Clarkson ! It was an Obstinate Hill to Climb 175 High Deeds, O Germans, are to Come from You 173 Clouds, Lingering Yet, Extend in Solid Bars ....... 175 Go Back to Antique Ages, if Thine Eyes ........ 175 Not 'Mid the World's Vain Objects ! that Enslave 175 I Dropped My Pen ; and Listened to the Wind ...... 176 Of Mortal Parents is the Hero Born . 176 Advance Come Forth from Thy Tyrolean Ground 176 The Land We from Our Fathers Had in Trust 176 Alas ! What Boots the Long, Laborious Quest 176 And is it Among Rude Untutored Dales ....... 176 O'er the Wide Earth on Mountain and on Plain ... . 177 On the Final Submission of the Tyrolese 177 Say, what is Honour ? Tis the Finest Sense .177 The Martial Courage of a Day is Vain ......... 177 Call not the Royal Swede Unfortunate 178 Look now on that Adventurer who hath Paid 178 Is there a Power that can Sustain and Cheer 178 Ah ! where is Palafox ? Nor Tongue nor Pen 178 In Due Observance of an Ancient Rite 178 Yet, yet, Biscayans ! we must Meet our Foes 179 Oak of Guernica ! Tree of Holier Power 179 We can Endure that He should Waste our Lands 179 Avaunt all Specious Pliancy of Mind ........ 179 O'erweening Statesmen have full long Relied 179 Hunger, and Sultry Heat, and Nipping Blast 180 They Seek, are Sought ; to Daily Battle Led 180 The Power of Armies is a Visible Thing 180 Here Pause : the Poet Claims at Least this Praise 180 Humanity, Delighting to Behold 180 Ye Storms, Resound the Praises of your King 18*1 Abruptly Paused the Strife ; the Field throughout 181 Now that all Hearts are Glad, all Faces Bright ...... i8a Dsar Reliques ! from a Pit of Vilest Mould . . Tf *a CONTENTS. xvii JACK Intrepid Sons of Albion ! not by You 182 Oh ! for a Kindling Touch of that Pure Flame 183 The Bard, whose Soul is Meek as Dawning Day ...... 182 Emperors and Kings, how oft have Temples Rung 183 Ode When the Soft Hand of Sleep had Closed the Latch . . . .183 Thanksgiving Ode 184 JJJUmou'als of a ^our on ttc ODonttnent. 1820. Fish-Women on Landing at Calais , 190 Bruges 190 Bruges I9 i After Visiting the Field of Waterloo 191 Scenery between Namur and Liege 191 Aix-la-Chapelle .........'... 191 In the Cathedral at Cologne .......... 192 In a Carriage, upon the Banks of the Rhine 192 Hymn, for the Boatmen as they Approach the Rapids, under the Castle of Heidelberg 191 The Source of the Danube 192 Memorial near the Outlet of the Lake of Thun ...... 193 Composed in One of the Catholic Cantons of Switzerland .... 193 On Approaching the Staub-Bach, Lauterbrunnen 193 The Fall of the Aar. Handec . 194 Scene on the Lake of Brientz 19^ Engelberg, the Hill of Angels 194 Our Lady of the Snow 194 Effusion in Presence of the Painted Tower of Tell, at Altore .... 195 The Town of Schwytz 195 On Hearing the " Ranz des Vaches" on the Top of the Pass of St. Gotha:d . 195 The Church of San Salvador, seen from the Lake of Lugano .... 195 Fort Fuentes 196 The Italian Itinerant, and the Swiss Goatherd 197 The Last Supper, by Leonardo da Vinci 198 The Eclipse of the Sun. 1820 198 The Three Cottage Girls 199 The Column, intended by Bonaparte for a Triumphal Edifice in Milan . . 200 Stanzas Composed in the Simplon Pass 200 Echo upon the Gemmi 200 Processions. Suggested on a Sabbath Morning in the Vale of Chamouny . 201 Elegiac Stanzas 202 Sky-Prospect. From the Plain of France 203 On being Stranded near the Harbour of Boulogne 203 After Landing. The Valley of Dover xg Desultory Stanzas, upon Receiving the Preceding Sheets from the Press . 203 To Enterprise .........< 205 B xviii CONTENTS. Ecclesiastical PART L FROM THE INTRODUCTION OF CHRISTIANITY INTO BRITAIN, TO THE CONSUMMATION OF THE PAPAL DOMINION. PAGE Introduction .....,, 207 Conjectures ,, ,.. 207 Trepidation of the Druids .... 208 Druidical Excommunication ..... , , . . . 208 Uncertainty , , . 208 Persecution 208 Recovery ... 209 Temptations from Roman RefinemetJs ... , . 209 Dissensions ... 209 Struggle of the Britons against the Barbarians . . 209 Saxon Conquest , , . 209 Monastery of Old Bangor . . . . 210 Casual Incitement ,, .... 210 Glad Tidings 210 Paulinus ....,.,,., .... 210 Persuasion . . ( . .211 Conversion 211 Apology 211 Primitive Saxon Clergy 211 Other Influences .... ....... 212 Seclusion 212 Reproof 212 Saxon Monasteries, and Lights and Shades of the Religion .... 212 Missions and Travels 213 Alfred 213 His Descendants ............ 213 Influence Abused 213 Danish Conquests ............ 213 Canute ,,,. 214 The Norman Conquest , 2I 4 The Council of Clermont ..... , , 214 Crusades 214 Richard I ,214 An Interdict ......... : , . 215 Papal Abuses .1. 215 Scene in Venice .....:...,.. am' Papal Dominion ...... t .,,<, 215 CONTENTS. PART II. TO THE CLOSE OF THE TROUBLES IN THE REIGN OF CHARLES I. PAGE Cistertian Monastery ........... 215 Monks and Schoolmen ........... 216 Other Benefits ............. 216 Crusaders ............. 216 Transubstantiation ............ 216 Waldenses ............. 217 Archbishop Chicheley to Henry V. ......... 217 Wars of York and Lancaster . . . . . . . ,''''. . 217 Wicliffe 217 Corruptions of the Higher Clergy ......... 218 Abuse of Monastic Power ........... 218 Monastic Voluptuousness , , 218 Dissolution of the Monasteries 218 Saints .............. 219 The Virgin ............. " ! 'i 219 Apology 219 Imaginative Regrets ........... 219 Reflections 219 Translation of the Bible , ! ' '-' ''-;' . 220 The Point at Issue '-\ ' . 220 Edward VI. . . . .':'. 220 Edward Signing the Warrant for the Execution of Joan of Kent !'; . 220 Revival of Popery . . . . . . . . . -. '*>'.-'. 220 Latimer and Ridley . ........ ,="'-"'.' . 221 Cranmer ............... 221 General View of the Troubles of the Reformation ...... 221 English Reformers in Exile 221 Elizabeth . . . 222 Eminent Reformers. . . . . . . .... . . 222 Distractions . . . . . . ... . . . . 222 Gunpowder Plot ............ 223 Illustration . . . . . . . . . . 223 Troubles of Charles the First . . . . ". . . . . . 223 Laud , -'{ I'M ']?; 22 3 Afflictions of England ........... 224 PART III. FROM THE RESTORATION TO THE PRESENT TIMES. I saw the Figure of a Lovely Maid . . . . '".'.'.;. . 224 Patriotic Synioathies ~; . r. ^ ;V.IK?., - _ 22 ^ CONTENTS. Charles the Second ....... ..... 224 Latitudinarianism v ? ' "" : . ' . - = . . 224 Clerical Integrity ..... .,.... 225 Persecution of the Scottish Covenanters . . . . . . . .225 Acquittal of the Bishops ........ ... 225 William the Third ....... ..... 225 Obligations of Civil to Religious Liberty ... , 225 Down a Swift Stream, thus far, a Bold Design . ..... 225 Walton's Book of Lives ........... 226 Sacheverell ............. 226 Places of Worship . . ....,,.... 226 Pastoral Character ..... . , . . 226 The Liturgy .... ......... 227 Baptism ..... i. **.. 227 Catechising ..... 227 Confirmation .,.,.,,,*.... 227 Sacrament .,.,,:,..... 228 Rural Ceremony , * >...,.. 228 Regrets ...... * ..... 228 Mutability ..... , , , ..... 228 Old Abbeys .....,,,,.... 228 Emigrant French Clergy . . . , , ...... 229 Congratulation ....,..,.... 229 New Churches ..... ..... 229 Church to be Erected .... ..... . 229 New Church-yard . . . . < t . . r . , . 230 Cathedrals, &c. ..-.... 230 Inside of King's College Chapel, Cambridge ..,... 230 Ejaculation ............. 231 Conclusion . . ..... ...... 231 The White Doe of Rylstone ; or, the Fate of the Nortcns .... 232 The Prioress's Tale. (From Chaucer) ........ 254 Jfttber Dirtfoon. A SERIES OF SONNETS. The Minstrels Played their Christmas Tune ....... 258 Not Envying Shades which haply yet may Throw ...... 259 Child of the Clouds ! Remote from every Taint ...... 259 How shall I Paint Thee ? Be this Naked Stone ...... 259 Take, Cradled Nursling of the Mountain, Take ...... 259 Sole Listener, Duddon ! to the Breeze that Played ...... 259 Ere yet our Course was Graced with Social Trees ..,.. 260 CuNTENTS. "Change me, some God, into that Breathing Rose!" ..... 260 What Aspect bore the Man who Roved or Fled . . . 260 The Struggling Rill insensibly is Grown 260 Not so that Pair whose Youthful Spirits Dance 260 No Fiction was it of the Antique Age 261 On, Loitering Muse the Swift Stream Chides us on 261 Hail to the Fields with Dwellings Sprinkled o'er ...... 261 Mountain Stream ! the Shepherd and his Cot ...,,. 261 From this Deep Chasm where Quivering Sunbeams Play . . . 261 Such Fruitless Questions may not long Beguile . . ... 262 A Dark Plume fetch me from yon Blasted Yew . ,. . . . 262 Sacred Religion, ' ' Mother of Form and Fear " ...... 262 My Frame hath often Trembled with Delight ....... 262 The Old Inventive Poets, had they Seen 262 Whence that Low Voice ? a Whisper from the Heart ..... 263 A Love-lorn Maid, at some Far-distant Time 263 Sad Thoughts, Avaunt ! the Favour of the Year * 263 Mid-noon is Past ; upon the Sultry Mead 263 Methinks 'twere no Unprecedented Feat 263 Return, Content ! for Fondly I Pursued ........ 264 Fallen, and Diffused into a Shapeless Heap 264 [ rose, while yet the Cattle, Heat-opprest 264 No Record tells of Lance opposed to Lance 264 Who Swerves from Innocence, who makes Divorce ...... 264 The Kirk of Ulpha to the Pilgrim's Eye 265 Not Hurled Precipitous from Steep to Steep . . . . . : . . 265 But Here no Gannon Thunders to the Gale ....... 265 1 Thought of Thee, my Partner and my Guide ...... 265 Sonnets to Liberty and Order, Punishment of Death, &c. .... 266 Ipoems of Sentiment anfc vark* 302 Animal Tranquillity and Decay . 303 ant. IBIegfac Perhaps some Needful Service of the State ....... 304 Thou who Movest Onward with a Mind . ...... 304 There never Breathed a Man who when his Life 305 Destined to War from very Infancy ......... 305 Pause, Courteous Spirit ! Balbi Supplicates ....... 306 Loud is the Vale ! the Voice is up . 307 To Public Notice, with Reluctance Strong ....... 307 1 was thy Neighbour Once, thou Rugged Pile t 308 Sweet Flower ! Belike one Day to have ... ..... 309 Once I could Hail (howe'er Serene the Sky) 310 Oh, fora Dirge! But why Complain? ...... . 311 CONTENTS. xxiii PAGE Invocation to the Earth 313 Ode Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood . 313 Observations Prefixed to the Second Edition of Several of the Foregoing Poems, Published under the Title of " Lyrical Ballads " 318 Appendix on Poetic Diction 331 lExcurston* Preface to the Edition of 1814 334 Book I. The Wanderer . 337 II. The Solitary 354 ,, III. Despondency .......... 371 ,, IV. Despondency Corrected . . , . , . . . 389 V. The Pastor . .412 ,, VI. The Churchyard among the Mountains 431 ,, VII. The Churchyard among the Mountains (Continued) . . 452 ,, VIII. The Parsonage 471 ,, IX. Discourse of the Wanderer, and an Evening Visit to the Lake . 482 POEMS COMPOSED DURING A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, AND ON THE ENGLISH BORDER, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1831. Yarrow Revisited .>....'. .,;.':*;, 497 Sonnets : On the Departure of Sir Walter Scott from Abbotsford, for Naples . . 498 A Place of Burial in the South of Scotland ...... 498 On the Sight of a Manse in the South of Scotland 498 Composed in Roslin Chapel, during a Storm ...... 499 The Trossachs . . bolt; ;*>:;.', . 499 The Pibroch's Note, discountenanced or mute ...... 499 Composed in the Glen of Loch Etive . , . . ..- . 499 Eagles, composed at Dunollie Castle, in the Bay of Oban ->>..*; ,^ . 500 In the Sound of Mull 500 At Tyndrum ' : i ; :: . . 500 The Earl of Breadalbane's ruined Mansion, and Family Burial-Place, near Killin . . . . . . ;; ; i .-.- '..*. ; -. . 500 Rest and be Thankful, at the Head of Glencroe . ; .v j.,,{j asv^p . 500 Highland Hut itv <*:'; ; . 501 The Brownie 501 To the Planet Venus, an Evening Star. Composed at Loch Lomond . 501 Bothwell Castle 501 Picture of Daniel iu the Lions' Den. at Hamilton Palace .... 502 xiiv CONTENTS, J-AGE The Avon, a Feeder of the Annan ........ 502 Suggested by a View from an Eminence in Inglewood Forest . . . 502 Hart's-hora Tree, near Penrith 502 Countess's Pillar 502 Roman Antiquities. (From the Roman Station at Old Penrith) . . 503 Apology for the foregoing 503 The Highland Broach . 503 The Egyptian Maid ; or. The Romance of the Water Lily . . . .504 Ode, composed on May Morning 509 To May . 510 Inscription 511 Elegiac Musings in the Grounds of Coleorton Hall, the Seat of the late Sir George Beaumont, Bart. 511 Epitaph 512 Inscription intended for a Stone in the Grounds of Rydal Mount . . .512 Written in an Album ... 512 Incident at Bruges .... 512 A Jewish Family. (In a small valley opposite St Goar, upon the Rhine) . 513 Devotional Incitements 513 The Armenian Lady's Love 514 The Primrose of the Rock 5 l6 Presentiments 5*7 Sonnets : The Poet and the caged Turtledove 518 Chatsworth ! thy stately Mansion 518 Desponding Father ! mark this altered Bough 518 Roman Antiquities discovered at Bishopstone, Herefordshire . . .518 St. Catherine of Ledbury m 5*9 The Russian Fugitive 519 Sonnets : Why art thou silent 523 Four fiery Steeds impatient of the Rein 523 To the Author's Portrait 524 Gold and Silver Fishes, in a Vase . 524 Liberty. (Sequel to the above) 524 Evening Voluntaries : Calm is the fragrant Air, and loth to lose 526 Not in the lucid Intervals of Life 527 By the Side of Rydal Mere . 527 Soft as a Cloud is yon blue Ridge 528 The Leaves that rustled on this Oak-crowned Hill 528 The Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire 529 By the Sea-side 529 The Labourer's Noon-day Hymn 530 A Wren's Nest 530 CONTENTS. nv PAGE Sonnets composed during a Tour in Scotland in 1833 531 Adieu ! Rydalian Laurels ! that have grown 531 Why should the Enthusiast, journeying through this Isle .... 531 They called Thee merry England, in old Time ..... 531 To the River Greta, near Keswick 531 Composed on a May Morning 532 In sight of the Town of Cockermouth ....... 532 Address from the Spirit of Cockermouth Castle 532 Nun's Well, Brigham S3 2 To a Friend (on the Banks of the Derwent) 533 Mary Queen of Scots (landing at the Mouth of the Derwent, Workington) 533 In the Channel, between the Coast of Cumberland and the Isle of Man . 533 At Sea off the Isle of Man . 533 Desire we past Illusions to recall ? 534 On entering Douglas Bay, Isle of Man 534 By the Sea-shore, Isle of Man 534 Isle of Man 534 The Retired Marine Officer, Isle of Man 534 By a Retired Mariner (a Friend of the Author) 535 At Bala-sala, Isle of Man. (Supposed to be written by a Friend) . . 535 Tynwald Hill 535 Despond who will / heard a voice exclaim 535 In the Frith of Clyde, Ailsa Crag. (July 17, 1833) 536 On the Frith of Clyde. (In a Steam-boat) 536 On revisiting Dunolly Castle . ...... 536 The Dunolly Eagle ........... 536 Cave of Staffa. Three Sonnets 537 Flowers on the Top of the Pillars at the Entrance of the Cave . . . 537 On to lona ! What can she afford 537 lona. (Upon landing) . . - . ... . . 538 The Black Stones of lona 538 Homeward we turn. Isle of Columba's Cell ...... 538 Greenock . 538 "There !" said a Stripling, pointing with meet Pride . 538 Fancy and Tradition 539 The River Eden, Cumberland 539 Monument of Mrs. Howard (by Nollekens) in Wetheral Church, near Corby 539 Tranquillity ! the sovereign aim wert thou 539 Nunnery . . . . 540 Steam-boats, Viaducts, and Railways 540 Lowther ! in thy majestic Pile are seen 540 To the Earl of Lonsdale 540 To Cordelia M , Hallsteads, Ullswater ...... 541 Conclusion , , 541 Lines written in the Album of the Countess of , Nov. 5, 1834 . . .541 The Somnambulist ... . 542 KXV1 CONTENTS. PAGE To , upon the Birth of her first-born Child, March, 1833 544 The Warning, a Sequel to the foregoing. March, 1833 545 If this great World of Joy and Pain 547 Sonnet, composed after reading a Newspaper of the Day .... 547 Loving and Liking : irregular Verses addressed to a Child .... 547 St. Bees, suggested in a Steam-boat off St. Bees Heads 54 8 Sonnets 55 1 The Redbreast (suggested in a Westmoreland Cottage) 5S 1 To 552 Rural Illusions 553 This Lawn, &c. 553 Thought on the Seasons 553 Humanity. Written in the Year 1829 553 Lines suggested by a Portrait from the Pencil of F. Stone .... 555 The foregoing Subject resumed 557 Stanzas on the Power of Sound 557 To the Moon. (Composed by the Sea-side) 5 60 To the Moon. (Rydal) 561 Impromptu 5 2 Sonnet and Elegiac Pieces 5^2 Translations of Epitaphs . 54 The Norman Boy 5 6 5 The Poet's Dream 5 6 5 The Westmoreland Girl 5 6 7 Yes, thou art Fair 5 68 What Heavenly Smiles !...> 5 68 The Widow on Windermere Side S 68 Farewell Lines < 5^9 Glad sight wherever new with old ....... 5^9 Love Lies Bleeding ."...-' 59 Companion to the foregoing . . . , t 57 Airey-Force Valley .".... > 57 The Simplon Pass , 57<> The Lyre ... 57 1 The Triad ..,.. 57* The Wishing-Gate (Parts I. and II.) 573 The Cuckoo-Clock . 575 To the Clouds ...,..,. 575 Suggested by a Picture of the Bird of Paradise ...... 577 Poor Robin . . - 577 The Gleaner 57 8 Prelude 57 8 Grace Darling 579 CONTENTS. xxvii $tetor:als 0f a t&rar in Jtalg. PAGE To H. C. Robinson ,581 Musings near Aquapendent . 581 The Pine of Monte Mario .;.,..... 586 At Rome , . 1586 At Rome, Regrets, &c. Two Sonnets 586 Plea for the Historian 586 At Rome 587 Near Rome, in Sight of St. Peter's 587 At Albano 587 Near Anio's Stream 587 From the Alban Hills, looking towards Rome 588 Near the Lake of Thrasymene 588 Near the same Lake ......... . 588 The Cuckoo at Laverna ........... 588 At the Convent of Camaldoli. Two Sonnets ....... 590 At the Eremite or Upper Convent of Camaldoli ...... 590 At Vallambrosa . , 590 At Florence , 591 Before the Picture of the Baptist, by Raphael ....... 591 At Florence From Michael Angelo. Two Sonnets ..... 592 Among the Ruins of a Convent in the Apennines , , 592 In Lombardy ............. 592 After Leaving Italy. Two Sonnets 593 Composed at Rydal on May Morning, 1838 ....... 593 THE BORDERERS: A TRAGEDY . , .... 594 MEMOIR. jjILLIAM WORDSWORTH, the most distinguished philosophical poet that England has produced, was born at Cockermouth, in Cumber* land, on the 7th of April, 1770. The family of Wordsworth appears to have been of some little anticmity, as members of it are found settled at Pennistone, near Doncaster, so far back as the reign of Edward III., and the poet himself had in his possession an antique oak chest, or almery, of the reign of Henry VIII. (1525), on which was recorded, in curious carving, some generations of the family pedigree. But the branch from which he sprang was originally planted at Falthwaite, near Stainborough, and removed thence to Sockbridge, in Westmoreland, about the beginning of the last century. The poet's father, who is said to have been a man of vigorous mental powers and of some eloquence, was an attorney, and held the appointment of law-agent to the Earl of Lonsdale. Ann Cookson, the poet's mother, was the daughter of a mercer of Penrith, and was descended, on her mother's side, from a very ancient family the Crackanthorpes who had been seated at Newbiggen Hall, in Westmoreland, for more than five hundred years. She appears to have been a woman of gentle and affectionate disposition, of much wisdom, high moral principle, and unaffected piety. She died when the poet was in his eighth year ; so that, like Cowper, he had hardly listened to the language of maternal love when it was lost to him for ever. Henceforth he was confided to the care of strangers. But the impressions left upon his mind by his mother's tender treatment, and by the liberal and enlarged, yet gentle and confiding spirit in which she conducted the moral and mental training of his childhood, appear to have been deep and abiding, for he has embodied them in one or two passages of his poems, in lines as full of truthful feeling and tender pathos as any in the language. The family consisted of five children four sons and one daughter. The eldest son became an attorney and died in 1816 ; the thjrd went to sea, became com- mander of the Earl of Abergavenny, East Indiaman, and perished by shipwreck ofi W^ymouth in 1805. The youngest, Christopher, entered the Church, and became well known as Dr. Wordsworth,* author of a work entitled 'Ecclesiastical * Two of Dr. Wordsworth's sons have become somewhat distinguished. One of them Christopher Wordsworth. D. D. was. in 1869, made by Mr. Gladstone, Bishop of Lincoln. He MEMOTR. xxix Biography," and for many years Master of Trinity College, Cambridge. Dorothy Wordsworth, the only daughter, and the constant companion of the poet down ta the day of her death, was, like her mother, a woman of gentle and affectionate nature, but of exquisite sensibility, and of considerable literary and poetic power. But the poet, it would appear, was the only one of the family about whose future welfare his mother was anxious. He, she is recorded to have said, would be remarkable either for good or for evil. "The cause of this was," he says, "that I was of a stiff, moody, and violent temper ; so much so, that I remember going once into the attics of my grandfather's house at Penrith, upon some indignity having been put upon me, with the intention of destroying myself with one of the foils which I knew was kept there. I took the foil in hand but my heart failed." Another and better destiny was in store for him. He received the first rudiments of learning at a dame-school at Penrith, where he was often taken when a child to reside with his maternal grand-parents. And here he had for classmate a little girl, a few months younger than himself, named Mary Hutchinson, who, some thirty years afterwards, became sole mistress of his house and heart. After having spent a year or two at school at Cockermouth, he was, in 1778, when in the ninth year of his age, sent to the endowed Grammar-school of Hawks- head, in Lancashire, where he remained till he was fourteen. And it was while here his first attempts at verse-making were made. One of the pieces he composed unmis- takably presaged two of his most prominent mental characteristics. " It was," he says, ' ' a long poem running upon my own adventures, and the scenery of Uie country in which I was brought up." These verses, he adds, were admired far more than they deserved, ' ' for they were but a tame imitation of Pope's versifica- tion, and a little in his style." The days he spent at school here, he says, were amongst the happiest of his life, chiefly because he was at liberty to read whatever books he liked. " I read," he says, " all Fielding's works, 'Don Quixote,' 'Gil Bias,' 'Gulliver's Travels,' and the 'Tale of a Tub;' the two latter," he adds, " being much to my taste," a circumstance which may account for the remarkable strength and purity of his English style. In 1783 his father died, leaving little fortune to his children, beyond some heavy claims for professional labour rendered to the Earl of Lonsdale, whose law- agent, as already mentioned, he was. But as this nobleman refused to recognise these claims, or to meet them in any way, they remained unpaid till his death in 1802. In the meantime, the poet, and his three brothers and his sister, were thrown upon the care of their two uncles Richard Wordsworth and Christopher wrote the poet's life, and was the author of various valuable works on religious, classical, historical, literary, and polemical subjects. The other Charles Wordsworth, D.D., equally able and learned, and the author of the best and most popular Greek Grammar of the present day, and of a number of other works on religious and literary topics it Bishop of St. Andrews in the Epis copal Church of Scotland. Christopher died 1885. xxx MEMOIE. Crackanthorpe who appear to have treated them with the greatest kindness and consideration. In 1787 Wordsworth, when in his eighteenth year, was sent by his uncles to St. John's College, Cambridge, where he remained for four years. But his university career was neither pleasant to himself nor satisfactory to his friends. His early scholastic training does not appear to have been of a kind to enable him to pursue his university studies with the same prospect of success as was within reach of youths who had been reared at the great public schools ; and he consequently felt inwardly dissatisfied and ill at ease, and spent his time in aimless projects and in desultory pursuits. Besides, in other respects, the cloistered silence and constraint of these classic shades seem to have been unsuited to his nature. They "froze the genial current of his soul," for the only poem composed while he was al Cambridge was the " Evening Walk," none of the imagery of which is derived from academic scenes. It certainly does appear, at first sight, somewhat singular, that a mind so meditative, so calmly philosophical, should have felt so ill at ease in this "garden of great intellects.' But the cause is clear. HL love of nature from childhood upwards was intense. "The sounding cataract, the tall rock, the mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, their glorious colours and their glow- ing forms, " haunted him like a passion ; so that, amid these grand old halls, grey with age and rich in historic and intellectual renown for centuries "the sacred nurseries of blooming youth " his spirit pined for the freedom of its native hills and dales ; and at every convenient opportunity he seems to have escaped from academic rule, and to have rambled at will, for months together, among his beloved lakes and mountains. In the autumn of 1 790, his last college vacation, he made, in the company of a fellow-collegian, Mr. Jones, afterwards a clergyman of the Church of England, a pedestrian tour through France and Switzerland to the north of Italy. ' ' We went staff in hand," he says, "without knapsacks, and carrying each his need- ments tied up in a pocket-handkerchief, with about 20 apiece in our pockets. " During this journey he seems to have become infected with the prevailing revolu- tionary fever, which had just then become epidemic in France ; and he hailed th( rising revolution with feelings of enthusiastic admiration, as a new era of liberty and happiness that was about to burst upon mankind. " Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive ; But to be young was very heaven." Few of the younger spirits f the time escaped the contagion the poets especially, Burns, Byron, Coleridge, Southey, Campbell all felt the flame more or less intensely. The poem entitled " Descriptive Sketches " arose out of materials obtained during this ramble. In January, 1791, he took his degree of B.A. and left Cambridge ; and, aftef a few months' residence in London, he paid a visit to his friend Jones, at the house Of his father in Wales, and with him made a pedestrian excursion among the mag* nificint mountains of North Wales. MEMOIR. xxxi About this time he was urged by some of his friends to enter the Church ; but probably his republican sentiments, and the unsettled state of his mind, rendered him averse to such a step. In the meantime he resolved t visit France again. The first thrilling scenes of the great revolutionary drama which was then enacting on the soil of France seem to have stirred his soul " like the sound of a trumpet." The flutter of the tricolor was for ever in his eyes, and the deep roll of the tocsin for ever in his ears, and he became too excited to remain a mere distant spectator. In November, 1791, therefore, he hurried across the little strip of silver sea that separated him from them, and spent the following year in the midst of them. He passed a few days at Paris, listened to the harangues in the National Assembly and at the Club of the Jacobins, picked up a stone as a relic from the ruins of the Bastille ; and " Became a patriot and his heart was all Given to the people ; and his love was theirs." From Paris he proceeded to Orleans; and, as he marched along the endless avenues of elms, and passed each vine-clad slope, it seemed, to his excited mind, as if " From every cot , he watchful bird Crowed with ear-piercing power till then unheard." At Orleans he became acquainted with the republican General Beaupuis, whom he has described in glowing and affectionate terms as an ardent patriot, a brave soldier, and a wise and virtuous philosopher. On the banks of the Loire, and in the woods near Orleans, the enthusiastic and delighted pair took, long and frequent walks, in which they talked in rapt and hopeful terms of an approaching " pro* geny of golden years " that were about to bless mankind. His friend ultimately fell " fighting in supreme command" in one of the many engagements which took place on the banks of the Loire. In the spring of 1 792 Wordsworth left Orleans for Blois, where he spent the summer. In the autumn he proceeded to Paris, which he reached while the blood of the massacres of September may be said to have still clung to the streets. Royalty had fallen, and was speedily to perish. The unfortunate king, and his still more unfortunate family, were in prison, and apart. France was a republic. And everywhere the general joy was being proclaimed amidst the roll of drums, the rattle of arms, and the shouts of maddened multitudes marching to the music of the Marseillaise. But clouds had already begun to gather. The first red drops had fallen ominous precursors of the coming torrents that were to drench the soil with blood. Such were the libations poured out to so-called Liberty ! The poet, says his nephew, visited the dungeon and the palace, and the Place du Carrousel, where " So late had Iain The dead upon the dying heaped." " He describes the awe which he felt by night in the high, dark, lonely chamber in which he lodged, when he thought of those scenes of carnage, until he seemed jcxxii. MEMOIR. To hear a voice that cried, To the whole city, 'Sleep no more !'" These scenes are said to have made so deep an impression on him, that for years afterwards they haunted him in his dreams ! Appalled by what he saw, and stung with disappointment that no great spirit had emerged to crush the impious leaders of " the atheist crew, "he began to forebode the approach of the Reign of Terror. Yet, as if by some mysterious spell, he seemed fascinated by what he saw, and felt riveted to the fatal spot. Fortunately for him however, circumstances compelled him to return to England, and he reluctantly tore himself away. Had he remained but a little longer, he would, in all proba- bility, have been swept away with the innumerable victims that perished in the excesses of that sanguinary period. He afterwards gratefully acknowledged that he had been rescued " by the gracious providence of Heaven " from a bloody and untimely end. Yet, notwithstanding what he had witnessed, he clung for some years unfalter- ingly to his republican faith. Gradually, however, as he grew older, his political opinions changed, and he ultimately became "the constant advocate of a strong government, which should rigidly administer the institutions matured in a long coarse of ages, and only suffer them to be altered slowly and gradually according to the dictates of experience." In other words, he became a Conser. vative in politics. For this change in his political opinions, however, he was frequently and bitterly attacked. And there cannot be a doubt but that much of the hostility which greeted the literary efforts of his earlier years arose from the strong feelings engendered by a knowledge of this fact. For in those times party spirit ran so high, that the light in which a man's productions were regarded, whether in literature, science, or art, depended almost entirely on the special political bias of the party regarding them. In reference to this change, however, the poet, in his defence, said, " I should think that I had lived to little purpose if my notions on the subject of government had undergone no modification. My youth must, in that case, have been without enthusiasm, and my manhood endued with small capability of profiting by reflection." His conservatism, he asserted, arose from reflection on the frightful excesses he had seen perpetrated on the soil of France in the sacred name of Liberty ; and from indignation and abhorrence at the insane ambition and sanguinary and oppressive measures of the imperial despot who had sprung phoenix-like from the ashes of that Liberty whose coming had been so long and so hopefully looked for, and whose birth had been so universally and so enthusiastically welcomed, but whose existence, alas ! had been at once so brief and so bloody. In 1793 his first pieces appeared " The Evening Walk " and "Descriptive Sketches." They attracted little public attention ; but Coleridge, into whose hands they had fallen, thought highly of them, and asserted with some warmth that "seldom, if ever, was the emergence of an original poetic genius above the literary horizon more evidently announced." MEMOIR. rani For the next year or two Wordsworth wandered about, making various pedestrian excursions, accompanied by his sister Dorothy ; who, for the rest of his days, was to be the faithful and revered companion jf his life and labours. And during this period he seems to have become gradually impressed with the belief that the voca- tion of the poet was the calling for which he had been born. But while he thought so. he was, for the time, compelled to look about for some other means of liveli- hood. He planned a monthly publication The Philanthropist which was to have been republican, but not revolutionary ; but it came to nothing. He then tried to find employment in connexion with the metropolitan newspaper press; and while he was still in doubt as to whether he should ."ucceed, the liberality of an amiable young friend, whose sick-bed he had attended, placed him for a time beyond all anxiety on this score. This generous friend Raisley Calvert, son of a gentleman who was steward to the Duke of Norfolk was so impressed with the belief that Wordsworth, if possessed of independent means, would benefit mankind by his writings, that he left him a legacy of ^900 that he might devote himself to the vocation that was to be the sole business of his life. Upon the interest of this sum, 400 having been laid out in annuity, with 200 deducted from the principal, and 100, a legacy his sister had been left, and ^100 more which he had for "The Lyrical Ballads," his sister and himself contrived to live for nearly eight years, at the end of which period Lord Lonsdale died, and his successor at once discharged the debt due to the Wordsworth family, which amounted to ^8500. Of this sum 1800 apiece fell to his sister and himself, an amount which, for their moderate desires, amply sufficed to support them in comfort for many additional years. In the autumn of 1795, Wordsworth and his sister were settled at Racedown Lodge, in Dorsetshire, where they industriously employed themselves in reading, writing, and gardening. Here he wrote his tragedy of ' The Borderers," which he sent to Mr. Harris, who was then manager of Covent Garden Theatre ; but which that gentleman returned as unsuited for the stage. It appears to have been thrown aside, as it was not published till nearly fifty years afterwards (1842). Here, also, he first made the acquaintance of Coleridge, whom he described at that time is "a noticeable man, with large grey eyes," but "depressed by weight of musing fantasy." The two poets appear to have been so delighted with each other's society, that they became eager for closer intimacy. In July, 1797, therefore, Wordsworth and his sister removed to Alfoxden, a beautiful and romantic spot in the neighbourhood of Nether- Stowey, in Somersetshire, where Colendge then resided. The house they occupied is described by Miss Wordsworth as charmingly situated on a slope within sight of the sea, and " in the midst of woods as wild as fancy ever painted. " Here they remained for about a year a period which the poet describes as a most pleasant and productive time of his life. It was during his residence here, also, that the " Lyrical Ballads" originated. Their plan was the joint production of himself and Colendge, and a distinct part in its execution was assigned to each. It had arisen out of the idea that a series of poems might be composed of two sorts. In the one the incidents and agents were to be in pan supernatural ; in the other, the subjects were to be chosen from ordinary life. xxxiv MEMOTR. Accordingly, the sapernatural or romantic section was assigned to Coleridge, while Wordsworth was "to give the charm of novelty to things of every day," and to awaken "the mind's attention to the lethargy of custom, and to direct it to the loveliness and the wonders of the world around us." In the autumn of 1798, therefore, the "Lyrical Ballads" were published in one volume, consisting of twenty-three poems (" The Ancient Mariner" and two others having been contri- buted by Coleridge), by Joseph Cottle, a bookseller of Bristol, who gave thirty guineas for the copyright. The poems were published as a protest against the prevailing artificial literature of the period. The false and unnatural diction of that literature, its general inattention to the beauties of external nature, and its utter want of sympathy with the ordinary events and common feelings of mankind, the poet had long perceived and lamented ; and he felt that he possessed the power of producing poetry in which these faults should not only be avoided, but in which he should "impart moral grandeur to poverty, and invest the objects of irrational and inanimate nature with a beauty and grace, of which, it seemed to him, they had long been stripped by a heartless and false taste pretending to the title of delicacy and refinement." But in this his first attempt to run full tilt against the popular taste, he was singularly unfortunate. The refined and sen- timental school of verse, with its elegant and polished diction, had far too firm a hold of the public mind to be so easily overthrown. And the transition from such polish and refinement to the extreme simplicity, and, in many instances, childish nature, of the subjects of the "Lyrical Ballads," and the homely and colloquial style in which they were treated, was far too great either to escape censure or insure success. But although assailed on all hands by a storm of ridicule, they succeeded in creating a public for themselves ; and the poet was, therefore, not without hope that he should ultimately succeed in freeing men's minds from the fetters of a false and pernicious system of ethics and of art, and in leading them into the freedom of the broad, clear light of day, where they might behold, with unveiled eyes, and face to face, the surpassing beauty and sublime grandeur of external nature ; and where, while they gazed, chastened and subdued, they might feel "a sense sublime" a pervading " presence," " 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 !" Strong in resolution, and firm in his faith in himself and in the future, he set out ir September, 1798, accompanied by his sister and Coleridge, for Germany. At Hamburg the party separated Coleridge going on to Ratzeburg, and Wordsworth and his sister proceeding to Goslar, in Hanover, a town situated at the foot of a cluster of mountains which form part of the Hartz forest, and where they spent the winter of 1 798-99, the severest of the century. Here he wrote several of his most beautiful pieces, such as " Ruth," " Lucy Grey," " Nutting," and the blank- verse lines beginning " There was a boy," and " Wisdom and Spirit of the universe." MEMOIR. xxxv Here, also, he began his great blank -verse poem, "The Prelude," the subject of which was to be the growth of his mind and his personal history "his travels, hopes, aspirations, disappointments, and distresses his inward conflicts and perplexities." During his absence from England, the sale of the "Lyrical Ballads," (the edition of which consisted of 500 copies, ) had been so small, and the severity of the leading reviews so great, that his publisher thought their progress to oblivion seemed certain. And some idea may be formed of the general estimate in which they were held, when it is stated, that, when the publisher, shortly after their pub- lication, gave up business, and transferred all his copyrights to Messrs. Longman and Co., of London, the copyright of the "Ballads" was valued at nil. The pub- lisher therefore begged that it might be returned, which it was, and he presented it to the author. In February, I799> Wordsworth and his sister returned to England ; and, at the end of the same year, he took up his abode, which was to be a life-long one, among the lakes and mountains of his native district, having settled, with his. sister, in a small cottage, pleasantly situated in the midst of a plot of orchard ground, overlooking the lake of Grasmere. Here he remained for eight years. About the close of 1800, the second volume of the " Lyrical Ballads" was pub- lished, along with a reprint of the first. For two editions of the two volumes, the poet received from Messrs. Longman & Co., of London, his publishers, the sum of .100. This tim \ their appearance excited even more intense hostility than at first, the critics almost to a man being against them. And this hostility was chiefly provoked by the preface prefixed to the second edition, in which the poet, with con- siderable power, sets forth and defends certain principles of poetry which he deemed the main articles of his philosophical and poetical creed. What these prin- ciples were, and whether true or false, need not now be discussed. As embodied in his works, with some few modifications of his maturer years, they have been so long before the world, and have formed the subject of so many elaborate and laudatory essays by some of the ablest intellects of the age, that, in their present popularity, we may almost be said to hear the judgment of posterity on them. But no amount of adverse criticism had the slightest effect upon the poet. He kept the noiseless tenor of his way, and continued to write and publish, regardless of the storm he raised. In October, 1802, he bade a brief " Farewell !" to the " little nook of moun- tain ground," his residence at Grasmere, and set out for Penrith, in company with his sister, to bring home one who was to be his bride the school companion of his boyish days Mary Hutchinson " A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command ;" and to whose graces of person, charms of manner, and sweetness of temper, his poems pay warm and beautiful tributes. To this lady he now united himseli in narriage. xxxvi MEMOIR. In 1803, accompanied by his sister and Coleridge, he paid a visit to Scotland. Of this tour his sister kept a very interesting diary, from which it appears that he visited the house and grave of Burns, Loch Lomond, the Trosachs, the Pass of Killicrankie, and a host of other places hallowed by their sacred associations, celebrated for their beauty, famous in history, or renowned in tradition and song. And wherever he went his genius kindled and poured itself forth in consecra- ting and antistrophic song. On their return south, they met with Scott at Melrose, who conducted them to the abbey, pointed out its beauties, and related its history, and with whom they afterwards dined at the inn there, he being at that time travelling to the assizes at Jedburgh in his capacity of Sheriff of Selkirk. They seem to have been delighted with him, and long remembered the visit with pleasure. Shortly after the poet's return home, he became acquainted with Sir Georgt Beaumont, a descendant of the celebrated Elizabethan dramatist, in whom he found a generous and admiring friend, and at whose seat of Coleorton, in Leices- tershire, he was a frequent and welcome guest. In February, 1805, he sustained a severe shock in the loss of his brother, Cap. tain Wordsworth, who went down in the Abergavenny, East Indiaman, off the coast of Weymouth. A man of warm and susceptible temperament, of pure and simple manners, and of remarkable literary taste and critical discernment, consi- dering the calling he followed, his untimely death seems to have been one of tne heaviest blows the poet ever experienced. In this year Scott visited Grasmere, and, in company with Wordsworth and Sir Humphry Davy, ascended to the top of Helvellyn. In this year, also, were composed "The Waggoner/" 1 the " Ode to Duty," and "The Happy Warrior ;" and the autobiographical poen. of "The Prelude" was finished, and consigned to the poet's desk for the next forty- ve years. Undeterred by the reception given to the two volumes of the " Lyrical Ballads," m 1807 he gave to the world two other volumes of poems, which had been composed since the publication of the second volume of the former. They con. sisted, in addition to some very fine ballads, and a number of the most beautiful of his smaller pieces, of "Miscellaneous Sonnets," "Sonnets Dedicated to Liberty," and the "Memorials of a Tour in Scotland." But the poet's persistency in his principles, and the evident vitality of his poetic powers, would seem to have provoked afresh the hostility of his critics ; for no sooner had the poems appeared, than they were assailed with a fierceness of feeling and a licence of language wholly disproportioned to the faults condemned which nothing could justify, and which few indeed would have had the courage to combat or the spirit to endure. But his opponents, says his nephew, "were irritated by the energy of that which they despised. Their own character for critical acumen seemed to be at stake ; and they conspired to crush a reputation whose existence was a practical protest against their own literary principles and practice, and which doubtless appeared to them to be fraught with pernicious consequences to the dignity of English literature, and the progress of English intelligence." The effect of these ungenerous strictures m MEMOIR. Decking tTie sale of the poems was such, that no edition of them was required between 1807 and 1815. But contempt and neglect were alike ineffectual. The poet lived and wrote as if he knew of neither. And, amidst all the hostility and obloquy which for years he endured, the just and discriminating estimate which he formed of his works, and the calm confidence with which he regarded its ultimate ratification both by his contemporaries and by posterity, are perhaps the most astonishing circum- stances in his remarkable literary career. A few sentences from himself, therefore, on this subject, maybe fitly quoted here. " I distinctly foresaw," he said, in writing to a friend, " what you and my other friends would have to encounter in defending me. But trouble not yourself about their present reception [his poems] ; of what moment is that compared with what I trust is their destiny? to console the afflicted ; to add sunshine to daylight, by making the happy happier ; to teach the young and the gracious of every age to see, to think, and feel, and therefore to become more actively and securely virtuous ; this is their office, which I trust they will faithfully perform long after we are mouldered in our graves. I am well aware how far it would seem to many I overrate my own exertions when I speak in this way. I am not, however, afraid of such censure. . . . Let the poet first con- sult his own heait as I have done, and leave the rest to posterity. . . . There is scarcely one of my poems which does not aim to direct the attention to some moral sentiment, or to some general principle, or law of thought, or of our intellectual constitution." And in reference to the " Sonnets Dedicated to Liberty," he soys, " I would boldly say at once that these sonnets, while they each fix the attention uoon some important sentiment, separately considered, do, at the same time, col- lectively make a poem on the subject of civil liberty and national independence, which, either for simplicity of style or grandeur of moral sentiment, is, alas ! likely to have few parallels in the poetry of the present day." ..." But, the fact is," he says, "the English public are at this moment in the same state of mind with respect to my poems, if small things can be compared with great, as the French are in respect to Shakspeare, and not the French alone, but almost the whole Continent. \ am condemned for the very thing for which I ought to have been praised, namely, (hat I have not written down to the level of superficial observers and unthinking minds. Every great poet is a teacher. I wish either to be considered as a teacher, or as nothing." Again,, he says, "Never forget what I believe was observed by Coleridge that every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great or original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished ; he must teach the art by which he is to be seen." In the spring of 1808, the poet removed to Allan Bank, a new house which stood at the head of the lake of Grasmere, where he resided for three years. Trm period w.s perhaps the least prolific of his life in poetry, a circumstance which his nephew attributes to the many inconveniences of his new residence. "But, on the other hand," says the same authority, "the time of his sojourn here was rendered memorable by the production of two works in prose by two poets the Essay on the Convention of Cintra.' by Wordsworth, and The Friend, by xxxviii MEMOIR. Coleridge, who dictated it (for he did not write it with his own hand) under Wordsworth's roof." Although the greater part of the poet's life was spent in comparative retirement, and in the contemplation of scenes and objects far removed from the turmoil and fierce contention of political strife, it would be a great mistake to suppose that he was an inattentive observer of public events. " Few persons," says his nephew, "though actually engaged in the great struggle of that period, felt more deeply than Wordsworth did in his peaceful retreat, for the calamities of European nations suffering at that time from the imbecility of their governments, and from the withering oppression of a prosperous despotism. His heart burned within him when he looked forth upon the contest ; and impassioned words proceeded from him both in poetry and in prose. ' It would not,' he said himself in conversation, ' be easy to conceive with what a depth of feeling I entered into the struggle carried on by the Spaniards for their deliverance from the usurped power of the French. Many times have I gone from Allan Bank in Grasmere Vale, to the Raise-Gap, as it is called, so late as two o'clock in the morning, to meet the carrier bringing the newspaper from Keswick. ' " In his "Essay on the Convention of Cintra," the poet appears before the world as depressed in mind and indignant in spirit, because the war in the Peninsula had not been carried on by England against France with all the vigour that it might have been, and because, when it was, as he believed, in the power of England to have emancipated Spain and Portugal from the intolerable thraldom of French tyranny, she allowed the enemy to escape by a retreat similar to a triumph. Although lucidly conceived, and written in a strain of impassioned prose, and said to have been pronounced by Canning to be the most eloquent production that had appeared since the days of Burke, it yet fell almost still-born from the press, and attracted so very little attention, that there is scarcely any production of the cen- tury so difficult to be met with as this tract. As a specimen of the spirit and style of this little known but noble essay, a single extract may be given. In the following passage the poet contends for the supremacy of moral over physical power, and shows how the spirit of freedom, when actuated by pure passions and high actions, must always ultimately triumph over all the tools and implements of tyranny : "There is no middle course: two masters cannot be served: Justice must either be enthroned above might, and the moral law take the place of the edicts of selfish passion ; or the heart of the people, which alone can sustain the efforts of the people, will languish ; their desires will not spread beyond the plough and the loom, the field and the fireside ; the sword will appear to them an emblem of no promise ; an instrument of no hope ; an object of indif- ference, of disgust or fear. Was there ever since the earliest actions of men which have been transmitted by affectionate tradition, or recorded by faithfuJ history, or sung to the impassioned harp of poetry was there ever a people who presented themselves to the reason and the imagination, as under more holy influences than the dwellers upon the Southern peninsula ; as roused more instao- MEMOIR. xxxix taneously from a deadly sleep to a more hopeful wakefulness ; as a mass fluctuating with one motion under the breath of a mightier wind ; as breaking themselves up, and settling into several bodies, in more harmonious order ; as reunited and em- battled under a standard which was reared to the sun with more authentic assurance of final victory ? . . . Let the fire, which is never wholly to be extinguished, break out afresh ; let but the human creature be roused ; whether he have lam headless and torpid in religious or civil slavery ; have languished under a thraldom, domestic or foreign, or under bi th these alternately ; or have drifted about, a helpless mem. ber of a clan of disjointed and feeble barbarians, let him rise and act; and his domineering imagination, by which from childhood he has been betrayed, and the debasing affections which it has imposed upon him, will from that moment participate in the dignity of the newly-ennobled being whom they will now acknow- ledge for their master ; and will further him in his progress, whatever be the object at which he aims. Still more inevitable and momentous are the results, when the individual knows that the fire which is reanimated in him is not less lively in the breasts of his associates ; and sees the signs and testimonies of his own power, incorporated with those of a growing multitude, and not to be distinguished from them, accompany him wherever he moves. Hence those marvellous achievements which were performed by the first enthusiastic followers of Mohammed, and by other conquerors, who with their armies have swept large portions of the earth like a transitory wind, or have founded new religions or empires. But if the object contended for be worthy and truly great (as, in the instance of the Spaniards, we have seen that it is) ; if cruelties have been committed upon an ancient and venerable people, which shake the human frame with horror ; if not alone the life which is sustained by the bread of the mouth, but that without which there is no life the life in the soul has been directly and mortally warred against ; if reason tas had abominations to endure in her inmost sanctuary ; then does intense passion, consecrated by a sudden revelation of justice, give birth to those higher and better wonders which I have described ; and exhibit true miracles to the eyes of men, and the noblest which can be seen. It may be added that, as this union brings back to the right road the faculty of imagination, where it is prone to err and has gone furthest astray ; as it corrects those qualities which are in their essence indifferent, and cleanses those affections which (not being inherent in the constitution of man, nor necessarily determined to their object), are more immediately dependent upon the imagination, and which may have received from it a thorough taint of dishonour ; so the domestic loves and sanctities which are in their nature less liable to be stained so these, wher- 2ver they have flowed with a pure and placid stream, do instantly, under the same influence, put forth their strength as in a flood ; and without being sul- lied or polluted, pursue exultmgly and with song a course which leads the contemplative reason to the ocean of eternal love." In 1810, he wrote the introduction to a folio volume of " Select Views in Cum- berland, Westmoreland, and Lancashire," which, as a description of the beauty and magnificence of the lake scenery, of the, inhabitants, their homesteads. xl MEMOIR. and their manner of living, of the most striking and characteristic featv res of eacli district, with instructions as to the best manner of seeing these, is r koned the most accurate and interesting thing of the kind ever written. In the spring of 1813, after one temporary change of residence, he took up his abode at Rydal Mount, about two miles distant from Grasmere, and here he con- tinued to reside till the day of his death, thirty-seven years after. The house, which has since become so famous, is a two-storied, sober-hued, modest mansion, tinged with weather stains, mantled over here and there with roses, ivy, jessamine, and Virginia creeper, and stands on the sloping side of a rocky hill, with a southern aspect, overlooking the lake of Windermere, and commanding beautiful views of the romantic vale of the Rothay, and of the distant wood-fringed waters of the lake; while around the dark waters rise the gracefully-rounded, richly- wooded mountains soft as the scenery of a still Dreamland ; beautiful with cultured picturesqueness, as of the gardens of the Titans ; clothed with the " infinite enchantment " of atmospheric effects ever varying and always lovely ; and glowing "in the light of setting suns" with a glory of colour orange, ind bronze, purple and amethyst, against the loftier and remoter peaks that rise in the far distance, faint and unsubstantial in the wide lapse of light, like high-piled cloud on cloud. The poet's good fortune seems to have followed him to this beautiful abode ; for he had hardly taken possession of it when he received the appointment of distribu- tor of stamps hi the county of Westmoreland an office which added about 500 a year to his income, and the duties of which were discharged by a clerk, so that he was still left ample liberty to follow his literary pursuits. For this desirable ap- pointment he was indebted to the influence of the Earl of Lonsdale, who had been for many years his constant and generous friend, and whose kindness on this occa- sion he gratefully acknowledged by dedicating "The Excursion" to him in a complimentary prefatory sonnet. A second tour in Scotland early in 1814, in company with his wife and his sister, gave birth to a few poems, amongst which was " Yarrow Visited." And in the summer of the same year appeared his great poem, "The Excursion." It need scarcely be said, that, with the leading reviewers of the day, it fared no better than his former less ambitious attempts had done ; and that, with hardly a single excep- tion, and in the strongest terms of condemnation, they doomed it to oblivion ! And it is a somewhat remarkable fact in literary history that a single edition of 500 copies of this poem satisfied the English public for a period of six years. Another edition, also confined to 500 copies, published in 1827, was found sufficient for the following seven years. But, notwithstanding these discouragements, the poet's equanimity was undisturbed. " Let the age continue to love its own darkness," he said, in a letter to Southey, " I shall continue to write, with, I trust, the light of Heaven upon me. " "If The Excursion ' is to be judged of by its best passages, " says one of his admirers, "hardly any poem in the language is equal to it. Some of its scenes, extending to hundreds of lines, many smaller passages, and innumerable verses and phrases, are among the most exquisite things to which any poetic MEMOIR.. xli mind ever gave expression." " In power of intellect," says another, Hazlitt, "in lefty conception, in the depth of feeling, at once simple and sublime, which per- vades every part of it, and which gives to every object an almost preternatural and preter- human interest, this work has seldom been surpassed !" In 1815 appeared the " White Doe of Rylstone," a beautiful legendary poem, which the poet considered, in conception, the highest work he had ever produced. In the preceding and two following years were composed " Laodamia," " Dion," and the " Ode to Lycoris," in conception and expression the purest and most richly classic pieces he ever penned. The "Thanksgiving Ode," and a rhymed transla- tion., in the style of Pope, oj three books of the "^Eneid," were produced in 1816. In 1819, appeared "Peter Bell," which had been written nearly twenty years before, and which is really remarkable as having been more in request than any of his previous publications. An edition of 500 copies was printed in April, and another impression of it was required in the following month. "The Waggoner," which appeared at the same time, was not, however, so successful. To this year, also, belong the beautiful series of " Sonnets jn the River Duddon." In 1820, Wordsworth, accompanied by his wife and sister, made a tour of four months on the Continent, which gave birth to a volume of sonnets and other poems, published in 1822, under tne title of " Memorials of a Tour on the Continent." In this year, too, a brief visit to his friend, Sir George Beaumont, at his seat of Coleorton, in Leicestershire, suggested the splendid series of "Ecclesiastical Sonnets." During the next few years the poet appears to have done little else than travel about, either on special tours, or on visits to his friends , and in the autumn of 1831 he set off from Rydal Mount, in company with his daughter, to visit Sir Walter Scott before his departure, ruined in fortune, and weakened in body and mind, for Italy They reached Abbotsford on Monday. " How sadly changed," says Words- worth, " did I find him from the man I had seen so healthy, gay, and hopeful a few years before. The inmates and guests we found there were Sir Walter, Major , r >cott, Anne Scott, and Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart ; Mr. Liddell, his lady and brother, Mr. Allan, the painter, and Mr. Laidlaw. In the evening Mr. and Mrs. Liddell sang, and Mrs, Lockhart chanted old ballads to her harp ; and Mr. Allan, hanging over the back of a chair, told and acted old stories in a humorous way. With this exhibition and his daughter's singing, Sir Walter was much amused, and, indeed, were we all, as far as circumstances would allow. On Tuesday morning Sir Walter accompanied us to Newark Castle, on the Yarrow. ... Of that excursion the verses, ' Yarrow Revisited, ' are a memorial. . . On our return, in the afternoon, we had to cross the Tweed directly opposite Abbotsford. ... A rich but sad light, of rather a purple than a golden hue, was spread over the Eildon Hills at that moment ; and, thinking it probable that it might be the last time Sir Walter would cross the stream, I was not a little moved, and expressed some of my feelings in the following sonnet \ xl" MEMOIR. i. ** ' 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 sceptered 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 !' On Thursday morning Sir Walter and I had a serious conversation, t$te-a-ifre, when he spoke with gratitude of the happy life, which, upon the whole, he had led. He had written in my daughter's album, before he came into the breakfast-room that morning, a few stanzas addressed to her ; and while putting the book into her hand, in his own study, standing by his desk, he said to her, in my presence, ' I should not have done anything of this kind but for your father's sake ; they are probably the last verses I shall ever write.' They showed how much his mind was impaired ; not by the strain of thought, but by the execution, some of the lines being imperfect, and one stanza wanting corresponding rhymes." At noon on the same day the poets parted, and on Wordsworth expressing a hope that Sir Walter's health would be benefited by the climate of the country to which he was going, and by the interest he would take in the classic remembrances of Italy, he, with a flash of flitting recollection, but in a tone of deepest sadness, made answer in Wordsworth's own words a quotation from "Yarrow Unvisited" " When I am there, although 'tis fair, ''twill be another Yarrow." This visit, and another, which he paid to Scotland in 1833, accompanied by his son, and Henry Crabb Robinson, Esq., furnished materials for a volume which he published in 183?, entitled, "Yarrow Revisited, and other Poems." A five months' tour in Italy in the spring and summer of 1837 suggested severa' pieces, which appeared in 1842, in a volume entitled " Poems Chiefly of Early and Late Years." This was the last volume published during his lifetime. About this time public feeling and critical opinion began to change, and the mists of prejudice, which had so long lowered over his greatness, and concealed or obscured it, gradually vanished. Henceforth, year by year, the fame of the Poet of the Lakes grew wider and wider ; and long before his death he was acknow- ledged to be the greatest English poet of his age, and regarded with reverence as one of the purest and most blameless of English writers. Honours now flowed fast upon him, and the remaining years of his life were passed in the midst of that which should accompany old age "as honour, love, obedience, troops of friends." In the summer of 1839, amid the enthusiastic acclamations of the students, the University of Oxford honoured him with the degree of D. C. L. In 1 842 he resigned the Government appointment he held in favour of his son, who had for some time acted as his deputy. A few months afterwards, he received, through Sir Robert Peel, a grant from the Crown of 300 a year. In 1843, on the death of his friend Southey, he was offered, in flattering: terms, the vacant Laureateship, which, after some hesitation, on account of his age, he accepted, on the assurance that it was to be entirely nominal and honorary. In 1844, Lord Jeffrey, perhaps the severest of his literary censors, in republishing his contributions to the Edinburgh Review, look occasion, in graceful and fitting terms, to acknowledge the poet's many and reat merits. In 1846, his brother, Christopher Wordsworth, D.D., died; and in the following year he sustained a still greater grief in the death of his accomplished and darling daughter, Dora (Mrs. Quillinan). Two years afterwards, at Rydal Mount, on the 23rd of April, 1850, the poet himself passed peacefully away in the eightieth year of his age. His remains were kid near those of his children, in Grasmere Churchyard. " His own prophecy," says his nephew, " in the lines to the daisy " ' Sweet flower ! belike one Jay to have A place upon thy poet's gravj. I welcome thee once more,' is now fulfilled. He reposes, according to his own wish, beneath the green turf, among the dalesmen of Grasmere, under the sycamores and yews of a country churchyard, by the side of a beautiful stream, amid the mountains which he loved ; and a solemn voice seems to breathe from his grave, which blends its tones in sweet and holy harmony with the accents of his poetry, speaking the language of humility and love, of adoration and faith, and preparing the soul, by a religious exercise of the kindly affections, and by a devout contemplation of natural beauty, for a translation to a purer, and nobler, and more g'.orious state of existence, and for a fruition of heavenly felicity." In this brief and necessarily imperfect sketch, it would be impossible to enter at any length into the merits of Wordsworth's poetry. But a very fair estimate may be formed of the poet's artistic power, and of the pervading spirit of his poetry from the two following brief extracts. The first few justly-dis- criminating and happily-expressed sentences, descriptive of the higher charac- teristics of his poetry, are from the able and admirably drawn literary and poetical character of the poet by his friend Coleridge, in his Biographia Literaria. The second series, equally able, and quite as felicitously expressed, are from the pen of William Ellery Channing, and describe those simpler, but, for the popular rnind, more attractive, characteristics which so touchingly and so powerfully appeal to the instincts and feelings of our common humanity Wordsworth's poetry is marked by " First, An austere purity of language, both grammatically and logically ; in short, a perfect appropriateness of the words to the meaning. Secondly, A correspondent weight and sanity of the thoughts and sentiments won, not from books, but from the poet's own meditations. They are fresh, and have the dew upon them. Even throughout his smaller poems, there is not one which is not rendered valuable by some just and original rfir MEMOIE. reflection. Thirdly, The sinewy strength and originality of single lines and paragraphs, the frequent curiosa felidtas of his diction. Fourthly, The perfect truth of nature in his images and descriptions, as taken immediately from nature, and proving a long and genial intimacy with the very spirit which gives a physiognomic expression to all the works of nature. Fifthly, A meditative pathos, a union of deep and subtle thought with sensibility : a sympathy with man as man ; the sympathy, indeed, of a contemplator rather than a fellow- sufferer and co-mate (spectator, haud particeps), but of a contemplator from whose view no difference of rank conceals the sameness of the nature ; no injuries of wind or weather, or toil, or even of ignorance, wholly disguise the human face divine. Last, and pre-eminently, I challenge for this poet the gift of imagina- tion in the highest and strictest sense of the word. In the play of fancy, Words- worth, to my feelings, is always graceful, and sometimes recondite. The hkenesi is occasionally too strange, or demands too peculiar a point of view, or is such as appears the creature of predetermined research, rather than spontaneous presenta- tion. Indeed, his fancy seldom displays itself as mere and unmodified fancy. But in imaginative power he stands nearest of all modern writers to Shakspeare and Milton, and yet in a mind perfectly unborrowed, and his own. To employ his own words, which are at once an instance and an illustration, he does indeed, to all thoughts and to all objects- ' Add the gleam, The light that never was on sea or land, 'Die consecration and the poet's dream.' " " The great poet of our times, Wordsworth one of the few who are to live has gone to common life, to the feelings of our universal nature, to the obscure and neglected portions of society, for beautiful and touching themes. Genius is not a creator, in the sense of fancying or feigning what does not exist. Its distinction is to discern more of truth than common minds. It sees under disguises and humble forms everlasting beauty. This it is the prerogative of Wordsworth to discern and reveal in the ordinary walks of life, in the common human heart. He has revealed the loveliness of the primitive feelings, of the universal affections of the human soul. The grand truth which pervades his poetry, is that the beautiful is not confined to the rare, the new, the distant to scenery and modes of life open only to the few ; but that it is poured forth profusely on the common earth and sky, that it gleams from the loneliest flower, that it lights up the humblest sphere, that the s\veetest affections lodge in lowliest hearts, that there is sacredness, dignity, and loveliness in lives which few eyes rest on that, even in the absence of all in- tellectual culture, the domestic relations can quietly nourish that disinterestedness which is the element of all greatness, and without which intellectual power is a splendid deformity. Wordsworth is the poet of humanity ; he teaches reverence for our universal nature ; he breaks down the factitious barriers between human hearts." POEMS WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, Jftteile Items. EXTRACT FROM THE CONCLUSION OF A POEM, COMPOSED UPON LEAVING SCHOOL. DEAR native regions, I foretell, From what I feel at this farewell, That, wheresoe'er my steps shall tend, And whensoe'er my course shall end, If in that hour a single tie Survive of local sympathy, My soul will cast the backward view, The longing look alone on you. Thus, when the sun, prepared for rest, Hath gained the precincts of the wes f Though his departing radiance fail To illuminate the hollow vale, A lingering light he fondly throws On the dear hills where first he rose. AN EVENING WALK, ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG -LADY. FAR from my dearest friend, 'tis mine to rove [pastoral cove; Through bare gray dell, high wood, and Where Derwent stops his course to hear the roar That stuns the tremulous clifts of high Lodore ; Where peace to Grasmere s lonely island leads, [meads ; To willowy hedgerows, and to emerald Leads to her bridge, rude church, and cottaged grounds, [bounds ; Her rocky sheepw alks. and her woodland Where, deep embosomed, shy* Winandei peeps [steeps ; 'Mid clustering isles, and holly-sprinkled Where twilight glens endear my Esthwaite's shore, And memory of departed pleasures, more. Fair scenes! ere-while I taught, a happy child, The echoes of your rocks my carols wild: Then did no ebb of cheerfulness demand Sad tides of joy from Mela' icholy's hand; In youth's keen eye the livelong day was bright, The sun at morning, and the stars of night, Alike, when heard the bittern's hollow bill, Or the first woodcockst roamed the moon- light hill. In thoughtless gaiety I coursed the plain, And hope itself was all 1 knew of pain. For then, even then, the little heart would beat [seat. At times, while young Content forsook her And wild Impatience, pointing upward, showed [summits glowed. Where, tipped with gold, the mountain- Alas! the idle tale of man is found Depicted in the dial's moral round; Hope with Reflection blends her social rays To gild the total tablet of his days; * These lines are only applicable to the middle part of that lake. t In the beginning of winter these mountains are frequented by woodcocks, which in dark tight* retire into the woods. JUVENILE POEMS. Yet still, the sport of some malignant power, [hour. He knows but from its shade the present But why, ungrateful, dwell on idle pain ? To show what pleasures yet to me remain, Say, will my friend with unreluctant ear, The history of a poet s evening hear? When, in the south, the wan noon, brooding still, [hill, Breathed a pale steam around the glaring And shades of deep-embattled clouds were seen, [between ; Spotting the northern cliffs, with lights When, at the barren wall's unsheltered end, Where long rails far into the lake extend, Crowded the shortened herds, and beat the tides [speckled sides; With their quick tails, and lashed their When school-boys stretched their length upon the green; [ing scene! And round the humming elm, a glimmer- In the brown park, in herds, the troubled deer [ear; Shook the still-twinkling tail and glancing When horses in the sunburnt intake*stood, And vainly eyed below the tempting flood, Or tracked the passenger, in mute distress, With forward neck the closing gate to press [rill Then while I wandered where the huddling Brightens with water-breaks the sombrous ghylM As by enchantment, an obscure retreat Opened at once, and stayed my devious feet. | close, While thick above the rill the branches In rocky basin its wild waves repose, Inverted shrubs, and moss of gloomy green, [weeds between; Cling Irom the rocks, with pale wood- Save that aloft the subtle sunbeams shine On withered briars that o'er the crags recline, Sole light admitted here, a small cascade, Illumes with sparkling foam the impervious shade ; Beyond, along the vista of the brook, Where antique roots its bustling course o'erlook, The eye reposes on a secret bridgej Half gray, half shagged with ivy to itf ridge; Whence hangs, in the cool shade, the list- less swain Lingering behind his disappearing wain. Did Sabine grace adorn my living line, Blandusias praise, wild stream, should yield to thine ! Never shall ruthless minister of death 'Mid thy soft glooms the glittering steel unsheath; [flowers, No goblets shall, for thee, be crowned with No kid with piteous outcry thrill thy bowers; The mystic shapes that by thy margin rove A more benignant sacrifice approve; A mind, that, in a calm angelic mood Of happy wisdom, meditating good, Beholds, of all from her high powers required [ desired, Much done, and much designed, and more Harmonious thoughts, a soul by truth re- fined, Entire affection for all human-kind Sweet rill, farewell! To-morrow's noon again [strain; Shall hide me, wooing long thy wildwood But now the sun has gained his western road, [abroad. And eve's mild hour invites my steps While, near the midway cliff, the silvered kite In many a whistling circle wheels her flignt ; Slant watery lights, from parting clouds, apace Travel along the precipice's base ; Cheering its naked waste of scattered stone, [grown; By lichens gray, and scanty moss, o'er- Where scarce the foxglove peeps, or thistle's beard: [heard. And restless stone-chat, all day long, is How pleasant, as the sun declines, to view The spacious landscape change in form and hue! Here, vanish, as in mist, before a flood Of bright obscurity, hill, lawn, and wood; * The word intake is local and signifies a ' mountain inclosure. t Ghyll is also, I believe, a term confined to ihis country ; ghyll and dingle have the same meaning. t The reader who has made the tour of this country, will recognise, in this description, the features which characterize the lower waterfall in the grounds of Rydal. JUVENILE POEMS. 3 There, objects, by the searching beams betrayed, Come forth, and here retire in purple shade; [white, Even the white stems of birch, the cottage Soften their glare before the mellow light: The skiffs, at anchor where with umbrage wide [hide, Yon chestnuts half the latticed boat-house Shed from their sides, that face the sun's slant beam, [lous stream: Strong flakes of radiance on the tremu- Raised by yon travelling flock, a dusty cloud [moving shroud ; Mounts from the road, and spreads its The shepherd, all ; nvolved in wreaths of fire, [lost entire. Now shows a shadowy speck, and now is Into a gradual calm the zephyrs sink: A blue rim borders all the lake's still brink; And now, on every side, the surface breaks Into blue spots, and slowly lengthening streaks; [bright Here, plots of sparkling water tremble With thousand thousand twinkling points of light; [away, There, waves that, hardly weltering, die Tip their smooth ridges with a softer ray, And now the universal tides repose, And, brightly blue, the burnished mirror glows, Save where, along the shady western marge, Coasts, with industrious oar, the charcoal barge; [sleeps, The sails are dropped, the poplar's foliage And insects clothe, like dust, the glassy deeps. Their panniered train a group of potters goad, Winding from side to side up the steep road ; The peasant, from yon cliff of fearful edge Shot, down the headlong path darts with his sledge: [illume, Bright beams the lonely mountain-horse Feeding 'mid purple heath," green rings,"* and broom; [confounds, While the sharp slope the slackened team Downward the ponderous timber-wain re- sounds; In foamy breaks the rill, with merry song, Dashed o'er the rough rock, lifbtly leaps along; " Vivid rings of green." - Greenwood's Poem on Shooting. From lonesome chapei at the mountain's feet, Three humble bells their rustic chime re- peat ; [boat ; Sounds from the water-side the hammered And blasted quarry thunders, heard remote! Even here, amid the sweep of endless woods, [floods, Blue pomp of lakes, high cliffs, and calling Not undelightful are the simplest charms, Found by the grassy door of mountain farms. Sweetly ferocious,! round his native walks, [stalks; Pride of his sister-wives, the monarch Spur-clad his nervous feet, and firm his tread; A crest of purple tops his warrior head. Bright sparks his black and rolling eye-ball Afar, his tail he closes and unfurls; [hurls On tiptoe reared, he strains his clarion throat, [remote- Threatened by faintly-answering farms Again with his shrill voice the mountain rings, [sound his wings! While, flapped with conscious pride, re- Brightening the cliffs between, where sombrous pine And yew-tree o'er the silver rocks recline; I love to mark the quarry's moving trains, Dwarf panniered steeds, and men, and numerous wains: How busy all the enormous hive within, While Echo dallies with the various din! Some (hardly heard their chisels' clinking sound) Toil, small as pigmies in the gulf profound; Some, dim between the aerial cliffs de- scried, [side: O'erwalk the slender plank from side to These, by the pale-blue rocks that ceaseless ring, Glad from their airy baskets hang and sing. Hung o'er a cloud, above the steep that rears [pears; An edge all flame, the broadening sun ap- A long blue bar its aegis orb divides, And breaks the spreading of its golden tides; t " Dolcemente feroce." TASSO. In this description of the cock, I remembered a spirited one of the same animal in the " L' Agriculture ; ou, Les Georgiques Franchises, ' of M Rossuet. JUVENILE POEMS. And now it touches on the purple steep i Till, save the lonely beacon, all is fled, That flings his shadow on the pictured deep. I That tips with eves last gleam his spiry ' 'Cross the calm lake's blue shades the cliffs aspire [fire;" With towers and woods a " prospect all on The coves and secret hollows, through a ray Of fainter gold, a purple gleam betray; The gilded turf invests with richer green head. Now, while the solemn evening shadows sail, [vale; On red slow-waving pinions, down the And, fronting the bright west, yon oak entwines [lines, Each speck of lawn the broken rocks be- 1 i tsdarke ning boughs and leaves, in stronger tween; [ill Deep yellow beams the scattered stems Far in the level forest's central gloom; Waving his hat, the shepherd, from the vale, Directs his winding dog the cliffs to scale, That, barking busy, 'mid the glittering j Hr^eUs" hfs irrted'Vhest',' rocks, [flocks. Hunts, where he points, the intercepted Where oaks o'erhang the road the radiance shoots [roots; On tawny earth, wild weeds, and twisted The Druid stones their lighted fane unfold, And all the babbling brooks are liquid gold; Sunk to a curve, the day-star lessens still, Gives one bright glance, and drops behind the hill.* How pleasant near the tranquil lake to stray Where winds the road along a secret bay: Along the "wild meandering shore" to view Obsequious grace the windingswan pursue: backward flings [wings; His bridling neck between his towering In all the majesty of ease, divides, And, glorying, looks around, the silent tides; On as he floats, the silvered waters glow, Proud of the varying arch and moveless form of snow. [loves, While tender cares and mild domestic With furtive watch pursue her as she moves ; The female with a meeker charm succeeds, And her brown little-ones around her leads, In these secluded vales, if village fame, | Confirmed by silver hairs, belief may claim ; j When up the hills, as now, retired the : Nibbling the water lilies as they pass, light, Or playing wanton with the floating grass. Strange apparitions mocked the gazer's she, in a mother's care, her beauty's pride sight. j Forgets, unwearied watching every side; She calls them near, and with affection A desperate form appears, that spurs his steed Along the midway cliffs with violent speed; sweet Alternately relieves their weary feet; Alternately they mount her back, and rest Unhurt pursues his lengthened flight, while j Close by her mantling wings' embraces all Attend, at every stretch, his headlong fall. Anon, in order mounts a gorgeous show Of horsemen shadows moving to and fro ; At intervals imperial banners stream, And now the van reflects the solar beam, The rear through iron brown betrays a sullen gleam ; [they go, prest. Long may ye float upon these floods serene; [green, Yours be these holms untrodden, still, and Whose lofty shades fence off the blustering gale, iffSSSr* -he b** rS . S^lch'Kf ^'1K \A/ Kiln cilAn* efonHc? fhr* oH rrii*inrr rtWMWSl v *" **"*' i "*"? -' While silent stands the admiring crowd below * From Essays. Thomson. See Scott's Critical maid's feet, [more sweet," Yet hears her song, "by distance made Yon isle conceals your home, your cottage bower, Fresh water-rushes strew the verdant floor; t See a description of an appearance of this Long grass and w iH ows form the woven kind in Clark s Survey of the Lakes, accora- , 3 & .. panted by vouchers of its veracity amuse the reader. that nay j wall, j And swings above the roof the poplar tall. JUVENILE POEMS. Thence issuing often with unwieldy stalk, With broad black feet ye crush your flowery walk; [morn Or, from the neighbouring water, hear at The hound, the horse's tread, and mellow horn; [rings, Involve your serpent necks in changeful Rolled wantonly between your slippery wings, Or, starting up with noise and rude delight, Force half upon the wave your cumbrous flight. Fair swan ! by all a mother's joys caressed, [thee blessed; Haply some wretch has eyed, and called The whilst upon some sultry summer's day She dragged her babes along this weary way ; [road Or taught their limbs along the burning A few short steps to totter with their load. I see her now, denied to lay her head, On cold blue nights, in hut or straw-built shed. Turn to a silent smile their sleepy cry, By pointing to a shooting star on high: I hear, while in the forest depth, he sees The moon's fixed gaze between the opening trees, In broken sounds her elder child demand, And skyward lift, like one that prays, his hand, If, in that country, where he dwells afar, His father views thatgood, that kindly star; Ah me! all light is mute amid the gloom, The interlunar cavern, of the tomb. When low-hung clouds each star of summer hide, And fireless are the valleys far and wide, Where the brook brawls along the painful road, [broad, Dark with bat-haunted ashes stretching Oft has she taught them on her lap to play Delighted, with the glow-worm's harmless ray [the ground Tossed light from hand to hand; while on small circles of green radiance gleam around. Oh! when the sleety showers her path assail, .\nd roars between the hills the torrent gale; No more her breath can thaw their fingers cold, [fold; Their frozen arms her neck no more can Weak roof a cowering form two babes to shield. And faint the fire a dying heart can yield! Press the sad kiss, fond mother! vainly fears [tears; Thy flooded cheek to wet them with its No tears can chill them, and no bosom warms, [arms. Thy breast their death-bed, coffined in thine Sweet are the sounds that mingle from afar, [star, Heard by calm lakes, as peeps the folding Where the duck dabbles 'mid the rustling sedge, [edge, And feeding pike starts from the water's Or the swan stirs the reeds, his neck and bill Wetting, that drip upon the water still; And heron, as resounds the trodden shore, Shoots upward, darting his long neck before. Now with religious awe, the farewoll light [night; Blends with the solemn colouring of the 'Mid groves of clouds that crest the moun- tain's brow, [shadows throw, And round the west's proud lodge their Like Una shining on her gloomy way, The half-seen form of Twilight roams astray; [small, Shedding, through paly loopholes mild and Gleams that upon the lake's still bosom fall; [pale, Soft o'er the surface creep those lustres Tracking the fitful motions of the gale. With restless interchange at once the bright Wins on the shade, the shade upon the light. No favoured eye was e'er allowed to gaze On lovelier spectacle in faery days ; When gentle spirits urged a sportive chase, Brushing with lucid wands the water's face; While music, stealing round the glimmer- ing deeps, [steeps. Charmed the tall circle of the enchanted The lights are vanished from the watery plains: No wreck of all the pageantry remains. Unheeded night has overcome the vales: On the dark earth the baffled vision fails; The latest lingerer of the forest train, The lone black fir, forsakes the faded plain ; Last evening sight, the cottage smoke, no more, [hoar; Lost in the thickened darkness, glimmers And, towering from the sullen dark-brown mere, [appear, Like a black wall, the mountain steeps D 6 JUVENILE POEMS. Now o'er the soothed accordant heart we feel A sympathetic twilight slowly steal, And ever, as we fondly muse, we find The soft gloom deepening on the tranquil mind. Stay ! pensive, sadly-pleasing visions, stay ! Ah no ! as fades the vale, they fade away: Yet still the tender, vacant gloom remains; ' Still the cold cheek its shuddering tear retains. The bird, who ceased, with fading light, to thread Silent the hedge or streaming rivulet's bed, From his gray re-appearing tower shall soon Salute with boding note the rising moon, Frosting with hoary light the pearly ground, And pouring deeper blue to ether's bound; And pleased her solemn pomp of clouds to fold In robes of azure, fleecy-white, and gold. See, o'er the eastern hill, where darkness broods [woods; O'er all its vanished dells, and lawns, and Where but a mass of shade the sight can trace. She lifts in silence up her lovely face; Above the gloomy valley flings her light, Far to the western slopes with hamlets white; [upland strew, And gives, where woods the chequered To the green corn of summer autumn's hue. Thus Hope, first pouring from 'her blessed horn [own morn; Her dawn, far lovelier than the moon's Till higher mounted, strives in vain to cheer The weary hills, impervious, blackening near; [while Yet does she still, undaunted, throw the | On darling spots remote her tempting smile. Even now she decks for me a distant scene, [between) (For dark and broad the gulf of time Gilding that cottage with her fondest ray, (Sole bourne, sole wish, sole object of my way; [appear! How fair its lawns and sheltering woods How sweet its streamlet murmurs in mine ear!) L rise ' Where we, my friend, to happy days shall Till our small share of hardly-paining sighs (For sighs will ever trouble human breath) Creep hushed into the tranquil breast of death. But now the clear-bright moon her zenith gains, And rimy without speck extend the plains; The deepest dell the mountain's front dis- plays, [rays; Scarce hides a shadow from her searching From the dark-blue faint silvery threads divide The hills, while gleams below the azure tide; The scene is wakened, yet its peace unbroke, By silvered wreaths of quiet charcoal smoke, That, o'er the ruins of the fallen wood, Steal down the hill, and spread along the flood. The song of mountain streams, unheard by day, [way. Now hardly heard, beguiles my homeward All air is, as the sleeping water, still, Listening the aerial music of the hill, Broke only by the slow clock tolling deep, Or shout that wakes the ferryman from sleep, Soon followed by his hollow-parting oar, And echoed hoof approaching the fat shore; [borne, Sound of closed gate, across the watei Hurrying the feeding hare through rustling corn; The tremulous sob of the complaining owl; And at long intervals the mill-dog's howl; The distant forge's swinging thump pro- found; Or yell, in the deep woods, of lonely hound. LINES WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENING. How richly glows the water's breast Before us, tinged with evening hues, While, facing thus the crimson west, The boat her silent course pursues ! And see how dark the backward stream ! A little moment past so smiling ! And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam, Some other loiterers beguiling. Such views the youthful bard allure ; But, heedless of the following gloom, He deems their colours shall endure Till peace go with him to the tomb, JUVENILE POEMS. And let him muse his fond deceit, And what if he must die in sorrow ! Who would not cherish dreams so sweet, Though grief and pain may come to-mor- row? REMEMBRANCE OF COLLINS. COMPOSED UPON THE THAMES, NEAR RICHMOND. GLIDE gently, thus for ever glide, O Thames ! that other bards may see As lovely visions by thy side As now, fair river ! come to me. Oh, glide, fair stream, forever so ! Thy quiet soul on all bestowing, Till all our minds for ever flow, As thy deep waters now are flowing. Vain thought ! Yet be as now Ihou art, That in thy waters may be seen The image of a poet's heart How bright, how solemn, how serene ! Such as did once the poet bless, Who murmuring here a later* ditty, Could find no refuge from distress But in the milder grief of pity. Now let us, as we float along, For him suspend the dashing oar, And pray that never child of song May know that poet's sorrows more. How calm ! how still ! the only sound The dripping of the oar suspended ! The evening darkness gathers round, By virtue's holiest powers attended. DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES TAKEN DURING A PEDESTRIAN TOUR AMONG THE ALPS. WERE there, below, a spot of holy ground Where from distress a refuge might be found, And solitude prepare the soul for heaven ; Sure, nature's God that spot to man had given, * Collins's Ode on the Death of Thomson ; the last written, I believe, of the poems which were published during his lifetime. This ode is also alluded to in the next stanza. Where falls the purple morning far and wide In flakes of light upon the mountain side ; Where with loud voice the power of water shakes The leafy wood, or sleeps in quiet lakes. Yet not unrecompensed the man shall roam, Who at the call of summer quits his home, And plods through some far realm o'er vale and height, Though seeking only holiday delight ; At least, not owning to himself an aim To which the sage would give a prouder ,' name. No gains too cheaply earned his fancy cloy, Though every passing zephyr whispers joy : Brisk toil, alternating with ready ease, Feeds the clear current of his sympathies. For him sod-seats the cottage door adorn ; And peeps the far-off spire, his evening bourn ! Dear is the forest frowning o'er his head, And dear the velvet greensward to his tread : [eye? Moves there a cloud o'er mid-day's flaming Upward he looks " and calls it luxury ;" Kind nature's charities his steps attend ; In every babbling brook he finds a friend ; Whiie chastening thoughts of sweetest use, bestowed By wisdom, moralize his pensive road. Host of his welcome inn, the noon-tide bower, To his spare meal he calls the passing poor ; He views the sun uplift his golden fire, Or sink, with heart alive like Memnon's lyre ;t [ray, Blesses the moon that comes with kindly To light him shaken by his rugged way ; With bashful fear no cottage children steal From him, a brother at the cottage meal ; His humble looks no shy restraint impart, Around him plays at will the virgin heart. While unsuspended wheels thevillage dance, The maidens eye him with inquiring glance, Much wondering what sad stroke of araz- ing care [there. Or desperate love could lead a wanderer Me, lured by hope her sorrows to remove, A heart that could not much herself ap- prove, t The lyre of Memnon is reported to have emitted melancholy or cheerful tones, as it was touched by the sun's evening or morning rays. JUVENILE POEMS. O'er Gallia's wastes of corn dejected led, Her road elms rustling high above my head, Or through her truant pathways' native charms, By secret villages and lonely farms, To where the Alps ascending white in air, Toy with the sun, and glitter from afar. And now, emerging from the forest's gloom, I heave a sigh at hoary Chartreuse" doom. Where now is fled that power whose frown severe [fear ? Tamed sober reason till she crouched in The cloister startles at the gleam of arms, Or, from the bending rocks, obtrusive cling, And o'er the whitened wave their shadows fling- The pathway leads, as round the steeps it twines, And Silence loves its purple roof of vines ; The viewless lingerer hence, at evening, sees [the trees ; From rock-hewn steps the sail between Or marks, 'mid opening cliffs, fair dark- eyed maids [glades, Tend the small harvest of their garden Or stops the solemn mountain-shades to view [and blue, Stretch o'er the pictured mirror broad And blasphemy the shuddering fane alarms; Tracking the yellow sun from steep to Nod the cloud-piercing pines their troubled steep, heads ; [o'erspreads ; j As up the opposing hills with tortoise foot Spires, rocks, and lawns, a browner night i they creep. Strong terror checks the female peasant's sighs, [eyes. And start the astonished shades at female That thundering tube the aged angler hears, And swells the groaning torrent with his "jay, tears igh From Bruno's forest screams the affrighted And slow the insulted eagle wheels away. The cross, with hideous laughter, demons Here, half a village shines, in gold arrayed, Bright as the moon shade : half hides itself in [spire, While, from amid the darkened roofs the Restlessly flashing, seems to mount like fire : There, all unshaded, blazing forests throw Rich golden verdure on the waves below. Slow glides the sail along the illumined mock, shore, By angels planted on the aerial rock.* And steals into the shade the lazy oar ; The " parting genius" sighs with hollow Soft bosoms breathe around contagious breath [ Death, t Along the mystic streams of Life and Swelling the outcry dull, that long resounds Portentous through her old woods' track- less bounds, Vallombre.t'mid her falling fanes, deplores, For ever broke, the sabbath of her bowers. More pressed, my foot the hidden mar- gin roves OfComo, bosomed deep in chestnut groves, No meadows thrown between, the giddy steeps [deeps. Tower, bare or sylvan, from the narrow To towns, whose shades of no rude sound complain, [wain, j To ringing team unknown and grating To flat-roofed towns, that touch the water's bound, Or lurk in woody sunless glens profound, sighs, And amorous music on the water dies. * Alluding to crosses seen on the tops of the How blest, delicious scene ! the eye that greets Thy open beauties, or thy lone retreats ; The unwearied sweep of wood thy cliffs that scales ; The never-ending waters of thy vales ; The cots, those dim religious groves em- bower, Or, under rocks that from the water tower, Insinuated, sprinkling all the shore ; Each with its household boat beside the door, [droop, j Whose flaccid sails in forms fantastic i Brightening the gloom where thick the forests stoop ; [sky, Thy torrents shooting from the clear-blue Thy towns, that cleave, like swallows' nests, on high ; [descried That glimmer hoar in eves last light spiry rocks of Chartreuse, which have every I jj jm f rom t h e twilight water's shaggy side, appearance of being inaccessible t Names of rivers at the Chartreuse. t Name of one of the valleys of the Char- Whence lutes and voices down the en- chanted woods | floods; Steal, and compose the oar-forgotten JUVENILE POEMS. Thy lake, 'mid smoking woods, that blue and gray [morning's ray Gleams, streaked or dappled, hid from Slow travelling down the western hills, to fold [gold ; Its green-tinged margin in a blaze of From thickly-glittering spires, the matin bell Calling the woodman from his desert cell, A summons to the sound of oars, that pass, Spotting the steaming deeps, to early mass; Slow swells the service, o'er the water borne, [of morn. While fill each pause the ringing woodo Farewell those forms that in thy noontide shade, [glade ; Rest, near their little plots of wheaten Those charms that bind the soul in power- less trance, Lip-dewing song, and ringlet-tossing dance. Where sparkling eyes and breaking smiles illume The sylvan cabin's lute-enlivened gloom. Alas ! the very murmur of the streams Breathes o'er the failing soul voluptuous dreams, [dwell While slavery, forcing the sunk mind to On joys that might disgrace the captive's cell, [marge, Her shameless timbrel shakes on Como's And winds, from bay to bay, the vocal barge. Yet arts are thine that soothe the unquiet heart, And smiles to solitude and want impart. I loved by silent cottage-doors to roam, The far-off peasant's day-deserted home ; And once I pierced the mazes of a wood, Where, far from public haunt, a cabin stood ; There by the door a hoary-headed sire Touched with his withered hand an ancient lyre ; Beneath an old gray oak, as violets lie, Stretched at his feet with steadfast up- ward eye, [sound : His children's children joined the holy A hermit with his family around ! But let us hence, for fair Locarno smiles Embowered in walnut slopes and citron isles ; Or seek at eve the banks of Tusa's stream,* While, 'mid dim towers and woods, her waters gleam ; * The river along whose banks you descend in crossing the Alps by the Simplon Pass. From the bright wave, in solemn gloom. retire The dull-red steeps, and, darkening, still aspire, To where afar rich orange lustres glow Round undistinguished clouds, and rocks, and snow, Or, led where Via Mala's chasms confine The indignant waters of the infant Rhine, Hang o'er the abyss : the else impervious gloom His burning eyes with fearful light illume. The Grison gipsy here her tent hath placed, Sole human tenant of the piny waste ; Her tawny skin, dark eyes, and glossy locks, [rocks. Bend o'er the smoke that curls beneath the The mind condemned, without reprieve, to go [woe, O'er life's long deserts with its charge of With sad congratulation joins the train, Where beasts and men together o'er the plain Move on a mighty caravan of pain ; Hope, strength, and courage, social suffer- ing brings, [and springs. Freshening the waste of sand with shades She, solitary, through the desert drear Spontaneous wanders, hand in hand with Fear. A giant moan along the forest swells Protracted, and the twilight storm fore- tells, And, ruining from the cliffs, their deafen- ing load [abroad ; Tumbles, the wildering thunder slips On the high summits darkness comes and goes, [snows ; Hiding their fiery clouds, their rocks, and The torrent, traversed by the lustre broad, Starts like a horse beside the flashing road; In the roofed bridge,! at that terrific hour, She seeks a shelter from the battering shower. [ing wood Fierce comes the river down ; the crash- Gives way, and half its pines torment the flood; t Most of the bridges among the Alps are of wood and covered ; these bridges have a heavy appearance, and rather injure the effect of the scenery in some places. 10 JUVENILE POEMS. Fearful, beneath the water-spirits call,* And the bridge vibrates, tottering to its fall. Heavy, and dull, and cloudy is the night; No star supplies the comfort of its light, Glimmer the dim-lit Alps, dilated round, And one sole light shifts in the vale pro- found ; While opposite, the waning moon hangs still And red, above the melancholy hill. By the deep gloom appalled, the gipsy sighs, [eyes. Stoops her sick head, and shuts her weary She hears, upon the mountain-forest's brow, [below ; The death-dog, howling loud and long, On viewless ringers counts the valley-clock, Followed by drowsy crow of midnight cock. The dry leaves stir as with a serpent's walk, And, far beneath, banditti voices talk ; Behind her hill, the moon, all crimson, rides, And his red eyes the slinking water hides. Vexed by the darkness, from the piny gulf Ascending, nearer howls the famished wolf, While through the stillness scatters wild dismay [P re y- Her babe's small cry, that leads him to his Now, passing Urseren's open vale serene, Her quiet streams, and hills of downy green, [Terror's breath, Plunge with the Reuss embrowned by Where danger roofs the narrow walks of death ; [dizzy height, By floods, that, thundering from their Swell more gigantic on the steadfast sight; Black drizzling crags, that, beaten by the din, Vibrate, as if a voice complained within ; Bare steeps, where Desolation stalks, afraid, Unsteadfast, by a blasted yew upstayed ; By cellst whose image, trembling as he prays, [surveys ; Awe-struck, the kneeling peasant scarce * " Red came the river down and loud, and oft The angry spirit of the water shriek'd." HOME'S Doug-fas. t The Catholic religion prevails here ; these cells are, as is well known, very common in Catholic countries, planted, like the- Roman tombs, along the roadside. Loose-hanging rocks the day's blessed eye that hide, And Grossest rear'd to death on every side, Which with cold kiss Devotion planted near, And, bending, watered with the human tear, That faded silent from her upward eye, Unmoved with each rude form of danger nigh, Fixed on the anchor left by Him who saves Alike in whelming snows and roaring waves. On as we move, a softer prospect opes, Calm huts, and lawns between, and sylvan slopes. [gale, While mists, suspended on the expiring Moveless o'erhang the deep secluded vale, The beams of evening slipping soft between, Gently illuminate a sober scene ; Winding its dark-green wood and emerald glade, The still vale lengthens underneath the shade ; [recede, While in soft gloom the scattering bowers Green dewy lights adorn the freshened mead, On the low brown wood-huts delighted sleep Along the brightened gloom reposing deep. While pastoral pipes and streams the land- scape lull, And bells of passing mules that tinkle dull, In solemn shapes before the admiring eye Dilated hang the misty pines on high, Huge convent domes with pinnacles and towers, [showers. And antique castles seen through drizzling From such romantic dreams, my soul, awake ! Lo ! Fear looks silent down on Uri's lake, Where by the unpathwayed margin, still and dread, [tread. Was never heard the plodding peasant's Tower like a wall the naked rocks, or reach Far o'er the secret water dark with beech ; More high, to where creation seems to end, Shade above shade, the aerial pines ascend, Yet with his infants man undaunted creeps And hangs his small wood-cabin on the steeps. J Crosses commemorative of the deaths of travellers by the fall of snow, and other acci- dents, are very common along this dreadful road. The houses in the more retired Swiss valleys are- all built of wood. JUVENILE POEMS. 11 Where'er below imid the savage scene Peeps out a little speck of smiling green, A garden-plot the desert air perfumes, 'Mid the dark pines a little orchard blooms ; A zig-zag path from the domestic skiff, Threading the painful crag, surmounts the cliff. [know Before those hermit doors, that never The face of traveller passing to and fro, No peasant leans upon his pole, to tell For whom at morning tolled the funeral bell ; [foregoes, Their watch-dog ne'er his angry bark Touched by the beggar's moan of human woes ; [shade The grassy seat beneath their casement The pilgrim's wistful eye hath never stayed. There, did the iron genius not disdain The gentle power that haunts this myrtle plain, [chide There might the love-sick maiden sit, and The insuperable rocks and severing tide ; There watch at eve her lover's sun-gilt sail Approaching, and upbraid the tardy gale ; There list at midnight till is heard no more, Below, the echo of his parting oar. 'Mid stormy vapours ever driving by, Where ospreys, cormorants, and herons cry, Hovering o'er rugged wastes too bleak to rear [ear ; That common growth of earth, the foodful Where the green apple shrivels on the spray, And pines the unripened pear in summer's kindliest ray ; ven here Content has fixed her smiling reign With Independence, child of high Disdain. Exulting, 'mid the winter of the skies, Shy as the jealous chamois, Freedom flies, And often grasps her sword, and often eyes; Her crest a bough of winter's bleakest pine, Strange weeds and Alpine plants her helm entwine, And, wildly-pausing, oft she hangs aghast, While thrills the "Spartan fife," between the blast. 'Tis storm ; and hid in mist from hour to hour, [pour ; All day the floods a deepening murmur The sky is veiled, and every cheerful sight: Dark is the region as with coming night; But what a sudden burst of overpowering light ! Triumphant on the bosom of the storm Glances the fire-clad eagle's wheeling form; Eastward, in long perspective glittering, shine [recline; The wood-crowned cliffs that o'er the lake Wide o'er the Alps a hundred streams unfold, [gold: At once to pillars turned that flame wirh Behind his sail the peasant strives to "-hun : The west that burns like one dilated sun, j Where in a mighty crucible expire ' The mountains, glowing-hot, like coals of fire. But lo ! the boatman, overawed, before The pictured fane of Tell suspends his oar; Confused the Marathonian tale appears, While burn in his full eyes the glorious tears. [days And who that walks where men of ancient Have wrought with godlike arm the deeds of praise, Feels not the spirit of the place control, Exalt, and agitate his labouring soul? Say, who, by thinking on Canadian hills, Or wild Aosta lulled by Alpine rills, On Zutphen's plain; or where, with softened gaze, [veys ; The old gray stones the plaided chief sur- Can guess the high resolve, the cherished pain, Of him whom passion rivets to the plain, Where breathed the gale that caught Wolfe's happiest sigh, And the last sunbeam fell on Bayard's eye; Where bleeding Sidney from the cup retired, And glad Dundee in "faint huzzas "expired! But now with other mind I stand alone Upon the summit of this naked cone, And watch, from peak to peak amid the sky Small as a bird the chamois chaser fly,* Through vacant worlds where nature nevei gave A brook to murmur or a bough to wave, Which unsubstantial phantoms sacred keep ; [and motion sleep ; Through worlds where life, and sound, Where silence still her death-like reign extends, [rends - Save when the startling cliff unfrequent In the deep snow ihe mighty ruin drowned, Mocks the dull ear of time with deaf abortive sound. [to height, 'Tis his while wandering on, from height * For most of the images in the next sixteen verses I am .ndebted to M. Raymond's inte- resting observations annexed to his translation of Coxe's Tour in Switzerland. 12 JUVENILE POEMS. Broke only by the melancholy sound To see a planet's pomp and steady light In the least star of scarce-appearing night, j Of drowsy bells for ever tinkling round ; While the near moon, that coasts the vast ! Faint wail of eagle melting into blue profound Wheels pale andsilent her diminished round, And far and wide the icy summits blaze, Rejoicing in the glory of her rays : To him the day-star glitters small and bright, Shorn of its beams, insufferably white, And he can look beyond the sun, and view Those fast-receding depths of sable blue, Flying till vision can no more pursue ! At once bewildering mists around him close, And cold and hunger are his least of woes; The demon of the snow, with angry roar Descending, shuts for aye his prison door. Beneath the cliffs, and pine-wood's steady sugh ;\ The solitary heifer's deepened low; Or rumbling, heard remote, of falling snow; Save that, the stranger seen below, the boy Shouts from the echoing hills with savage joy. When warm from myrtle bays and tran- quil seas, [breeze, Comes on, to whisper hope, the vernal When hums the mountain-bee in May's glad ear, And emerald islestospot the heights appear, When shouts and lowing herds the valley Then with despair's whole weight his spirits j , ^ink [drink, | And louder torrents stun the noontide hill, No bread to feed him, and the snow his When fragrant scents beneath the en- While, ere his eyes can close upon the day, chanted tread [spread, The eagle of the Alps o'ershades her prey, j Sprjng up> his choicest wea i th around him Hence shall we turn where, heard with fear afar, [long Aar ? Thunders through echoing pines the head- Or rather stay to taste the mild delights Of pensive Underwalden's * pastoral heights ? Is there who has seen 'mid these awful wilds The native genii walk the mountain green ? Or heard, while other worlds their charms reveal, Soft music from the aerial summit steal ? While o'er the desert , answering every close, Rich steam of sweetest perfume comes and goes. [reigns And sure there is a secret power, that Here, where no trace of man the spot pro- fanes, [upward, creep, The pastoral Swiss begins the cliffs to scale, To silence leaving the deserted vale ; Mounts, where the verdure leads, from stage to stage, And pastures on as in the Patriarchs' age : O'er lofty heights serene and still they go, And hear the rattling thunder far below; They cross the chasmy torrent's foam-lit bed, Rocked on the dizzy larch s narrow tread ; Or steal beneath loose mountains, half deterred, That sigh and shudder to the lowing herd. I see him, up the midway cliff he creeps To where a scanty knot of verdure peeps, Thence down the steep a pile of grass he throws, The fodder of his herds in winter snows. Far different life to what tradition hoar Noughtt but the herds that, pasturing ] Transmits of days more blest in times of Hung dim-discovered from the dangerous ! vore . L D ' an d. steep Then summer lengthened out his season Or summer hamlet, flat and bare, on high j And with rock-honey flowed the happy land. Suspended, 'mid the quiet of the sky | Continual fountains welling cheered the How still ! no irreligious sound or sight J wa f te - I deadl V taste - Rouses the soul from her severe delight. i And P lants were wholesome, now of An idle voice the Sabbath region fills I Nor * inter X et hls frozen st re * had P.' ed - Of deep that calls to deep across the hills, Usurping where the fairest herbage smiled; Nor hunger forced the herds from pastures bare [dare. For scanty food the treacherous cliffs to * The people of this Canton are supposed to be of a more melancholy disposition than the other inhabitants of the Alps ; this, if true, may proceed from their living more secluded. t This picture is from the middle region of] the Alps. t Sugk, a Scotch word expressive of the sound of the wind through the trees. JUVENILE POEMS. 13 Then the milk-thistle bade those herds de- mand [hand. Three times a day the pail and welcome But human vices have provoked the rod Of angry nature to avenge her God. Thus does the father to his sons relate, On the lone mountain top, their changed estate. Still, nature, ever just, to him imparts Joys only given to uncorrupted hearts. 'Tismorn: with gold the verdant moun- tain glows, [rose. More high, the snowy peaks with hues of Far-stretched beneath the many-tinted hills A mighty waste of mist the valley fills, A solemn sea ! whose vales and mountains round Stand motionless, to awful silence bound. A gulf of gloomy blue, that opens wide And bottomless, divides the midway tide. Like leaning masts of stranded ships appear The pines that near the coast their summits rear ; [shore Of cabins, woods, and lawns a pleasant Bounds calm and clear the chaos still and hoar ; [sound Loud through that midway gulf ascending, Vnnumbered streams with hollow roar pro- found: [of birds, Mount through the nearer mist the chant And talking voices, and the low of herds, The bark of dogs, the drowsy tinkling bell, And wild-wood mountain lutes of saddest swell. Think not, suspended from the cliff On high, He looks below with undelighted eye. No vulgar joy is his, at eventide Stretched on the scented mountain's purple side. For as the pleasures of his simple day Beyond his native valley seldom stray, Nought round its darling precincts can he find But brings some past enjoyment to his mind, While Hope, that ceaseless leans on Plea- sure's urn, [return. Binds her wild wreaths, and whispers his Once Man, entirely free, alone and wild. Was blest as free for he was nature's child. He, all superior but his God disdained, Walked none restraining, and by none re- strained, [taught, Confessed no law but what his reason Did all he wished, and wished but what he ought. As man in his primeval dower arrayed The image of his glorious Sire displayed, Even so, by vestal nature guarded, here The traces of primeval man appear The native dignity no forms debase, The eye sublime, .nd surly lion-grace. The slave of none, of beasts alone the lord, He marches with his flute, his book, and sword ; [pared Well taught by that to feel his rights, pre- With this "the blessings he enjoys to guard." And, as his native hills encircle ground For many a wondrous victory renowned, The work of freedom daring to oppose, With few in arms,* innumerable foes, When to those glorious fields his steps are led, (dead. An unknown power connects him with the For images of other worlds are there ; Awful the light, and holy is the air. Uncertain through his fierce uncultured soul [roll ; Like lighted tempests troubled transports To viewless realms his spirit towers amain, Beyond the senses and their little reign. And oft, when passed that solemn vision by, [high, He holds with God himself communion Where the dread peal of swelling torrents fills The sky-roofed temple of the eternal hills ; Or, when upon the mountain's silent brow Reclined, he sees, above him and below, Bright stars of ice and azure fields of snow; While needle peaks of granite shooting bare Tremble in ever-varying tints of air : Great joy, by horror tamed, dilates his heart, [impart. And the near heavens their own delights When the sun bids the gorgeous scene farewell, Alps overlooking Alps their state up-swell ; Huge Pikes of Darkness named, of Fear and Storms.f Lift, all serene, their still, illumined forms, In sea-like reach of prospect round him spread, Tinged like an angel's smile all rosy red. * Alluding to several battles which the Swiss in very small numbers have gained over their oppressors, the house of Austria. t As Schreck-Hprn, the pike of terrror ; Wetter- Horn, the pike of srvms, &c. &C. 14 JUVENILE POEMS. When downward to his winter hut he Lo ! where through flat Batavia's willowy goes, [grows ; j groves, Dear and more dear the lessening circle > Or by the lazy Seine the exile roves ; That hut which from the hills his eye em- '. Soft o'er the waters mournful measures ploys swell, [cell ;" So oft, the central point of all his joys. Unlocking tender thought's "memorial And as a swift, by tender cares opprest, Past pleasures are transformed to mortal Peeps often ere she darts into her nest, pains, [veins, So to the untrodden floor, where round him While poison spreads along the listener's looks i Poison which not a frame of steel can His father, helpless as the babe he rocks, j brave, [grave.* Oft he descends to nurse the brother pair, ! Bows his young head with sorrow to the Till storm and driving ice blockade him there. Gay lark of hope, thy silent song resume ! There, safely guarded by the woods behind, j Fair smiling lights the purpled hills illume ! He hears the chiding of the baffled wind, j Soft gales and dews of life's delicious morn, Hears Winter, calling all his terrors round, : And thou, lost fragrance of the heart, re- Rush down the living rocks with whirlwind i turn ! sound. Through nature's vale his homely plea- sures glide Soon flies the little joy to man allowed, And grief before him travels like a cloud : For come diseases on, and penury's rage, Labour, and care, and pain, and dismal Unstained by envv, discontent, and pride ; I ^-.,, ? ' , The bound of all his vanity, to deck, 1 Till hope-deserted long in vain his breath With one bright bell, a favourite heifer's ^plores the dreadfuluntned sleep of death. neck ; [feast, Well-pleased upon some simple annual Remembered half the year and hoped the 'Mid savage rocks, and seas of snow that shine rest, i Between interminable tracts of pine, If dairy produce from his inner hoard A temple stands ; which holds an awful Of thrice ten summers consecrate the board. shrine, Alas ! in every clime a flying ray i By an uncertain light revealed, that falls Is all we have to cheer our wintry way. I On the mute image and the troubled walls : But, ah! the unwilling mind may more Pale, dreadful faces round the shrine than trace appear, The general sorrows of the human race : Abortive joy, and hope that works in fear ; The churlish gales, that unremitting blow While strives a secret power to hush the Cold from necessity's continual snow, crowd ! [rights aloud. To those the gentle groups of bliss deny That on the noonday bank of leisure lie. Vet more ; compell'd by powers which only deign That solitary man disturb their reign, Powers that support a never-ceasing strife With all the tender charities of life, i Pain's wild rebellious burst proclaims her The father, as his sons of strength become Oh ! give not me that eye of hard disdain That views undimmed Ensiedlen's wretched fane.f [ment meet, 'Mid muttering prayers all sounds of tor- Dire clap of hands, distracted chafe of feet ; [cry, To pay the filial debt, for food "to roam, j While, loud and dull, ascends the weeping From his bare nest amid the storms of Surely in other thoughts contempt may die heaven [driven ; Drives, eagle-like, those sons as he was His last dread pleasure watches to the plain And never, eagle-like, beholds again ! If the sad grave of human ignorance bear One flower of hope oh, pass and leave il there. * The effect of the famous air called in Frencfc Ranz des Vaches upon the Swiss troops. When the poor heart has all its joys re- j re Ji e ^by m^fudes^fro^lvery^comL^Ptrw Signed, [behind ? Catholic world, labouring under mental 01 Why does their sad remembrance cleave bodily afflictions. JUVENILE POEMS. 15 The tall sun, tiptoe on an Alpine spire, I Beloved freedom ! were it mine to stray, Flings o'er the wilderness a stream of fire ; With shrill winds roaring round my lonely Now let us meet the pilgrims ere the day : way, [clad moors, Close on the remnant of their weary way ; ' O'er the bleak sides of Cumbria's heath- While they are drawing toward the sacred ! Or where dank sea-weed lashes Scotland's floor [gnaw no more. I shores, [rose, Where the charmed worm of pain shall > To scent the sweets of Piedmont's breathing How gaily murmur and how sweetly taste ! And orange gale that o'er Lugano blows ; The fountains* reared for them amid the | In the wide range of many a varied round, waste ! [greet, | Fleet as my passage was, 1 still have There some with tearful kiss each other j found And some, with reverence, wash their toil- j That where despotic courts their gems worn feet. display, Yes, I will see you when ye first behold The lilies of domestic joy decay, Those holy turrets tipped with evening i While the remotest hamlets blessings share gold, [prest ; In thy dear presence known, and only In that glad moment when the hands are ] there ! [bine binds, In mute devotion on the thankful breast, j The casement's shed more luscious wood- j And to the door a neater pathway winds ; Last let us turn to where Chamouny | ^ ' Of w - dless herbs With rocks and gloomy woods her fertile Five streams of ice amid her cots descend, And with wild flowers and blooming or- chards blend. [feigns A scene more fair than what the Grecian Of purple lights and ever-vernal plains ; healthier prospect sees, While hum with busier joy her happy bees ; In brighter rows her table wealth aspires, And laugh with merrier blaze her evening fires ; " s ; , ! Her infants' cheeks with fresher roses glow Here lawns and shades by breezy rivulets Anri - 1Hpr __. qnort _ . 6 th - fanned, Here all the seasons revel hand in hand. Red stream the cottage-lights ; the land- scape fades, Erroneous wavering'mid the twilight shades. Alone ascends that hill of matchless height, t ! And wilder graces sport around their brow; By clearer taper lit, a cleanlier board Receives at supper hour her tempting hoard : [spread, The chamber hearth with fresher boughs is Thi iTE nuucnitts reigni.T And whiter is th hos p itab i e bed. 1 hat holds no commerce with the summer i night. From age to age, amid his lonely bounds The crash of ruin fitfully resounds ; Mysterious havoc ! but serene his brow, Where daylight lingers 'mid perpetual snow; Glitter the stars above, and below. all And oh ! fair France ! though now along the shade [strayed, Where erst at will the gray-clad peasant Gleam war's discordant vestments through the trees, is black And the red banner fluctuates in the breeze ; Though martial songs have banished songs At such an hour I heaved a pensive sigh, When roared the sullen Arve in anger by, That not for thy reward, delicious vale ! Waves the ripe harvest in the autumnal gale ; [to pine ; That thou, the slave of slaves, art doomed Hard lot ! for no Italian arts are thine, To soothe or cheer, to soften or refine. * Rude fountains built and covered with sheds for the accommodation of the pilgrims, in their ascent of the mountain. t It is only from the higher part of the valley of Chamouny that Mont Blanc is visible. of love, And nightingales forsake the village grove, Scared by the fife and rumbling drum's alarms, [arms ; And the short thunder, and the flash of While, as night bids the startling uproar die, [ful cry ! Sole sound, the sourdt renews his mourn- Yet, hast thou found that freedom spreads her power [door : Beyond the cottage hearth, the cottage J An insect so called which emits a short, melancholy cry, heard at the close of the summer evenings on the banks of the Loire. 16 JUVENILE POEMS. All nature smiles, and owns beneath her eyes Her fields peculiar, and peculiar skies. Yes, as I roamed where Loiret's waters glide Through rustling aspens heard from side to side, When from October clouds a milder light Fell, where the blue flood rippled into white, Methought from every cot the watchful bird Crowed with ear-piercing power till then unheard ; [muring streams, Each clacking mill, that broke the mur- Rocked the charmed thought in more de- lightful dreams ; [ing leaf Chasing those long, long dreams, the fall- Awoke a fainter pang of moral grief ; The measured echo of the distant flail Wound in more welcome cadence down the vale ; A more majestic tide the water rolled, And glowed the sun-gilt groves in richer gold. [raise Though Liberty shall soon, indignant, Red on the hills his beacon's comet blaze ; Bid from on high his lonely cannon sound, rind on ten thousand hearths his shout re- bound ; His 'larum-bell from village-tower to tower Swing on the astonished ear its dull un- dying roar ; Yet, yet rejoice, though pride's perverted ire Rouse hell's own aid, and wrap thy hills in fire ! [birth, Lo ! from the innocuous flames, a lovely With its own virtues springs another earth : Nature, as in her prime, her virgin reign Begins, and love and truth compose her train ; [gaze, While, with a pulseless hand, and steadfast Unbreathing justice her still beam surveys. Oh, give, great God, to freedom's waves to ride Sublime o'er conquest, avarice, and pride, To sweep where pleasure decks her guilty bowers, [bed towers. And dark oppression builds her thick rib- Give them, beneath their breast while gladness springs, [wings ; To brood the nations o'er with Nile-like And grant that every sceptred child of clay, Who cries, presumptuous, "Here their tides shall stay, " [shore, Swept in their anger from the affrighted With all his creatures sink to rise no more! To-night, my friend, within this humble cot Be the dead load of mortal ills forgot In timely sleep ; and when at break of day, On the tall peaks the glistening sunbeams play, [new, With lighter heart our course we may re- The first whose footsteps print the moun- tain dew. 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 these barren boughs the bee not loves ? [waves, Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling 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 [tree First covered o'er, and taught this aged 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 [hate, Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and 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 [boughs In solitude. Stranger ! these gloomy Had charms for him ; and here he loved to sit, His only visitants a straggling sheep, The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-pi per: And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath, JUVENILE POEMS. 17 And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er, Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here An emblem of his own unfruitful life : And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze On the more distant scene, how lovely 'tis Thou seest, and he would gaze till it became Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain The beauty, still more beauteous ! Nor, that 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 [holds The wise man to that scorn which wisdom Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, thou ! Instructed that true knowledge leads to love, True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart. THE FEMALE VAGRANT. MY father was a good and pious man, An honest man by honest parents bred, And I believe that soon as I began To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed, And in his hearing there my prayers I said : And afterwards, by my good father taught, I read, and loved the books in which 1 read; For books in every neighbouring house I sought, . [sure brought. And nothing to my mind a sweeter plea- Can I forget what charms did once adorn My garden, stored with pease, and mint, and thyme, And rose, and lily, for the Sabbath morn? The Sabbath bells, and their delightful chime ; The gambols and wild freaks at shearing time ; [scarce espied ; My hen's rich nest through long grass The cowslip-gathering in June s dewy prime ; [side. The swans that, when I sought the water - From far to meet me came, spreading their snowy pride? The staff I yet remember which upbore The bending body of my active sire : His seat beneath the honeyed sycamore Where the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire ; When market morning came, the neat attire With which, though bent on haste, myself I decked ; [ire, My watchful dog, whose starts of furious When stranger passed, so often I have checked ; [my casement pecked. The redbreast known for years, which at The suns of twenty summers danced along, [away : Ah ! little marked how fast they rolled But, through severe mischance, and cruel wrong, My father's substance fell into decay ; We toiled and struggled hoping for a day When fortune should put on a kinder look : But vain were wishes efforts vain as they ; He from his old hereditary nook Must part the summons came our final leave we took. It was indeed a miserable hour [veyed, When from the last hill-top, my sire sur- Peering above the trees, the steeple tower That on his marriage day sweet music made ! [be laid, Till then, he hoped his bones might there Close by my mother in their native bowers. Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed [in showers, I could not pray : through tears that fell Glimmered our dear-loved home, alas ! no longer ours. 18 JUVENILE POEMS. There was a youth whom I had loved so long, That when I loved him not I cannot say. 'Mid the green mountains many a thought- less song [May. We two had sung, like gladsome birds in When we began to tire of childish play, We seemed still more and more to prize each other ; [day ; We talked of marriage and our marriage And I in truth did love him like a brother, For never could I hope to meet with such another ! Two years were passed since to a distant town He had repaired to ply the artist's trade. What tears of bitter grief till then un- known ! [layed ! What tender vows our last sad kiss de- To him we turned : we had no other aid. Like one revived upon his neck 1 wept, And her whom he had loved in joy, he said, Vie well could love in grief : his faith he kept, [slept. And in a quiet home once more my father We lived in peace and comfort, and were blest [plied. With daily bread, by constant toil sup- Three lovely infants lay upon my breast ; And often viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed, [died And knew not why. My happy father When sad distress reduced the children's meal : [hide Thrice happy ! that for him the grave did The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel, [could not heal. And tears that flowed for ills which patience Twas a hard change, an evil time was come, We had no hope, and no relief could gain. But soon, with proud parade, the noisy drum [and pain. Beat round, to sweep the streets of want My husband's arms now only served to strain Me and his children hungering in hisview ; In such despair, myorayers and tears were vain : To join those miserable men, he flew ; And now to the sea coast, with numbers more, we drew. There long were we neglected, and we bore [weighed ; Much sorrow, ere the fleet its anchor Green fields before us, and our native shore, We breathed ?. pestilential air that made Ravage for which no knell was heard. We prayed [nor knew For our departure ; wished and wished 'Mid that long sickness, and those hopes delayed, [ view : That happier days we never more must The parting signal streamed, at last the land withdrew. But the calm summer season now was past. On as we drove, the equinoctial deep Ran mountains high before the howling blast ; [sweep And many perished in the whirlwind's We gazed with terror on their gloomy sleep, [ensue, Untaught that soon such anguish must Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap, That we the mercy of the waves should rue : [voted crew. We reached the western world a poor de- The pains and plagues that on our head.' came down, Disease and famine, agony and fear, In wood or wilderness, in camp or town, It would thy brain unsettle even to hear. All perished all in one remorseless year, Husband and children ! one by one, by sword [tear And ravenous plague, all perished ; every Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored. Peaceful as some immeasurable plain By the first beams of dawning light im- prest, [main, In the calm sunshine slept the glittering The very ocean hath its hour of rest I, too, forgot the heavings of my breast. Oh, me, how quiet sky and ocean were ! As quiet all within me. I was blest : And looked, and looked along the silent air, Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair. Ah ! how unlike those late terrific sleeps, And groans, that rage of racking famine spoke ! [heaps ! The unburied dead, that lay in festering The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke ! [broke ! The shriek that from the distant battle The mine's dire earthquake, and the pallid host JUVENILE POEMS. 19 Driven by the bomb's incessant thunder- stroke To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish tossed, [lost ! Hope died, and fear itself in agony was Some mighty gulf of separation past, I seemed transported to another world : A thought resigned with pain, when from the mast The impatient mariner the sail unfurled, And whistling, called the wind that hardly curled [of home The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts And from all hope I was for ever hurled. For me farthest from earthly port to roam Was best, could I but shun the spot where man might come. And oft I thought (my fancy was so strong) That I, at last, a resting-place had found ; "Here will 1 dwell, "said I, "my whole life long, Roaming the illimitable waters round : Here will I live, of every friend disowned, And end my days upon the ocean flood.' ' I To break my dream the vessel reached its bound : [stood, And homeless near a thousand homes I And near a thousand tables pined, and wanted food. By grief enfeebled, was I turned adrift, Helpless as sailor cast on desert rock ; Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift, Nor dared my hand at any door to knock. I lay where, with his drowsy mates, the cock From the cross timber of an out-house hung : Dismally tolled that night the city clock ! At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung, [frame my tongue. Nor to the beggar's language could I So passed another day, and so the third : Then did I try in vain the crowd's resort. In deep despair, by frightful wishes stirred, Near the sa-side I reached a ruined fort ; There pains, which nature could no more support, [fall, With blindness linked, did on my vitals And after many interruption: short Of hideous sense, I sank, nor step could crawl ; [recall. Unsought for was the help that did my life Borne to ah hospital, I lay with brain Prowsy and weak, and shattered memory ; I heard my neighbours in their beds, com- plain Of many things which never troubled me ; Of feet still bustling round with busy glee ; Of looks where common kindness had no part : Of service done with careless cruelty, Fretting the fever rouM the languid heart ; And groans, which, a^ they said, might make a dead man start. These things just served to stir the torpid sense, Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised. With strength did memory return ; and, thence Dismissed, again on open day I gazed, At houses, men, and common light amazed. The lanes I sought, and as the sun retired, Came where beneath the trees a faggot blazed ; [quired, The travellers saw me weep, my fate in- And gave me food, and rest, more wel- I come, more desired. I They with their panniered asses semblance made Of potters wandering on from door to door : But life of happier sort to me portrayed, And other joys my fancy to allure ; The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor, In barn uplighted, and companions boon Well met from far with revelry secure, Among the forest glades, when jocuncj June [genial moon. Rolled fast along the sky his warm and But ill they suited me those journeys dark O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch ! [bark, To charm the surly house-dog's faithful Or hang on tip-toe at the lifted latch. The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match, [shrill, The black disguise, the warning whistle And ear still busy on its nightly watch, Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill; Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding still. What could I do, unaided and unblest ? My father ! gone was every friend of thine: And kindred of dead husband are at best Small help ; and after marriage such as mine, With little kindness would to me incline. 20 POEMS REFERRING TO THE Til was I then for toil or service fit : With tears whose course no effort could confine. By the roadside forgetful would I sit Whole hours, my idle arms in moping sorrow knit. I led a wandering life among the fields : Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused, 1 lived upon what casual bounty yields, Now coldly given, now utterly refused. The ground E for my bed have often used : But, what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth Is, that I have my inner self abused, Foregone the home delight of constant truth And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth. Three years thus wandering, often have I viewed, In tears, the sun towards that country tend Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude ; And now across this moor my steps I bend Oh, tell me whither for no earthly friend [away, Have I. She ceased, and weeping turned As if because her tale was at an end She wept ; because she had no more to say Of that perpetual weight which on her spirr lay. itti ia 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 ! A solemr image to my heart, My father's family I 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. FORESIGHT, THAT is work of waste and ruin Do as Charles and I are doing ! Strawberry-blossoms, one and all, We must spare them here are many : Look at it the flower is small, Small and low, though fair as any : Do not touch it ! summers two I am older, Anne, than you. Pull the primrose, sister Anne ! Pull as many as you can. Here are daisies, take your fill ; Pansies, and the cuckow flower : Of the lofty daffodil Make your bed, and make your bower Fill your lap, and fill your bosom ; Only spare the strawberry-blossom ! Primroses, the spring may love them : Summer knows but little of them : Violets, a barren kind, Withered on the ground must lie ; Daisies leave no fruit behind When the pretty flowerets die ; Pluck them, and another year As many will be blowing here. God has given a kindlier power To the favoured strawberry-flower. When the months of spring are fled Hither let us bend our walk ; PEEIOD OF CHJLVHOOV. Lurking berries, ripe and red, Then will hang on every stalk, Each within its leafy bower ; And for that promise spare the flower ! CHARACTERISTICS OF A CHILD THREE YEARS OLD. LOVING she is, and tractable, though wild ; And innocence hath privilege in her To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes ; And feats of cunning ; and the pretty round Of trespasses, affected to provoke Mock-chastisemeni and partnershipinplay. And, as a faggot sparkles on the hearth, Not less if unattended and alone . Than when both young and old sit gathered And take delight in its activity, [round Even so this happy creature of herself Is all-sufficient ; solitude to her Is blithe society, who fills the air With gladness and involuntary songs. Light are her sallies as the tripping fawn's Forth-startled from the fern where she lay couched ; Unthought of, unexpected, as the stir Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow flowers ; Or from before it chasing wantonly The many-coloured images impressed Upon the bosom of a placid lake ADDRESS TO A CHILD DURING A BOISTEROUS WINTER EVENING. BY A FEMALE FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR. WHAT way does the wind come? What way does he go ? He rides over the water and over the snow, Through wood, and through vale ; and o'er rocky height, Which the goat cannot climb f akes his sounding flight ; He tosses about in every bare tree, As, if you look up, you plainly may see , But how he will come and whither he goes There's never a scholar in England knows. He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook And ring a sharp 'larum ! but if you should look, [snow There's nothing to see but a cushion of Round as a pillow and-whiter than milk, And softer than if it were covered with silk. Sometimes he'll hide in the cave of a rock, Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock ; Yet seek him, and what shall you find in the place ? Nothing but silence and empty space ; Save, in a corner a heap of dry leaves, ! That he s left, for a bed, to beggars or thieves ! I As soon as 'tis daylight, to-morrow, with me ' You shall go to the orchard, and then you will see [rout, | That he has been there, and made a great And cracked the branches, and strewn them abou f ; [upright twig Heaven grant that he spare but that one I That looked up at the sky so proud and big I All last summer, as well you know, Studded with apples, a beautiful show ! ! Hark ! over the roof he makes a pause, I And growls as if he would fix his claws Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle Drive them down like men in a battle ; But let him range round ; he does us no harm, I We build up the fire, we're snug and warm ! Untouched by his breath see the candle shines bright, I And burns with a clear and steady light ; | Books have we to read, but that half- stifled knell- Alas! 'tis the sound of the eight o'clock bell Come now, we'll to bed ! and when we are there [ we care ? He may work his own will and what shall He may knock at the door, we 11 not let him in ; [his dm ; May drive at the windows, we'll laugh at Let him seek his own home wherever it be ; Here's a cozie warm house for Edward and me. THE MOTHER'S RETURN. BY THE SAME. A MONTH, sweet little ones, is passed Since your dear mother went away, And she to-morrow will return ; To-morrow is the happy day. Oh, blessed tidings ! thought of joy ! The eldest heard with steady glee ; Silent he stood ; then laughed amain. And shouted, " Mother, come to me l" E 22 POEMS REFERRING TO THE Louder and louder did he shout, With witless hope to bring her near; " Nay, patience! patience, little boy! Your tender mother cannot hear." I told of hills, and far-off towns, And long, long vales to travel through; He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed, But he submits; what can he do? No strife disturbs his sister's breast: She wars not with the mystery Of time and distance, night and day, The bonds of our humanity. Her joy is like an instinct, joy Of kitten, bird, or summer fly; She dances, runs without an aim, She chatters in her ecstasy. Her brother now takes up the note, And echoes back his sister's glee; They hug the infant in my arms, As if to force his sympathy. Then, settling into fond discourse, We rested in the garden bower; While sweetly shone the evening sun In his departing hour. We told o'er all that we had done, Our rambles by the swift brook's side Far as the willow-skirted pool, Where two fair swans together glide. We talked of change, of winter gone, Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray, Of birds that build their nests and sing, And " all since mother went away." To her these tales they will repeat, To her our new-born tribes will show, The goslings green, the ass's colt, The lambs that in the meadow go. But, see, the evening star comes forth ! To bed the children must depart; A moment's heaviness they feel, A sadness at the heart: Tis gone and in a merry fit They run up stairs in gamesome race; I, too, infected by their mood, I could have joined the wanton chase. Five minutes past and, oh, the change! Asleep upon their beds they lie; Their busy limbs in perfect rest, And closed the sparkling eye. 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. No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; I She dwelt on a wide moor I The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door! You yet may spy th~ fawn at play, The hare upon the green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen. " To-night will be a stormy night You to the town must go; And take a lantern, child, to light Your mother through the snow." " That, father, will I gladly do: 'Tis scarcely afternoon The minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon." At this the father raised his hook, And snapped a faggot band; He plied his work; and Lucy took The lantern in her hand. Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke. The storm came on before its time: She wandered up and down ; And many a hill did Lucy climb; But never reached the town. The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide. At day-break on a hill they stood That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door. They wept, and turning homeward, cried, " In heaven we all shall meet:" When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet. PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 23 Then downward from the steep hill's edge They track 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. O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. ALICE FELL ; OR, POVERTY. THE post-boy drove with fierce career, For threatening clouds the moon had drowned ; When suddenly I seemed to hear A moan, a lamentable sound. As if the wind blew many ways, I heard the sound and more and more : It seemed to follow with the chaise, And still I heard it as before. At length I to the boy called out ; He stopped his horses at the word ; But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout, Nor aught else like it, could be heard. The boy then smacked his whip, and fast The horses scampered through the rain ; And soon I heard upon the blast The voice, and bade him halt again. Said I, alighting on the ground, " What can it be, this piteous moan ?" And there a little girl I found, Sitting behind the chaise, alone. " My cloak !" the word was last and fast, And loud and bitterly she wept, As if her very heart would burst ; -And down from oft her seat she leapt. j " What ails you, child?" She sobbed, " Look here !" | I saw it in the wheel entangled, I A weather-beaten rag as e'er From any garden scarecrow dangled 'Twas twisted between nave and spoke ; Her help she lent, and with good heed Together we released the cloak ; A wretched, wretched 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." She sate like one past all relief ; Sob after sob she forth did send In wretchedness, as if her grief Could never, never have an end. " My child, in Durham do you dwell?' She checked herself in her distress, And said, " My name is Alice Fell ; I'm fatherless and motherless. And I to Durham, sir, belong." And then, as if the thought would choke Her very heart, her grief grew strong ; And all was for her tattered cloak. The chaise drove on ; our journey's end Was nigh ; and sitting by my side, As if she had lost her only friend, She wept, nor would be pacified. Up to the tavern door we post ; . Of Alice and her grief I told ; And I gave money to the host, To buy a new cloak for the old. " And let it be of duffil gray, As warm a cloak as man can sell !" Proud creature was she the next day, The little orphan, Alice Fell ! WE ARE SEVEN. -A SIMPLE child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death? I met a little cottage girl: She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. 24 POVMS REFERRING TO THE 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 ?" " How many? Seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me. "And where are they? I pray you tell." She answered, "Seven are we ; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea. Two of us in the 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." " 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. "And often after sunset, sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there. " The first that died was little Jane; In bed she moaning lav. 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 playea, My brother John and I. "And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." " How many are you then," said I, " If they two are in heaven?" 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 !" 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. I ! My thoughts on former pleasures ran; I thought of Kilve's delightful shore, Our pleasant home when spring began, A long, long year before. A day it was when I could bear ; Some fond regrets to entertain; With so much happiness to spare, I could not feel a pain. The green earth echoed to the feet Of lambs that bounded through the glade, From shade to sunshine, and as fleet From sunshine back to shade. Birds warbled round me every trace Of inward sadness had its charm; " Kilve, " said I, "was a favourite pl^ce, And so is Liswyn farm. " PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 25 My boy was by my side, so slim And graceful in his rustic dress ! And, as we talked, I questioned him, In very idleness. " Now tell me, had you rather be," I said, and took him by the arm, "On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green Or here at Liswyn farm?" [sea, In careless mood he looked at me, While still I held him by the arm, And said, " At Kilve I'd rather be Than here at Liswyn farm." " Now, little Edward, say why so; My little Edward, tell me why." " I cannot tell, I do not know." " Why, this is strange," said I. "For here are woods and green - hills warm: There surely must some reason be Why you would change sweet Liswyn For Kilve by the green sea." [farm 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?" His head he raised there was in sight, It caught his eye, he saw it plain Upon the housetop, glittering bright, A broad and gilded vane. Then did the boy his tongue unlock; And thus to me he made reply, "At Kilve there was no weathercock, And that's the reason why." O dearest, dearest boy! my heart For better lore would seldom yearn, Could 1 but teach the hundredth part Of what from thee I learn. RURAL ARCHITECTURE. THERE'S George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore, Three rosy-cheeked school-boys, the high- est not more Than the height of a counsellor's bag, To the top of Great How* were once tempted to climb; * Great How is a single and conspicuous hill, which rises towards the foot of Thirlmere. on And there they built up, without mortar or lime, A man on the peak of the crag. They built him of stones gathered up as they lay; They built him and christened him all in one day, An urchin both vigorous and hale; And so without scruple they called him Ralph Jones. [his bones: Now Ralph is renowned for the length of The Magog of Legberthwaite dale. Just half a week after, the wind sallied forth, [north And, in anger or merriment, out of the Coming on with a terrible pother, From the peak of the crag blew the giant away. [next day And what did these school-boys? The very They went and they built up another. Some little I've seen of blind boisterous works [Turks, By Christian disturbers more savage than Spirits busy to do and undo: At remembrance whereof my blood some- times will flag; [crag, Then, light-hearted boys, to the top of the And I'll build up a giant with you. THE PET-LAMB: A PASTORAL. THE dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink; [ture, drink!" I heard a voice; it said, ' ' Drink, pretty crea- And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied [at its side. A snow-white mountain lamb with a maiden No other sheep was near, the lamb was all alone, [stone; And by a slender cord was tethered to a With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel, [evening meal. While to that mountain lamb she gave its The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took, Seemed to feast with head and ears; and his tail with pleasure shook. the western side of the beautiful dale of Legber- thwaite, along the high road between Keswick and Amblebide. 26 POEMS REFERRING TO THE "Drink, pretty creature, drink," she said in such a tone [own. That I almost received her heart into my Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare ! [lovely pair. I watched them with delight, they were a Now with her empty can the maiden turned away; [did she stay. But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps Towards the lamb she looked; and from that shady place [her face: I unobserved could see the workings of 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? [and board? Is it not well with thee? well both for bed Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be; [aileth thee? Rest, little young one, rest; what is't that " What is it thou would 'st seek? What is wanting to thy heart ? Thy limbs, are they not strong ? And beau- tiful thou art: This grass is tender grass; these flowers they have no peers; [thy ears! And that green corn all day is rustling in " If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain, [canst gain; fhis beech is standing by, its covert thou For rain and mountain storms? the like thou need'st not fear The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here. "Rest, little young one, rest; thou hast forgot the day [far away, iVhen my father found thee first in places Man 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. & blessed day for thee! then whither wouldst thou roam ? A faithful nurse thou hast ; the dam that did thee yean [have been. Upon the mountain tops no kinder could ' ' Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in this can Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran; [wet with dew, And twice in the day, when the ground is I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new. ' ' Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now, [in the plough ; Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold [be thy fold. Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall " It will not, will not rest! poor creature, can it be [ing so in thee ? That 'tis thy mother's heart which is work- Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear, [neither see nor hear. And dreams of things which thou canst " Alas, the mountain tops that look so green and fair! I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there; [and all play, The little brooks that seem all pastime When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey. ' ' Here thou need'st not dread the raven ih the sky; [is hard by. Night and day thou art safe, our cottage Why bleat so after me ? Why pull so at thy chain? [thee again!" Sleep and at break of day I will come to 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, [of it was mine. That but half of it was hers, and one half Again, and once again, did I repeat the song; [damsel must belong, "Nay," said I, "more than half to the For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a tone, [my own." That I almost received her heart into THE IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS ; OR, DU NGEON-GHYLL-FORCE.* A PASTORAL. THE valley rings with mirth and joy; Among the hills the echoes play * Ghyll, in the dialect of Cumberland and PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 27 A. never, never-ending song, To welcome in the May. The magpie chatters with delight; The mountain raven's youngling brood Have left the mother and the nest; (\.nd they go rambling east and west (n search of their own food; Or through the glittering vapours dart In very wantonness of heart. Beneath a rock upon the grass, Two boys are sitting in the sun; Boys that have had no work to do, Or work that now is done. On pipes of sycamore they play The fragments of a Christmas hymn; Or with that plant which in our dale We call stag-horn, or fox's tail, Their rusty hats they trim; And thus, as happy as the day, Those shepherds wear the time away. Along the river's stony marge The sand-lark chants a joyous song; The thrush is busy in the wood, And carols loud and strong. A thousand lambs are on the rocks, All newly born! both earth and sky Keep jubilee; and more than all, Those boys with their green coronal; They never hear the cry, That plaintive cry! which up the hill Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll, Said Walter, leaping from the ground, " Down to the stump of yon old yew We'll for our whistles run a race. " Away the shepherds flew. 1'hey leapt they ran andwnen they came Right opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll, Seeing that he should lose the prize, " Stop!" to his comrade Walter cries James stopped with no good will: Said Walter then, " Your task is here, 'Twill baffle you for half a year. 1 ' Cross, if you dare, where I shall cross Come on, and in my footsteps tread!" The other took him at his word, And followed as he led. It was a spot which you may see If ever you to Langdale go; Westmoreland, is a short, and, for the most part, a steep narrow valley, with a stream running through it. Force is the word universally em- ployed in these dialects for wate^faJL Into a chasm a mighty block Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock: The gulf is deep below; And in a basin black and small Receives a lofty waterfall. With staff in hand across the cleft The challenger pursued his march; And now, all eyes and feet, hath gained The middle of the arch. When list! he hears a piteous moan Again! his heart within him dies His pulse is stopped, his breath is lost, He totters, pallid as a ghost, And, looking down, espies A lamb, that in the pool is pent Within that black and frightful rent. The lamb had slipped into the stream, And safe without a bruise or wound The cataract had borne him down Into the gulf profound. His dam had seen him when he fell, She saw him down the torrent bcrne; And, while with all a mother's love She from the lofty rocks above Sent forth a cry forlorn, The lamb, still swimming round and round, Made answer to that plaintive sound. When he had learnt what thing it was, That sent this rueful cry ; I ween, The boy recovered heart, and told The sight which he had seen. Both gladly now deferred their task ; Nor was there wanting other aid A poet, one who loves the brooks ! Far better than the sages' books, By chance had hiti:er strayed ; And there the helpless lamb he found By those huge rocks encompassed round. He drew it gently from the pool, And brought it forth into the light : 1'he shepherds met him with his charge, An unexpected sight ! Into their arms the lamb they took, Said they, "He's neither maimed noi scarred." Then up the steep ascent they hied, And placed him at his mother's side ; And gently did the bard Those idle shepherd-boys upbraid, And bade them better mind their trade. 28 POEMS REFERRING TO THE TO H. C. SIX YEARS OLD. O THOU ! whose fancies from afar are brought ; [apparel, Who of thy words dost make a mock 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 ^lay rather seem To brood on air than on an earthly stream ; Suspended in a stream as clear as sky Where earth and heaven do make one imagery ! blessed vision ! happy child ! That art so exquisitely wild, 1 think of thee with many fears ?or 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. Oh ! too industrious folly ! Oh ! 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 ? [forth, Thou art a dewdrop, which the morn brings 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. INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS IN CALLING FORTH AND STRENGTHEN- ING THE IMAGINATION IN BOYHOOD AND EARLY YOUTH. [This extract is reprinted from "The Friend."] WISDOM and Spirit of the universe ! Thou soul, that art fhs eternity of thought ! And giv'st to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion ! not in vain, By day or star light, thus from my first dawn Of childhood did'st 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 tome With stinted kindness. In November days, When vapours rolling down the valleys made [woods A lonely scene more lonesome ; among At noon ; and 'mid the calm of summer nights, [lake, When, by the margin of the trembling Beneath the gloomy hills, I homeward went In solitude, such intercourse was mine : Twas mine among the fields both day and night, And by the waters, all the summer long ; And in the frosty season, when the sun 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, [hare" The pack loud-bellowing, and the hunted 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, [west Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the The orange sky of evening died away. Not seldom from the uproar I retired Into a silent bay, or sportively [throng, Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous To cut across the reflex of a star, Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed PERIOD OF CHILDHOOD. 29 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, spin- ning still The rapid line of motion, then at once Have I, reclining back upon my heels, Stopped short ; yet still the solitary cliffs Wheeled by me even as if the earth had rolled With visible motion her diurnal round ! Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. THE LONGEST DAY. ADDRESSED TO LET us quit the leafy arbour, And the torrent murmuring by : Sol has dropped into his harbour, Weary of the open sky. Evening now unbinds the fetters Fashioned by the glowing light ; All that breathe are thankful debtors To the harbinger of night. Yet by some grave thoughts attended Eve renews her calm career ; For the day that now is ended Is the longest of the year. Laura ! sport, as now thou sportest, On this platform, light and free ; Take thy bliss, while longest, shortest, Are indifferent to thee ! Who would check the happy feeling That inspires the linnet's song? Who would stop the swallow, wheeling On her pinions swift and strong ? Yet at this impressive season, Words which tenderness can speak From the truths of homely reason, Might exalt the loveliest cheek ; And, while shades to shades succeeding Steal the landscape from the sight, I would urge this moral pleading, Last forerunner of " Good night !" Summer ebbs ; each day that follows Is a reflux from on high, Tending to the darksome hollows Where the frosts of winter lie. He who governs the creation. In his providence, assigned Such a gradual declination To the life of human kind. Yet we mark it not ; fruits redden, Fresh flowers blow, as flowers have blown, And the heart is loth to deaden Hopes that she so long hath known. Be thou wiser, youthful maiden ! And when thy decline shall come, Let not flowers, or boughs fruit-laden, Hide the knowledge of thy doom. Now, even now, ere wrapped in slumber Fix thine eyes upon the sea That absorbs time, space, and number ; Look towards eternity ' Follow thou the flowing river On whose breast are thither borne All deceived, and each deceiver. Through the gates of night and morn Through the year's successive portals ; Through the bounds which many a stai Marks, not mindless of frail mortals, When his light returns from far. Thus when thou with Time hast travelled Towards the mighty gulf of things, And the mazy stream unravelled With thy best imaginings : Think, if thou on beauty leanest, Think how pitiful that stay, Did not virtue give the meanest Charms superior to decay. Duty, like a strict preceptor, Sometimes frowns, 01 seems to frown ; Choose her thistle for thy sceptre, While thy brow youth's roses crown. Grasp it, if thou shrink and tremble, Fairest damsel of the green, Thou wilt lack the only symbol That proclaims a genuine queen ; And insures those palms of honour Which selected spirits wear, Bending low before the donor, Lord of heaven's unchanging year ! 30 Jfounto 0n fye THE BROTHERS. " THESE tourists, Heaven preserve us ! needs must live A profitable life: some glance along, Rapifl and gay, as if the earth were air, And they were butterflies to wheel about Long as the summer lasted: some, as wise, Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag, Pencil in hand and book upon the knee, Will look and scribble, scribble on and look, Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn. But, for that moping son of idleness, Why can he tarry yonder? In our church- yard Is neither epitaph nor monument, Tombstone nor name only the turf we tread And a few natural graves." To Jane, his wife, Thus spake the homely Priest of Enner- dale. It was a July evening; and he sate Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves [day, Of his old cottage, as it chanced, that Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone [wool, His wife sate near him, teasing matted 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 [the field With back and forward steps. Towards In which the parish chapel stood alone, Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, While half an hour went by, the priest had sent Many a long look of wonder: and at last, Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge Of carded wool which the old man had piled He laid his implements with gentle care, Each in the other locked; and, down the path [led, That from his cottage to the church-yard He took his way, impatient to accost The stranger, whom he saw still lingering there. 'Twas one well known to him in formei days, A shepherd-lad; who ere his sixteenth year Had left that calling, tempted to intrust 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 [wrought Flashed round him images and hues that In union with the employment of his heart, He, thus by feverish passion overcome, Even with the organs of his bodily eye, Below him, in the bosom of the deep, Saw mountains, saw the forms of sheep that grazed [trees, On verdant hills with dwellings among And shepherds clad in the same country gray Which he himself had worn.* And now, at last, From perils manifold, with some small wealth Acquired by 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 * This description of the Calenture is sketched from an imperfect recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr Gilbert, author of " The Hurricane." POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 31 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, [his heart When Leonard had approached his home, Failed in him; and, not venturing to in- quire Tidings of one whom he so dearly loved, Towards the church-yard 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 he had hopes That he had seen this heap of turf before That it was not another grave; but one He had forgotten. He had lost his path, As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked Through fields which once had been well known to him: And, oh, what joy 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, [changed. And everlasting hills themselves were By this the priest, who down the field had come Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate Stopped short, and thence, at leisure, limb by limb Perused him with a gay complacency. Ay, thought the vicar, smiling to himself, 'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path Of the world's business to go wild alone: His arms have a perpetual holiday; The happy man will creep about the fields, Following his fancies by the hour, to bring Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles, Into his face, until the setting sun Write fool upon his forehead. Planted thus Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared, [with himself, The good man might have communed But that the stranger, who had left the grave, [once, Approached: he recognised the priest at And, after greetings interchanged, and given By Leonard to the vicar as to one Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued: Leonard. You live, sir, in these dales, a quiet life : Your years make up one peaceful family; And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come [other, And welcome gone, they are so like each They cannot be remembered? Scarce a funeral [months; Comes to this churchyard once in eighteen And yet, some changes must take place among you ; [rocks, And you, who dwell here, even among these 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 [tall pike That does not play you false. On that (It is the loneliest place of all these hills) There were two springs which bubbled side by side, As if they had been made that they might be Companions for each other: the huge crag Was rent with lightning one hath dis- appeared ; The other, left behind, is flowing still. For accidents and changes such as these, We want not store of them: a water-spout Will bring down half a mountain; what a feast Forfolks that wanderup 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 [homes! A wood is felled : and then for our own A child is born or christened, a field ploughed, A daughter sent to service, a web spun, 32 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. The old house-clock is decked with a new face; [dates And hence, so far from wanting facts or To chronicle the time, we all have here A pair of diaries, one serving, sir, For the whole dale, and one for each fire- side [historians, Yours was a stranger's judgment: for Commend me to these valleys! Leonard. Yet your church-yard Seems, if such freedom may be used with you, To say that you are heedless of the past: An orphan could not find his mother's grave: [of brass, Here's neither head nor footstone, plate Cross-bones nor skull,- type of our earthly state [home Nor emblem of our hopes: the dead man's Is but a fellow to that pasture-field. Priest. Why, there, sir, is a thought that's new to me! [their bread | The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg j If every English church-yard were like ours; [truth: Yet your conclusion wanders from the We have no need of names and epitaphs; We talk about the dead by our fire-sides. 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 church-yard wall. Priest That's Walter Ewbank. He had as white a head and fresh a cheek As ever were produced by youth and age Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore. Through five long generations had the heart Of Walter's forefathers o'erflowed the bounds Of their inheritance, that single cottage You see it yonder! and those few green fields. [to son, They toiled and wrought, and still, from sire Each struggled, and each yielded as before A little yet a little and old Walter, They left to him the family heart, and land With other burthens than the crop it bore. Year after year the old man still kept up A cheerful mind, and buffeted with bond, Interest, and mortgages ; at last he sank, And went into his grave before his time. Poor Walter ! whether it was care that spurred him God only knows, but to the very last He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale : His pace was never that of an old man : I almost see him tripping down the path With his two grandsons after him: but you, Unless our landlord be your host to-night, Have far to travel, and on these rough paths Even in the longest day of midsummer Leonard. But those two orphans ! Priest. Orphans ! Such they were-- Yet not while Walter lived : for, though their parents Lay buried side by side as now they lie, The old man was a father to the boys, Two fathers in one father : and if tears, Shed when he talked of them where they were not, And hauntings from the infirmity of love, Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart, This old man, in the day of his old age, Was half a mother to them. If you weep, sir, To hear a stranger talking about strangers, Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred ! Ay you may turn that way it is a grave Which will bear looking at. Leonard. These boys I hope They loved this good old man ? 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, Theonlykinsmannearthem, and though he Inclir">d to them by reason of his age, POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 33 With a more fond, familiar tenderness ; In this our valley all of us have wished, They, notwithstanding, had much love to j And what, for my part I have often prayed: spare, i But Leonard [you] 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 !- the school -From their house Leonard. Then James still is left among 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: Is distant three short miles and in the time i And, but for that same uncle, to this hour Ofstorm and thaw, when every water-course And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed Crossing our roads i t every hundred steps, Was swoln into a noisy rivulet, Would Leonard then, when elder boys perhaps [the fords Remained at home, go staggering through Bearing his brother on his back. I've seen him, On windy da3 r s, in one of those stray brooks, Ay, more than once I've 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, Orteinptthemtoan 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 [grow there. Was known as well as to the flowers that Like roebucks they went bounding o'er the hills ; [the crags : They played like two young ravens on Then they could write, ay, and speak too, as well As many of their betters and for Leonard! The very night before he went away, In my own house I put into his hand A Bible, and I'd wager house and field That if he is alive, he has it yet. Leonard. It seems these brothers have not lived to be A comfort to each other Priest. That they might Live to such end is what both old and young Leonard had never handled rope or shroud, For the boy loved the life which we lead here ; And though of unripe years, astripling 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, [know, A pretty flock, and which, for aught I 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 passed since we had tidings from him. If there were one among us who had heard That Leonard Ewbank was come home again, [banks, From the great Gavel,* down by Leeza's 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 [him Living 01 dead. When last we heard of He was in slavery among the Moors Upon the Barbary coast. Twas not a little [doubt, That would bring down his spirit ; and no Before it ended in his death, the youth Was sadly crossed Poor Leonard ! when we parted, He took me by the hand, and said 'o me, If ever the day came when he was i ich, He would return, and on his father's land He would grow old among us. * 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 moun- tains. The Leeza is a river which flows into tt 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. 34 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. Leonard. If that day Should come, 'twould needs be a glad day for him ; He would himself, no doubt, be happy then As any that should meet him Priest. Happy! Sir Leonard. You said his kindred all were in their graves, And that he had one brother Priest. That is but A fellow tale of sorrow. From his youth James, though not sickly, yet was delicate; And Leonard being always by his side Had done so many offices about him, That, though he was not of a timid nature, Yet still the spirit of a mountain-boy In him was somewhat checked ; and when his brother Was gone to sea, and he was left alone, The little colour that he had was soon Stolen from his cheek; he drooped, and pined, and pined Leonard. But these are all the graves of full-grown men ! Priest. Ay, sir, that passed away : we took him to us ; He was the child of all the dale he lived Three months with one and six months with another ; [love: And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor 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 [moved ! Hr sought his brother Leonard. You are Forgive me, sir : before I spoke to you, I judged you most unkindly. Leonard. But this youth, How did he die at last ? Priest. One sweet May morning, (It will be twelve years since when spring returns) [lambs, He had gone forth among the new-dropped 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 won 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 [learned Which at that time was James's home, there That nobody had seen him all that day : The morning came, and still he was un- heard of : [brook The neighbours were alarmed, and to the Some hastened, some towards the lake : ere noon [rock They found him at the foot of that same Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after I buried him, poor youth, and there he lies! Leonard. And that then is his grave ! Before his death You say that he saw many happy years ? Priest. Ay, that he did Leonard. And all went well with him ? Priest. If he had one, the youth had twenty homes. Leonard. And you believe, then, that his mind was easy ? Priest. Yes, long before he died, he found that time Is a true friend to sorrow ; and unless His thoughts were turned on Leonard's luckless fortune, He talked about him with a cheerful love. Leonard. He could not come to an un- hallowed end ! Priest. Nay, God forbid ! You recollect I mentioned A habit which disquietude and grief Had brought upon him ; and we all con- jectured [down That, as the day was warm, he had lain Upon the grass, and waiting for his com- rades, [sleep He there had fallen asleep; that, in hfc He to the margin of the precipice Had walked, and from the summit had fallen headlong. And so, no doubt, he perished : at the time, We guess, that in his hands 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 the POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. The priest here ended The stranger would have thanked him, but he felt A. gushing from his heart, that took away The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence ; [yard gate, And Leonard, when they reached the church- As the priest lifted up the latch, turned round, [Brother!" And looking at the grave, he said, ' ' My The vicar did not hear the words : and now, Pointing towards the cottage, he entreated That Leonard would partake his homely fare : [voice; The other thanked him with a fervent 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, [viewed ! And, sitting down beneath the trees, re- i All that the priest had said : his early years Were with him in his heart : his cherished hopes, r before, And thoughts which had been his an hour All pressed on him with such a weight, that now, [seemed This vale, where he had been so happy, 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. ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE. (SEE THE CHRONICLE OF GEOFFREY OF MONMOUTH, AND MILTON'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND.) WHERE be the temples which, in Britain's Isle, For his paternal gods, the Trojan raised? Gone like a morning dream, or like a pile Of clouds that in cerulean ether blazed ! Ere Julius landed on herwhite-cliffed shore, They sank, delivered o'er To fatal dissolution ; and, I ween, No vestige then was left that such had ever been. Nathless, a British record (long concealed In old Armorica, whose secret springs No Gothic conqueror ever drank) revealed The wondrous current of forgotten things; How Brutus came, by oracles impelled, And Albion's giants quelled, A brood whom no civility could melt, ' ' Who never tasted grace, and goodnesy ne'er had felt." By brave Corineus aided, he subdued, And rooted out the intolerable kind ; And this too-long-polluted land imbued With goodly arts and usages refined ; Whence golden harvests, cities, warlike towers, And pleasure's sumptuous bowers , Whence all the fixed delights of house and home, [that cannot roam. Friendships that will not break, and love O happy Britain ! region all too fair For self-delighting fancy to endure That silence only should inhabit there, Wild beasts, or uncouth savages impure ! But, intermingled with the generous seed, Grew many a poisonous weed ; Thus fares it still with all that takes its birth [breast of earth. From human care, or grows upon the Hence, and how soon ! that war of ven- geance waged By Guendolen against her faithless lord ; Till she, in jealous fury unassuaged, Had slain his paramour with ruthless sword : Then, into Severn hideously defiled, She flung her blameless child, Sabrina, vowing that the stream should bear [to declare. That name through every age, her hatred So speaks the Chronicle, and tells, of Lear By his ungrateful daughters turned adrift. Ye lightnings hear his voice ! they cannot hear, Nor can the winds restore his simple gift. But one there is, a child of nature meek, Who comes her sire to seek ; And he, recovering sense, upon her breast Leans smilingly, and sinks into a perfect rest. 36 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. There too we read of Spenser's fairy themes, f^nd those that Milton loved in youthful years ; The sage enchanter Merlin's subtle schemes ; The feats of Arthur and his knightly peers; Of Arthur, who, to upper light restored With that terrific sword Which yet he wields in subterranean war, Shall lift his country's fame above the oolar star! What wonder, then, if in such ample field Of old tradition, one particular flower Doth seemingly in vain its fragrance yield, And bloom unnoticed even to this late hour ? Now, gentle Muses, your assistance grant, While I this flower transplant Into a garden stored with poesy ; Where flowers and herbs unite, and haply some weeds be, [mischief free ! That, wanting not wild grace, are from all A KING more worthy of respect and love Than wise Gorbonian, ruled not in his day; And grateful Britain prospered far above All neighbouring countries through his righteous sway ; [good I He poured rewards and honours on the The oppressor he withstood ; And while he served the gods with reve- rence due, [and cities grew. Field smiled, and temples rose, and towns He died, whom Artegal succeeds his son; But how unworthy of such sire was he ! A hopeful reign, auspiciously begun, Was darkened soon by foul iniquity. From crime to crime he mounted, till at length The nobles leagued their strength With a vexed people, and the tyrant chased; And, on the vacant throne, his worthier brother placed. From realm to realm the humbled exile went, Suppliant for aid his kingdom to regain ; In many a court, and many a warrior's tent, He urged his persevering suit in vain. Him, in whose wretched heart ambition failed, Dire poverty assailed ; And, tired with slights which he no more could brook, [look. Towards his native soil he cast a longing Fair blew the wished-for wind the voyage sped ; He landed ; and, by many dangers scared, " Poorly provided, poorly followed," To Calaterium's forest he repaired. How changed from him who, born to highest place, Had swayed the royal mace, Flattered and feared, despised yet deified, In Trojnovant, his seat by silver Thames's side ! From that wild region where the crownless king Lay in concealment with his scanty train, Supporting life by water from the spring, And such chance food as outlaws can ob- tain, Unto the few whom he esteems his friends A messenger he sends ; And from their secret loyalty requires Shelter and daily bread, the amount of his desires. While he the issue waits, at early morn Wandering by stealth abioad, he chanced to hear [horn, A startling outcry made by hound and From which the tusky boar hath fled in fear ; [plain, And, scouring towards him o'er the grassy Behold the hunter train ! He bids his little company advance With seeming unconcern and steady coun- tenance. The royal Elidure, who leads the chase, Hath checked his foaming courser- -Can il be ? [face, Methinks that I should recognise that Though much disguised by long adversity ! He gazed, rejoicing, and again he gazed, Confounded and amazed "It is the king, my brother !" and, by sound [the ground. Of his own voice confirmed, he leaps upon Long, strict, and tender was the embrace he gave, Feebly returned by daunted Artegal ; Whose natural affection doubts enslave, And apprehensions dark and criminal. Loth to restrain the moving interview, The attendant lords withdrew ; And, while they stood upon the plain apart, Thus Elidure, by words, relieved his ^trug- glin r heart ; POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS 37 " By heavenly Powers conducted, we have met ; brother ! to my knowledge lost so long, But neither lost to love, nor to regret, Nor to my wishes lost; forgive the wrong, (Such it may seem) if I thy crown have Thy royal mantle worn : [borne, 1 was their natural guardian ; and 'tis just That now I should restore what hath been held in trust." A while the astonished Artegal stood mute, Then thus exclaimed "To me, of titles shorn, [tute, And stripped of power ! me, feeble, desti- To me a kingdom ! spare the bitter scorn! If justice ruled the breast of foreign kings, Then, on the wide-spread wings Of war, had I returned to claim my right ; This will I here avow, not dreading thy despite. " " I do not blame thee," Elidure replied ; " But, if my looks did with my words agree, I should at once be trusted, not defied, And thou from all disquietude be free. May the unsullied goddess of the chase, Who to this blessed place At this blest moment led me, if I speak With insincere intent, on me her vengeance wreak ! " Were this same spear, which in my hand I grasp, The British sceptre, here would I to thee The symbol yield ; and would undo this clasp, If it confined the robe of sovereignty. Odious to me the pomp of regal court, And joyless sylvan sport, [lorn, While thou art roving, wretched and for- Thy couch the dewy earth, thy roof the forest thorn !" Then Artegal thus spake ' ' I only sought, Within this realm a place of safe retreat ; Beware of rousing an ambitious thought ; Beware of kindling hopes, for me unmeet ! Thou art reputed wise, but in my mind Art pitiably blind ; [rue, Full soon this generous purpose thou mayst When that which has been done no wishes can undo. ' ' Who, when a crown is fixed upon his head, [right with right ? Would balance claim with claim, and But thou I know not how inspired, how led [men's sight! Wouldst change the course of things in all And this for one who cannot imitate Thy virtue who may hate : For, if, by such strange sacrifice restored, He reign, thou still must be his king, and sovereign lord. " Lifted in magnanimity above Aught that my feeble nature could perform, Or even conceive ; surpassing me in love Far as in power the eagle doth the worm ; I, brother ! only should be king in name, And govern to my shame ; A shadow in a hated land, while all Of glad or willing service to thy share would fall." " Believe it not," said Elidure ; "respect Awaits on virtuous life, and ever most Attends on goodness with dominion decked, Which stands the universal empire's boast; This can thy own experience testify : Nor shall thy foes deny j That, in the gracious opening of thy reign, Our father's spirit seemed in thee to breathe again. ' ' And what if o'er that bright unbosoming Clouds of disgrace and envious fortune past ! Have we not seen the glories of the spring By veil of noontide darkness overcast ? The frith that glittered like a warrior's shield, The sky, the gay green field, Are vanished ; gladness ceases in the groves, [mountain coves. And trepidation strikes the blackened "But is that gloom dissolved? how pass- ing clear [before ! Seems the wide world far brighter than Even so thy latent worth will re-appear, Gladdening the people's heart from shore to shore, [atone ; For youthful faults ripe virtues shall Re-seated on thy throne, Proof shall thou furnish that misfortune, pain, [right to reign. And sorrow, have confirmed thy native "But, not to overlook what thou mayst know, Thy enemies are neither weak nor few ; And circumspect must be our course, and slow, 38 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. Or from my purpose ruin may ensue. Dismiss thy followers ; let them calmly Such change in thy estate [wait As I already have in thought devised ; And which, with caution due, may soon be realised." The story tells what courses were pursued, Until King Elidure, with full consent Of all his peers, before the multitude, Rose, and, to consummate this just intent, Did place upon his brother's head the crown. Relinquished by his own; Then to his people cried, " Receive your tord, [king restored !" Gorbonian's first-born son, your rightful The people answered with a loud acclaim : Vet more; heart -smitten by the heroic deed, Th. reinstated Artegal became Earths noblest penitent; from bondage freed Of vice, thenceforth unable to subvert Or shake his high desert. Long did he reign; and, when he died, the tear [bier. Of universal grief bedewed his honoured Thus was a brother by a brother saved; With whom a crown (temptation that hath set [braved Discords in hearts of men till they have Their nearest kin with deadly purpose met) 'Gainst duty weighed, and faithful love, did seem A thing of no esteem, And, from this triumph of affection pure, He bore the lasting name of " pious Elidure !" THE 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, Th-j 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. 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 weary- 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. A FAREWELL. FAREWELL, thou little nook of mountain ground, Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair Of that magnificent temple which doth bound [rare; One side of our whole vale with grandeur Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair, The loveliest spot that man hath ever found, [peaceful care, Farewell! we leave thee to Heaven's Thee, and the cottage which thou dost surround. Our boat is safely anchored by the shore, And safely she will ride when we are gone; The flowering shrubs that decorate our door Will prosper, though untended and alone. Fields, goods, and far-off' chattels we have none: [store ITiese narrow bounds contain out rivate POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. Of things earth makes and sun doth shine upon ; [more. Here they are in our sight we have no Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell ! [sought ; For two months now in vain we shall be We leave you here in solitude to dwell With these our latest gifts of tender thought ; Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat, [well ! Bright gowan, and marsh-marigold, fare- 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, [blown Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms Among the distant mountains, flower and weed, Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own, Making all kindness registered :\nd 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 oh, most constant, yet most fickle place, [dost show That hast thy wayward moods, as thou To them who look not daily on thy face ; Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know, [them go ! " And say'st when we forsake thee, " Let Thou easy-hearted thing, with thy wild race Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow, And travel with the year at a soft pace. Help us to tell her tales of year? gone by, And this sweet spring the best beloved and best. loy 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 sung one song that will not die. Oh, 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. [bovvers; And wild notes warbled among leafy 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 THOM- SON'S " CASTLE OF INDOLENCE." WITHIN our happy castle there dwelt one Whom without blame I may not overlook; For never sun on living creature shone Who more devout enjoyment with us took: Here on his hours he hung as on a beok; On his own time here would he float away, As doth a fly upon a summer brook; But go to-morrow or belike to-day Seek for him, he is fled; and whither none can say. Thus often would he leave our peaceful home, And find elsewhere his business or delight; Out of our valley's limits did he roam: Full many a time, upon a stormy night, His voice came to us from the neighbour ing 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 [hour: Look at the common grass from hour to And oftentimes, how long I fear to say, POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS U'here apple-trees in blossom made a bower, Retired in that sunshiny shade he lay: And, like a naked Indian, slept himself 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: [to; But verse was what he had been wedded 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; Heavy his low-hung lip did oft appear Deprest by weight of musing phantasy; Profound his forehead was, though not severe; [ness here. Yet some did think that he had little busi- Sweet heaven forefend! his was a lawful right; Noisy he was, and gamesome as a boy; His limbs would toss about him with de- light [annoy. Like branches when strong winds the trees 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, tha< little things display,' The beetle panoplied in gems and gold, A mailed angel on a battle day; The mysteries that cups of flowers infold, 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. LOUISA. I MET Louisa in the shade; And having seen that lovely maid, Why should I fear to say That she is ruddy, fleet, and strong; And down the rocks can leap along, Like rivulets in May? And she hath smiles to earth unknown; Smiles, that with motion of their own Do spread, and sink, and rise; That come and go with endless play, And ever, as they pass away, Are hidden in her eyes. She loves her fire, her cottage-home; Yet o'er the moorland will she roam In weather rough and bleak; And, when against the wind she strains, Oh, might I kiss the mountain rains, That sparkle on her cheek! Take all that's mine " beneath the moon, If I with her but half a noon May sit beneath the walls Of some old cave, or mossy nook, When up she winds along the brook To hunt the waterfalls. STRANGE fits of passion I have 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 ; POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 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 ! "Oh, mercy !" to myself I cried, "If Lucy should be dead !" SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love. A violet by a mossy stone Half-hidden from the eye ! Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be ; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me ! I 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 ft 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 hr 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. ERE with cold beads of midnight dew Had mingled tears of thine, I grieved, fond youth ! that thou should; sue To haughty Geraldine. Immoveable by generous sighs, She glories in a train Who drag, beneath our native skies, An oriental chain. Pine not like them with arms across, Forgetting in thy care How the fast-rooted trees can toss Their branches in mid air. The humblest rivulet will take Its own wild liberties ; And, every day, the imprisoned lake Is flowing in the breeze. Then, crouch no more on suppliant knee, But scorn with scorn outbrave ; A Briton, even in love, should be A subject, not a slave ! TO . LOOK at the fate of summer flowers, Which blow at daybreak, droop ere even- song ; [that ours, And, grieved for their brief date, confess Measured by what we are and ought to be, Measured by all that trembling we foresee, Is not so long ! [f human life do pass away, Perishing yet more swiftly than the flower Whose frail existence is but of a day ; What space hath virgin's beauty to disclose Her sweets, and triumph o'er the breathing Not even an hour ! [ rose ' The deepest grove whose foliage hid The happiest lovers Arcady might boast, Could not the entrance of this thought forbid : Oh, be thou wise as they, soul-gifted maid ! Nor rate too high what must so quickly So soon be lost. [fade, POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. Then shall love teach some virtuous youth " To draw out of the object of his eyes," The whilst on thee they gaze in simple truth, Hues more exalted, " a refined form," That dreads not age, nor suffers from the And never dies. [worm, 'Tis said that some have died for love : And here and there a church-yard grave is found In the cold North's unhallowed ground, Because the wretched man himself had slain, His love was such a grievous pain. And there is one whom I five years have He dwells alone [known ; Upon Helvellyn's side : He loved the pretty Barbara died, And thus he makes his moan : Three years had Barbara in her grave been When thus his moan he made [laid "Oh, move, thou cottage, from behind that oak ! Or let the aged tree uprooted lie, That in some other way yon smoke May mount into the sky ! The clouds pass on ; they from the heavens depart : I look the sky is empty space ; I know not what I trace ; [my heart. But when I cease to look, my hand is on ' ' Oh ! what a weight is in these shades ? Ye leaves, [prest ! When will that dying murmur be sup- Your sound my heart of peace bereaves, It robs my heart of rest. [and free, Thou thrush, that singest loud and loud Into yon row of willows flit, Upon that alder sit ; [tree. Or sing another song, or choose another ' ' Roll back, sweet rill ! back to thy moun- tain bounds, And there for ever be thy waters chained ! For thou dost haunt the air with sounds That cannot, be sustained ; [bough If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged Headlong yon waterfall must come, Oh, let it then be dumb ! Be any thing, sweet rill, but that which thou art now. "Thou eglantine, whose arch so proudly towers, [vale. Even like a lainbow spanning half the Thou one fair shrub, oh ! shed thy flowers, And stir not in the gale. For thus to see thee nodding in the air, To see thy arch thus stretch and bend, Thus rise and thus descend, Disturbs me till the sight is more than I can bear." The man who makes this feverish com- plaint Is one of giant stature, who could dance Equipped from head to foot in iron mail. Ah gentle love ! if ever thought was thine To store up kindred hours for me, thy face Turn from me, gentle love ! nor let me walk Within the sound of Emma's voice, or know Such happiness as I have known to-day. A COMPLAINT. THERE is a change and I am poor ; Your love hath been, nor long ago, A fountain at my fond heart's door, Whose only business was to flow ; And flow it did ; not taking heed Of its own bounty, or my need. What happy moments did I count ! Blest was I then all bliss above ! Now, for this consecrated fount Of murmuring, sparkling, living love, What have I ? shall I dare to tell ? A comfortless and hidden well. A well of love it may be deep I trust it is, and never dry : What matter ? if the waters sleep In silence and obscurity. Such change, and at the very door Of my fond heart, hath made me poor. TO . LET other bards of angels sing, Bright suns without a spot ; But thou art no such perfect thing ; Rejoice that thou art not ! Such if thou wert in all men's view, A universal show, What would my fancy have to do My feelings to bestow? The world denies that thou art fair ; So, Mary, let it be If nought in loveliness compare With what thou art to me. POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 43 True beauty dwells in deep retreats, Whose veil is unremoved Till heart with heart in concord beats, And the lover is beloved. How rich that forehead's calm expanse ! How bright that heaven-directed glance ! Waft her to glory, winged powers, Ere sorrow be renewed, And intercourse with mortal hours Bring back a humbler mood ! So looKed Cecilia when she drew An angel from his station ; So looked not ceasing to pursue Her tuneful adoration ! But hand and voice alike are still ; No sound here sweeps away the will That gave it birth ; in service meek One upright arm sustains the cheek, And one across the bosom lies That rose, and now forgets to rise, Subdued by breathless harmonies Of meditative feeling ; Mute strains from worlds beyond the skies, Through the pure light of female eyes Their sanctity revealing ! TO . OH, dearer far than light and life are dear, Full oft our human foresight I deplore ; Trembling, through my unworthiness, with fear [no more ! That friends, by death disjoined, may meet Misgivings, hard to vanquish or control, Mix with the day, and cross the hour of rest; While all the future, foi 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 lie moulds the creed. LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS ON THE EVE OF A NEW YEAR. | SMILE of the moon i for so I name . That silent greeting from abov ; A gentle flash of light that came , From her whom drooping captives love ; i Or art thou of still higher birth ? ; Thou that didst part the clouds of earth, I My torpor to reprove ! Bright boon of pitying Heaven alas ! I may not trust thy placid cheer ! Pondering that time to-night will pass : The threshold of another year ; For years to me are sad and dull ; My very moments are too full Of hopelessness and fear. And yet, the soul-awakening gleam, That struck perchance the farthest cone Of Scotland's rocky wilds, did seem To visit me, and me alone ; Me, unapproached by any friend, Save those who to my sorrows lend I Tears due unto their own. i To-night, the church-tower bells will ring j Through these wide realms a festive peal j j To the new year a welcoming ; A tuneful offering for the weal Of happy millions lulled in sleep ; While I am forced to watch and weep, By wounds that may not heal. Born all too high, by wedlock raised Still higher to be cast thus low ! Would that mine eyes had never gazed On aught of more ambitious show Than the sweet flowerets of the fields I It is my royal state that yields This bitterness of woe. Yet how ? for I, if there be truth j In the world's voice, was passing fair , ' And beauty, for confiding youth, | Those shocks of passion can prepare ! That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair. Unblest distinction ! showered on me To bind a lingering life in chains : All that could quit my grasp, or flee, Is gone ; but not the subtle stains Fixed in the spirit ; for even here Can I be proud that jealous fear Of what I was remain.". POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. A woman rules my prison's key ; A sister queen, against the bent Of law and holiest sympathy, Detains me, doubtful of the event ; Great God, who feel'st for my distress, My thoughts are all that I possess, Oh, keep them innocent ! Farewell desire of human aid, Which abject mortals vainly court, By friends deceived, by foes betrayed, Of fears the prey, of hopes the sport ; Nought but the world-redeeming cross Is able to supply my loss, My burthen to support. Hark ! the death-note of the year Sounded by the castle clock ! From her sunk eyes a stagnant tear Stole forth, unsettled by the shock ; But oft the woods renewed their green, Ere the tired head of Scotland's queen Reposed upon the block ! THE COMPLAINT OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN. [When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is un- able to continue his journey with his compa- nions, 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 rompanions 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.] JEFGRE I see another day, Oh, let my body die away I In sleep I heard the northern gleams ; The stars were mingled with my dreams ; In rustling conflict through the skies, I beard, I saw the flashes drive, . \.nd yet they are upon my eyes, And yet I am alive ; Before I see another day, Oh, let my body die away ! My fire is dead : it knew no pain ; Yet is it dead, and I remain. All stiff with ice the ashes lie ; And they are dead, and I will die. When I was well, I wished to live, For clothes, for warmth, for food, and hre 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 i 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. My little joy ! my little pride ! In two days more I must have died. Then do not weep and grieve for me ; I feel I must have died with thee. wind, that o'er my head art flying The way my friends their course did bend, 1 should not feel the pain of dying, Could I with thee a message send ; Too soon, my friends, ye went away ; For I had many things to say. I'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." POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 45 THE LAST OF THE FLOCK. IN distant countries have I been, And yet I have not often seen A healthy man, a man full grown, Weep in the public roads alone. But such a one, on English ground, And in the broad highway. I met ; Along the broad highway he came, His cheeks with tears were wet. Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad ; And in his arms a lamb he had. He saw me, and he turned aside, As if he wished himself to hide: Then with his coat he made essay To wipe those briny tears away. I followed him. and said, " My friend, What ails you? wherefore weep you so?" " Shame on me, sir ! this lusty lamb, He makes my tears to flow. To-day I fetched him from the rock ; He is the last of all my flock. "When I was young, a single man, And after youthful follies ran, Though little given to care and thought, Yet, so it was, a ewe I bought ; And other sheep from her 1 raised, As healthy sheep as you might see ; And then I married, and was rich As I could wish to be ; Of sheep I numbered a full score, And every year increased my store. " Year after year my stock it grew ; And from this cne, this single ewe, Full fifty comely sheep I raised, As sweet a flock as ever grazed ! Upon the mountain did they feed, They throve, and we at home did thrive. This lusty lamb of all my store Is all that is alive ; And now I care not if we die, And perish all of poverty. ' ' Six children, sir ! had I to feed ; Hard labour in a time of need! My pride was tamed, and in our grief I of the parish asked relief. They said, I was a wealthy man ; My sheep upon the mountain fed, And it was fit that thence I took Whereof to buy us bread. ' Do this : how can we give to you,' They cried, ' vhat to the poor is due ?' " I sold a sheep, as they had said, And bought my little children bread, I And they were healthy with their food ; i For me it never did me good. A woeful time it was for me, To see the end of all my gains, The pretty flock which I had reared With all my care and paip.i, To see it meii like snow away ! For me it was a woeful day. " Another still! and still another ! A little lamb, and then its mother ! It was a vein that never stopped Like blood-drops from my heart they dropped. j Till thirty were not left alive. i They dwindled, dwindled, one by one- j And I may say, that many a time : I wished they all were gone Reckless of what might come at last Were but the bitter struggle past. " To wicked deeds I was inclined. And wicked fancies crossed my mind ; And every man I chanced to see, I thought he knew some ill of me. No peace, no comfort could I find. No ease, within doors or without ; And crazily and wearily I went my work about, Bent oftentimes to flee from home, And hide my head where wild beasts *-oam. "Sir, 'twas a precious flock to me, As dear as my own children be ; For daily with my growing store I loved my children more and more. Alas ! it was an evil time ; God cursed me in my sore distress; I prayed, yet every day I thought I loved my children less ; And every week, and every day, My flock it seemed to melt away. " They dwindled, sir, sad sight to see! From ten to five, from five to three, A lamb, a wether, and a ewe ; And then at last from three to two ; And, of my fifty, yesterday I had but only one : And here it lies upon my arm, Alas ! and I have none ; To-day I fetched it from the rock ; It is the last of all my flock." 46 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. REPENTANCE. A PASTORAL BALLAD. THE fields which with covetous spirit we sold, [day, Those beautiful fields, the delight of the Would have brought us more good than a burthen of gold, [they. Could we but have been as contented as When the troublesome tempter beset us, said I, [grasped in his hand ; " Let him come with his purse proudly But, Allan, be true to me, Allan, we'll die Before he shall go with an inch of the land!" There dwelt we, as happy as birds in their bowers ; Unfettered as bees that in gardens abide; We could do what we chose with the land, it was ours ; [by its side. And for us the brook murmured that ran But now we are strangers, go early or late; And often, like one overburdened with sin, With my hand on the latch of the half- opened gate, I look at the fields but I cannot go in ! When I walk by the hedge on a bright summer's day, [tree, Or sit in the shade of my grandfather's A. stern face it puts on, as if ready to say, ' What ails you, that you must come creep- ing to me ?" With our pastures about us, we could not be sad ; Our comfort was near if we ever were crost, But the comfort, the blessings, and wealth that we had. [was lost. We slighted them all, and our birthright Oh, ill-judging sire of an innocent son, Who must now be a wanderer! but peace to that strain! [was done, Think of evening's repose when our labour The Sabbath's return and its leisure's soft chain ! And in sickness, if night had been sparing of sleep, [stood, How cheerful, at sunrise, the hill where I Looking down on the kine, and our trea- sure of sheep [in my blood! That besprinkled the field 'twas like youth : Now I cleave to the house, and am dull a= a snail ; [a sigh, And, oftentimes, hear the church-bell with That follows the thought We've no land in the vale, [lie ! Save six feet of earth where our forefathers THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET. WHERE art thou, my beloved son, Where art thou, worse to me than dead ? Oh, find me, prosperons 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, A.id 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; Wellborn, well bred; I sent him forth Ingenuous, innocent, and bold: If things ensued that wanted grace, As halh been said, they were not base; And never blush \vas on my face. Ah ! little doth the young one dream, When full of play and childish cares, ! What power hath even his wildest scream, i Heard by his mother unawares ! ! He knows it not, he cannot guess : I Years to a mother bring distress ; ; But do not make her love the less. j Neglect me ! no, I suffered long i 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 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. POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 47 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 incommnnicable sleep. 1 look for ghosts ; but none will force Their way to me: 'tis falsely said That there was ever intercourse Betwixt 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. THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT. BY A FEMALE FRIEND. THE days are cold, the nights are long, The north wind sings a doleful song; Then hush again upon my breast; All merry things are now at rest, Save thee, my pretty love ! The kitten sleeps upon the hearth, The crickets long have ceased their mirth; There's nothing stirring in the house Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse, Then why so busy thou ? Nav! start not at that sparkling light; "Us but the moon that shines so bright On the window-pane bedropped with rain Then, little darlim ! sleep again ! And wake when it is day. THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. ONE morning (raw it was and wet, A foggy day in winter time) A woman on the road I met, Not old, though something past her prime: Majestic in her person, tall and straight; And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait. The ancient spirit is not dead; Old times, thought I, are breathing there; Proud was I that my country bred Such strength, a dignity so fair: She begged an alms, like one in poor estate; I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate. When from those lofty thoughts I woke, "What treasure," said I, "do you bear Beneath the covert of your cloak, Protected from the cold damp air ?" She answered, soon as she the question heard, "A simple burden, sir, a little singing- bird. " 1 had a son, the waves might roar, He feared them not, a sailor gay! But he wiH cross the deep no more : In Denmark he was cast away: And I have travelled weary miles to see If aught which he had owned might still remain for me. "The bird and cage they both were his: 'Twas my son's bird; and neat and trim He kept it: many voyages This singing-bird had gone with him : When last he sailed, he left the bird be. hind: From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind. " He to a fellow-lodger's care Had left it, to bs watched and fed, And pipe its song in safety; there I found it when my son was dead; And now, God help me for my little wit! I bear it with me, sir! he took so much do light in it." POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS'. THE CHILDLESS FATHER. "Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away! [will stay; Not a soul in the village this morning The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds, [hounds." And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the Of coats and of jackets gray, scarlet, and green, [were seen; On the slopes of the pastures all colours 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, [door; Filled the funeral basin* at Timothy's A coffin through Timothy's threshold had past; [his last. One child did it bear, and that child was Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray, [away! The horse and the horn, and the hark! hark Did Timothy took up his staff, and he shut With a leisurely motion the door of his hut. Perhaps to himself at that moment he said, "The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead." [speak, But of this in my ears not a word did he And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek. THE EMIGRANT MOTHER. ONCE in a lonely hamlet I sojourned, In which a lady driven from France did dwell; [mourned, The big and lesser griefs, with which she 'n friendship, she to me would often tell. fhis lady, dwelling upon English ground, Where she was childless, daily would repair To a poor neighbouring cottage; as I found, [there. For sake of a young child whose home was * t n several parts of the north of England when a funeral takes place, a basin full of sprigs of boxwood Is placed at the door of the house from which the coffin is taken up, and each per- son who attends the funeral ordinarily takes a sprig of this boxwood, and throws it into the grave uf the deceased. Once, having seen her take with fond embrace This infant to herself, I framed a lay, Endeavouring, in my native tongue, to trace [say: Such things as she unto the child might And thus, from what I knew, had heard, and guessed, [pressed. My song the workings of her heart ex ' ' Deai babe, thou daughter of another, One moment let me be thy mother ! An infant's face and looks are thine, And sure a mother's heart is mine: Thy own dear mother's far away, At labour in the harvest-field: Thy little sister is at play; What warmth, what comfort would it yield To my poor heart, if thou wouldst be One little hour a child to me ! ' ' Across the waters I am come, And I have left a babe at home : A long, long way of land and sea ! Come to me I'm no enemy: I am the same who at thy side Sate yesterday, and made a nest For thee, sweet baby! thou hast tried, Thou knovv'st the pillow of my breast ; Good, good art thou ; alas to me Far more than I can be to thee. " Here, little darling, dost thou lie ; An infant thou, a mother I ! Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears ; Mine art thou spite of these my tears. Alas ! before I left the spot, My baby and its dwelling-place ; The nurse said to me, ' Tears should nc* Be shed upon an infant's face, It was unlucky ' no, no, no ; No truth is in them who say so ! " My own dear little one will sigh, Sweet babe ! and they will let him die. ' He pines,' they'll say, 'it is his doom. And you may see his hour is come.' Oh! had he but thy cheerful smiles, Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay, Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles, And countenance like a summer's day, They would have hopes of him and then I should behold his face again ! " 'Tis gone like dreams that we forget ; There was a smile or two yet yet I can remember them, 1 see The smile worth all the world to me, POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 49 Dear baby! I must lay thee down; Thou troubles! me with strange alarms; Smiles hast thou, bright ones of thy own; I cannot keep thee in my arms, By those bewildering glances crost In which the light of his is lost. " Oh! how I love thee! we still stay Together here this one half day. My sister's child, who bears my name, From France to sheltering England came ; She with her mother crossed the sea ; The babe and mother near me dwell: My darling, she is not to me What thou art! though I love her well: Rest, little stranger, rest thee here! Never was any child more dear! ' I cannot help it ill intent I've none, my pretty innocent! I weep I know they do thee wrong, These tears and my poor idle tongue. Oh, what a kiss was that! my cheek How cold it is! but thou art good; Thine eyes are on me they would speak, I think, to help me if they could. Blessings upon that soft, warm face, My heart again is in its place! " While thou art mine, my little love, This cannot be a sorrowful grove; Contentment, hope, and mother's glee, I seem to find them all in thee: Here's grass to play with, here are flowers; I'll call thee by my darling's name ; Thou hast, I think, a look of ours, Thy features seem to me the same; His little sister thou shall be: And, when once more my home I see, I'll tell him many tales of thee." VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA. The following tale was written as an episode in a work from which its length may perhaps exclude it. The facts are true ; no invention as to these has been exercised, as none was needed. OH, happy time of youthful lovers, (thus My story may begin,) oh, balmy time, In which a love-knot on a lady's brow Is fairer than the fairest star in heaven! To such inheritance of blessed fancy (Fancy that sports more desperately with minds Than ever fortune hath been known to do) The high-bprn Vaudracour was brought, by years Whose progress had a little overstepped His stripling prime. A town of small repute, Among the vine-clad mountains of Auvergne, [wooed a maid Was the youth's birthplace. There he Who heard the heart-felt music of his suit With answering vows. Plebeian was the stock, Plebeian, though ingenuous, the stock, From which her graces and her honours sprung: [youth, And hence the father of the enamoured With haughty indignation, spurned the thought Of such alliance. From their cradles up, With but a step between their several homes, [strife Twins had they been in pleasure; after And petty quarrels, had grown fond again; Each other's advocate, each other's stay; And strangers to content if long apart, Or more divided than a sportive pair Of sea-fowl, conscious both that they are hovering Within the eddy of a common blast, Or hidden only by the concave depth Of neighbouring billows from each other's sight. Thus, not without concurrence of an age Unknown to memory, was an earnest given, By ready nature, for a life of love, For endless constancy, and placid truth ; But whatsoe'er of such rare treasure lay Reserved, had fate permitted, for support Of their maturer years, his present mind Was under fascination; he beheld A vision, and adored the thing he saw. Arabian fiction never filled the world With half the wonders that were wrought for him. [spring; Earth breathed in one great presence of the Life turned the meanest of her implements, Before his eyes, to price above all gold; The house she dwelt in was a saintei shrine: Her chamber window did surpass in glory The portals of the dawn ; all paradise Could, by the simple opening of a door, Let itself in upon him: pathways, walks, Swarmed with enchantment, till his spirit sank, Surcharged, within him, overblest to move Beneath a sun that wakes a weary vorld 50 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. To its dull round of ordinary cares; A man too happy for mortality! So passed the time, till, whether through effect Of some unguarded moment that dissolved Virtuous restraint ah, speak it, think it not! [saw Deem rather that the fervent youth, who So many bars between his present state And the dear haven where he wished to be In honourable wedlock with his love, Was in his judgment tempted to decline To perilous weakness, and intrust his cause To nature for a happy end of all; Deem that by such fond hope the youth was swayed, [add And bear with their transgression, when I That Julia, wanting yet the name of wife, Carried about her for a secret grief The promise of a mother. To conceal The threatened shame, the parents of the maid Found means to hurry her away by night And unforewarned, that in some distant spot She might remain shrouded in privacy, Until the babe was born. When morning came, The lover, thus bereft, stung with his loss, And all uncertain whither he should turn, Chafed like a wild beast in the toils; but soon Discovering traces of the fugitives, Their steps he followed to the maid's re- treat. The sequel may be easily divined, Walks to and fro watchiugs at every hour; And the fair captive, who, whene'er she may, Is busy at her casement as the swallow Fluttering its pinions, almost within reach, About the pendent nest, did thus espy Her lover ! thence a stolen interview, Accomplished under friendly shade of night. I pass the raptures of the pair; such theme Is, by innumerable poets, touched In more delightful verse than skill of mine Could fashion, chiefly by that darling bard Who told of Juliet and her Romeo, And of the 'ark's note heard before its time, And of the streaks that laced the severing clouds In the unrelenting east. Through all hd courts The vacant city slept ; the busy winds, That keep no certain intervals of rest, Moved not ; meanwhile the galaxy dis- played Her fires, that like mysterious pulses beat Aloft ; momentous but uneasy bliss! To their full hearts the universe seemed hung On that brief meeting's slender filament ! They parted ; and the generous Vaudra- cour Reached speedily the native threshold, bent On making (so the lovers had agreed) A sacrifice of birthright to attain A final portion from his father's hand ; Which granted, bride and bridegroom then would flee To some remote and solitary place, Shady as night, and beautiful as heaven, Where they may live, with no one to behold Their happiness, or to disturb their love. But flow of this no whisper ; not the less, If ever an obtrusive word were dropped Touching the matter of his passion, still, In his stern father's hearing, Vaudracouf Persisted openly that death alone Should abrogate his human privilege Divine, of swearing everlasting truth, Upon the altar, to the maid he loved. "You shall be baffled in your mad intent If there be justice in the court of France," Muttered the father. From these words the youth Conceived a terror, and, by night or day, Stirred nowhere without weapons that full soon Found dreadful provocation : for at night When to his chamber he retired, attempt Was made to seize him by three armed men, Acting, in furtherance of the father's will, Under a private signet of the state. One, did the youth's ungovernable hand Assault and slay, and to a second gave A perilous wound, he shuddered to behold The breathless corse; then peacefully re- signed His person to the law, was lodged in prison And wore the fetters of a criminal. Have you beheld a tuft of winged seed That, from the dandelion's naked stalk, Mounted aloft, is suffered not to use Its natural gifts for purposes of res- POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. >1 Driven by the autumnal whirlwind to and fro [marked Through the wide element ? or have you The heavier substance of a leaf-clad bough, Within the vortex of a foaming flood, Tormented? by such aid you may con- ceive The perturbation of each mind ; ah, no ! Desperate the maid the youth is stained with blood ! But as the troubled seed and tortured bough Is man, subjected to despotic sway. For him, oy private influence with the court, Was pardon gained, and liberty procured ; But not without exaction of a pledge Which liberty and love dispersed in air. He flew to her from whom they would divide him [peace He clove to her who could not give him Yea, his first word of greeting was, " All right Is gone from me ; my lately-towering hopes, To the least fibre of their lowest root. Are withered ; thou no longer canst be mine, [woo I thine the conscience-stricken must not The unruffled innocent, I see thy face, Behold thee, and my misery is complete !" "One, are we not?" exclaimed the maiden "One, [woe?" For innocence and youth, for weal and Then with the father's name she coupled words Of vehement indignation ; but the youth Checked her with filial meekness ; for no thought Uncharitable, no presumptuous rising Of hasty censure, modelled in the eclipse Of true domestic loyalty, did e'er Find place within his bosom. Once again The persevering wedge of tyranny Achieved their separation ; and once more Were they united, to be yet again Disparted pitiable lot ! But here A portion of the tale may well be left In silence, though my memory could add Much how the youth, in scanty space of time, [of thoughts Was traversed from without ; much, too, That occupied his days in solitude Under privation and restraint ; and what. Through dark and shapeless fear of things to come. And what, through strong compunction for the past, He suffered breaking down in heart and mind ! Doomed to a third and last captivity, His freedom he recovered on the eve Of Julia's travail. When the babe was born, Its presence tempted him tocherish schemes Of future happiness. " You shall return. Julia," said he, "and to your father's house Go with the child. You have been wretched ; yet [then weighs The silver shower, whose reckless bur- Too heavily upon the lily's head, Oft leaves a saving moisture at its root. Malice, beholding you, will melt away. Go ! 'tis a town where both of us were born ; [known ; None will reproach you, for our truth is And if, amidst those once-bright bowers, our fate Remain unpitied, pity is not in man. With ornaments the prettiest nature yields Or art can fashion, shall you deck your boy, [sweet looks And feed his countenance with your own Till no one can resist him. Now, even now, I see him sporting on the sunny lawn ; My father from the window sees him too ; Startled, as if some new-created thing Enriched the earth, or faery of the woods Bounded before him ; but the unweeting child [heart Shall by his beauty win his grandsire's So that it shall be softened, and our loves End happily as they began ! " These gleam>, Appeared but seldom : oftener was he seen Propping a pale and melancholy face Upon the mother's bosom ; resting thus His head upon one breast, while from the other The babe was drawing in its quiet food. That pillow is no longer to be thine, Fond youth ! that mournful solace now must pass Into the list of things that cannot be ! Unwedded Julia, terror-smitten, hears The sentence, by her mother's lip pro- nounced, (shall tell, That dooms her to a convent. Who Who dares report the tidings to the lord Of her affections? So they blindly asked Who knew not to what quiet depths a weight Of agony had pressed the sufferer down .--- POEM'S FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. The word, by others dreaded, he can hear Composed and silent, without visible sign Of even the least emotion. Noting this When the impatient object of his love Upbraided him with slackness, he returned No answer, only took the mother's hand And kissed it seemingly devoid of pain, Or care, that what so tenderly he pressed, Was a dependant on the obdurate heart Of one who came to disunite their lives For ever sad alternative ! preferred, By the unbending parents of the maid, To secret 'spousals meanly disavowed. So be it ! In the city he remainei A season after Julia had withdrawn To those religious walls. He, too, de- parts [little one ! Who with him ? even the senseless With that sole charge he passed the city- Rates, For the last time, attendant by the side Of a close chair, a litter, or sedan, In which the babe was carried. To a hill, That rose a brief league distant from the town, [lodged The dwellers in that house where he had Accompanied his steps, by anxious love Impelled : they parted from him there, and stood Watching below, till he had disappeared On the hill top. His eyes he scarcely took, Throughout that journey, from the vehicle (Slow-moving ark of all his hopes !) that veiled The tender infant : and at every inn, And under every hospitable tree At which the bearers halted or reposed, Laid him with timid care upon his knees, And looked, as mothers ne'er were known to look, Upon the nursling which his arms em- braced. This was the manner in which Vaudra- cour Departed with his infant ; and thus reached His father's house, where to the innocent child [spake Admittance was denied. The young man No words of indignation or reproof, But of his father begged, a last request, That a retreat might be assigned to him Where in forgotten quiet he might dwell, With such allowance as his wants required; For wishes he had none. To a lodge that stood Deep in a forest, with leave given, at the age Of four-and-twenty summers he withdrew; And thither took with him his infant babe, And onedomestic, for their common needs, An aged woman. It consoled him here To attend upon the orphan, and perform Obsequious service to the precious child, Which, after a short time, by some mis- take Or indiscretion of the father, died. The tale I follow to its last recess Of suffering or of peace, I know not which; Theirs be the blame who caused the woe, not mine ! From this time forth he never shared a smile With mortal creature. An inhabitant Of that same town, in which xhe pair had left So lively a remembrance of their griefs, By chance of business, coming within reach Of his retirement, to the forest lodge Repaired, but only found the matron there, Who told him that his pains were thrown away, For that her master never uttered word To living thing not even to her. Behold '. While they were speaking, Vaudracour approached ; But, seeing some one near, even as his hand Was stretched towards the garden gate, he shrunk And, like a shadow, glided out of view. Shocked at his savage aspect, from the place The visitor retired. Thus lived the youth Cut off from all intelligence with man, And shunning even the light of common day ; [through France Nor could the voice of freedom, which Full speedily resounded, public hope, Or personal memory of his own deep wrongs, Rouse him : but in those solitary shades His days he wasted, an imbecile mind ! THE IDIOT BOY. 'Tis eight o'clock, a clear March night, The moon is up the sky is blue, The owlet, in the moonlight air, Shouts, from nobody knows where ; He lengthens out his lonely shout, Halloo ! halloo ! a lonp halloo ! POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 53 Why bustle thus about your door, What means this bustle, Betty Foy? Why are you in this mighty fret ? And why on horseback have you set Him whom you love, your Idiot Boy ? There's scarce a soul that's out of bed ; Good Betty, put him down again ; His lips with joy they burr at you ; But, Betty ! what has he to do With stirrup, saddle, or with rein? But Betty's bent on her intent ; For her good neighbour, Susan Gale, Old Susan, she who dwells alone, Is sick, and makes a piteous moan, As if her very life would fail. There's not a house within a mile, No hand to help them in distress ; Old Susan lies a-bed in pain, And sorely puzzled are the twain, For what she ails they cannot guess. And Betty's husband's at the wood, Where by the week he doth abide, A woodman in the distant vale ; There's none to help poor Susan Gale ; What must be done ? what will betide ? And Betty from the lane has fetched Her pony, that is mild and good, Whether he be in joy or pain, Feeding at will along the lane, Or bringing faggots from the wood. And he is all in travelling trim, And, by the moonlight, Betty Foy Has up upon the saddle set (The like was never heard of yet) Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy. And he must post without delay Across the bridge and through the dale, And by the church, and o'er the down, To bring a doctor from the town. Or she will die, old Susan Gale. There is no need of boot or spur, There is no need of whip or wand ; For Johnny has his holly-bough, And with a hurly-burly now He shakes the green bough in his hand. And Betty o'er and o'er has told The boy, who is her best delight, Both what to follow, what to shun, What do, and what to leave undone, How turn to left, and how to right. And Betty's most especial charge, Was, "Johnny ! Johnny ! mind that you Come home again, nor stop at all, Come home again, whate'er befal, My Johnny, do, I pray you do." To this did J ohnny answer make, Both with his head, and with his hand, And proudly shook the bridle too ; And then ! his words were not a few, Which Betty well could understand. And now that Johnny is just going, Though Betty's in a mighty flurry, She gently pats the pony's side, On which her Idiot Boy must ride. And seems no longer in a hurry. But when the pony moved his legs, Oh ! then for the poor Idiot Boy ! For joy he cannot hold the bridle, For joy his head and heels are idle, He's idle all for very joy. And while the pony moves his legs, In Johnny's left hand you may see The green bough motionless and dead . The moon that shines above his head Is not more still and mute than he. His heart it was so full of glee, That till full fifty yards were gone, He quite forgot his holly whip, And all his skill in horsemanship, Oh ! happy, happy, happy, John. And while the mother, at the door, Stands fixed, her face with joy o'erflows, Proud of herself, and proud of him, She sees him in his travelling trim, How quietly her Johnny goes. The silence of her Idiot Boy, What hopes it sends to Betty's heart \ He's at the guide-post he turns right, She watches till he's out of sight, And Betty will not then depart. Burr, burr now Johnny's lips they burr, As loud as any mill, or near it ; Meek as a lamb the pony moves, And Johnny makes the noise he loves, And Betty listens, glad to hear it. Away she hies to Susan Gale : Her messenger's in merry tune ; The owlets hoot, the owlets curr, And Johnny's lips they hurr, burr, burr, As on he goes beneath the moon. POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. His steed and he right well agree ; For of this pony there's a rumour, That, should he lose his eyes and ears, And should he live a thousand years, He never will be out of humour. But then he is a horse that thinks! And when he thinks his pace is slack; Now, though he knows poor Johnny well, Yet, for his life, he cannot tell What he has got upon his back. So through the moonlight lanes they go, And far into the moonlight dale, And by the church, and o'er the down, To bring a doctor from the town To comfort poor old Susan Gale. And Betty, now at Susan's side, Is in the middle of her story, What comfort soon her boy will bring, With many a most diverting thing, Of Johnny's wit, and Johnny's glory. And Betty, still at Susan's side, By this time is not quite so flurried: Demure with porringer and plate She sits, as if in Susan's fate Her life and soul were buried. But Betty, poor good woman! she, You plainly in her face may read it, Could lend out of that moment's store, Five years of happiness or more To any that might need it. But yet I guess that now and then With Betty all was not so well; And to the road she turns her ears, And thence full many a sound she hears, Which she to Susan will not tell. Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans; "As sure as there's a moon in heaven," Cries Betty, "he'll be back again; They'll both be here 'tis almost ten Both will be here before eleven." Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans; The clock gives warning for eleven; Tis on the stroke " He must be near," Quoth Betty, "and will soon be here, As sure as there's a moon in heaven." The clock is on the stroke of twelve, And Johnny is not yet in sight, The moon's in heaven, as Betty sees, But Betty is not quite at ease, And Susan has a dreadful night. And Betty, half an hour ago, On Johnny vile reflections cast: " A little idle sauntering thing !" With other names, an endless string-, But now that time is gone and past. And Betty's drooping at the heart, That happy time all past and gone, " How can it be he is so late ? The doctor he has made him wait ; Susan! they'll both be here anon." And Susan's growing worse and worse, And Betty's in a sad quandary ; And then there's nobody to say If she must go or she must stay ! She's in a sad quandary. The clock is on the stroke of one; But neither doctor nor his guide Appears along the moonlight road; There's neither horse nor man abroad, And Beta's still at Susan's side. And Susan now begins to fear Of sad mischances not a few, That Johnny may perhaps be drowned, I Or lost, perhaps, and never found; I Which they must both for ever rue. She prefaced half a hint of this With " God forbid it should be true !" At the first word that Susan said Cried Betty, rising from the bed, " Susan, I'd gladly stay with you. ' ' I must be gone, I must away, Consider, Johnny's but hal/wise- Susan, we must take care of him, If he is hurt in life or limb" I " Oh, God forbid !" poor Susan cries. "What can I do?" says Betty, going, "What can I do to ease your pain ? Good Susan tell me, and I'll stay; I fear you're in a dreadful way, But I shall soon be back again." "Nay, Betty, go; good Betty, go! There's nothing that can ease my pain.' Then off she hies ; but with a prayer That God poor Susan's life would spare, Till she comes back again. So, through the moonlight lane she goes, And far into the moonlight dale; And how she ran, and how she walked, And all that to herself she talked, Would surely be a tedious tale. POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. In high and low, above, below, In great and small, in round and square, In tree and tower was Johnny seen, In bush and brake, in black and green, 'Twas Johnny, Johnny, every where. The bridge is past far in the dale; And now the thought torments her sore, Johnny perhaps his horse forsook, To hunt the moon within the brook And never will be heard of more. Now is she high upon the down, Alone amid a prospect wide; There's neither Johnny nor his horse Among the fern or in the gorse; There's neither doctor nor his guide. " O saints! what is become of him? Perhaps he's climbed into an oak, Where he will stay till he is dead; Or, sadly he has been misled, And joined the wandering gipsy-folk. " Or him that wicked pony's carried To the dark cave, the goblin's hall; Or in the castle he's pursuing Among the ghosts his own undoing; Or playing with the waterfall." At poor old Susan then she railed, While to the town she posts away; " If Susan had not been so ill, Alas! I should have had him still, My Johnny, till my dying day." Poor Betty, in this sad distemper, The doctor's self could hardly spare; Unworthy things she talked, and wild; Even he, of cattle the most mild, The pony had his share. And now she's got into the town, And to the doctor's door she hies; 'Tis silence all on every side; The town so long, the town so wide, Is silent as the skies. And now she's at the doctor's door, She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap; The doctor at the casement shows His glimmering eyes that peep and doze! And one hand rubs his old night-cap. " Oh, doctor! doctor! where's my Johnny!' "I'm here, what is't you want with me?" " Oh, sir! you know I'm Betty Foy And I have lost my poor dear boy, You know him him you often see; " He's not so wise as some folks be." " The devil take his wisdom !" said The doctor, looking somewhat grim, " What, woman! should I know of him ?" And, grumbling, he went back to bed. " Oh, woe is me! Oh, woe is me! Here will I die; here will I die, I thought to find my lost one here, But he is neither far nor near, Oh! what a wretched mother I!' She stops, she stands, she looks about; Which way to turn she cannot tell. Poor Betty ! it would ease her pain If she had heart to knock again; The clock strikes three a dismal knell*. Then up along the town she hies, No wonder if her senses fail, This piteous news so much it shocked her, She quite forgot to send the doctor, To comfort poor old Susan Gale. And now she's high upon the down, And she can see a mile of road; " Oh, cruel! I'm almost threescore; Such night as this was ne'er before, There's not a single soul abroad." She listens, but she cannot near The foot of horse, the voice of man; The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now if e'er you can. The owlets through the long blue night Are shouting to each other still: Fond lovers ! yet not quite hob nob They lengthen out the tremulous sob, That echoes far from hill to hill. Poor Betty now has lost all hope, Her thoughts are bent on deadly sin: A green-grown pond she just has past, And from the brink she hiirries fast, Lest she should drown herself therein. And now she sits her down and weeps; Such tears she never shed before; " Oh, dear, dear pony! my sweet joy! Oh, carry back my Idiot Boy! And we will ne'er o'erload thee more." A thought is come into her head; ' ' The pony he is mild and good, And we have always used him well; Perhaps he's gone along the dell, And carried Johnny to the wood." 56 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS Then up she springs as if on wings; She thinks no more of deadly sin ; II Betty fifty ponds should see, The last of all her thoughts would be To drown herself therein. reader ! now that I might tell What Johnny and his horse are doing ! What they've been doing all this time. Oh, could I put it into rhyme, A most delightful tale pursuing ! Perhaps, and no unlikely thought! He with his pony now doth roam The cliffs and peaks so high that are, To lay his hands upon a star, And in his pocket bring it home. Perhaps he's turned himself about, His face unto his horse's tail, And, still and mute, in wonder lost, All like a silent horseman-ghost, He travels on along the vale. And now, perhaps, is hunting sheep, A fierce and dreadful hunter he; Yon valley, now so trim and green, In five months' time, should he be seen, A desert wilderness will be ! Perhaps, with head and heels on fire, And like the very soul of evil, He's galloping away, away, And so will gallop on for aye, The bane of all that dread the devil ! 1 to the Muses have been bound These fourteen years, by strong indentures: O gentle Muses ! let me tell But half of what to him befel, He surely met with strange adventures. O gentle Muses! is this kind? Why will ye thus my suit repel ? Why of your further aid bereave me ? And can ye thus unfriended leave me; Ye Muses! whom I love so well ? Who's yon, that, near the waterfall, Which thunders down with headlong force, Beneath the moon, yet shining fair, As careless as if nothing were, Sits upright on a feeding horse ? Unto his horse, there feeding free, He seems, I think, the rein to give ; Of moon or stars he takes no heed ; Of such we in romances read : Tis Johnny! Johnny! as 1 live. And that's the very pony too ! Where is she, where is Betty Foy She hardly can sustain her fears; The roaring waterfall she hears, And cannot find her Idiot Boy. Your pony's worth his weight in gold 1 Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy ! She's coming from among the trees, And now ail full in view she sees Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy. And Betty sees the pony too: Why stand you thus, good Betty Foy? It is no goblin, 'tis no ghost, 'Tis he whom you so long have lost, He whom you love, your Idiot Boy. She looks again her arms are up She screams she cannot move for joy : She darts, as with a torrent's force, She almost has o'erturned the horse And fast she holds her Idiot Boy. And Johnny burrs, and laughs aloud, Whether in cunning or in joy I cannot tell; but while he laughs, Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs To hea- again her Idiot Boy. And now she's at the pony's tail, And now is at the pony's head, On that side now, and now on this; And, almost stifled with her bliss, A few sad tears does Betty shed. She kisses o'er and o'er again Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy; She's happy here, is happy there, She is uneasy every where; Her limbs are all alive with joy. She pats the pony, where or when She knows not, happy Betty Foy! The little pony glad may be. But he is milder far than she, You hardly can perceive his joy. "Oh! Johnny, never mind the doctor; You've done your best, and that is all." She took the reins, when this was said, And gently turned the pony's head From the loud waterfall. By this the stars were almost gone, The moon was setting on the hill, So pale you scarcely looked at her: The little birds began to stir, Though yet their tongues were still. POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 57 The pony, Betty, and her boy, Wind slowly through the woody dale; And who is she, betimes abroad, That hobbles up the steep rough road? Who is it, but old Susan Gale? Long time lay Susan lost in thought, And many dreadful fears beset her, Both for her messenger and nurse; And as her mind grew worse and worse, Her body it grew better. She turned, she tossed herself in bed, On all sides doubts and terrors met her; Point after point did she discuss; And while her mind was fighting thus, Her body still grew better. "Alas ! what is become of them ? These fears can never be endured, I'll to the wood." The word scarce said, Did Susan rise up from her bed, As if by magic cured. Away she posts uphill and down, And to the wood at length is come; She spies her friends, she shouts a greeting Oh me ! it is a merry meeting As ever was in Christendom. The owls have hardly sung their last, While our four travellers homeward wend; The owls have hooted all night long, And with the owls began my song, And with the owls must end. For while they all were travelling home, Cried Betty, "Tell us, Johnny, do, Where all this long night you have been, What you have heard, what you have seen, And, Johnny, mind you tell us true." Now Johnny all night long had heard The owls in tuneful concert strive; No doubt too he the moon had seen; For in the moonlight he had been From eight o'clock till five. And thus, to Betty's question, he Made answer, like a traveller bold, (His very words I give to you,) "The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, And the sun did shine so cold." Thus answered Johnny in his glory, And that was all his travel's story. MICHAEL. A PASTORAL 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. [brook But, courage ! for around that boisterous The mountains have all opened out them- selves, And made a hidden valley of their own. No habitation can be seen- but they Who journey thither find themselves alone With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites That overhead are sailing in the sky. It is in truth an utter solitude; Nor should I have made mention of this dell But for one object which you might pass by, Might see and notice not. Beside the brook Appears a straggling heapof unhewn stones! And to that place a story appertains, Which, though it be ungarnished with events, Is not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, Or for the summer shade. It was the first Of those domestic tales that spake to me Of shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men Whom I already loved; not verily For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills Where was their occupation and abode. And hence this tale, while I was yet a boy Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life. Therefore, although it be a history Homely and rude, I will relate the same For the delight of; 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; [limb. An old man, stout of heart, and strong of His bodily frame had been from youth to age Df an unusual strength: his mind was keen, Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs, And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt 58 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 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 tohimself 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 theheights. So lived he till his eightieth year was past. And grossly that man errs, who should sup- pose [rocks, That the green valleys, and the streams and Were things indifferent to the shepherd's thoughts. [breathed Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had 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, So grateful in themselves, the certainty Of honourable gain ; these fields, these hills, Which were his living being, even more Than his own blood 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 single- ness. His helpmate was a comely matron, old Though younger than himself full twenty years. She was a woman of a stirring life, Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had [wool, Of antique form, this large for spinning 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 WVien Michael, telling o'er his years, began To deem that he was old, in shepherd's phrase, With one foot in the grave. This only son, With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm, The one of an inestimable worth, Made all their household. I may truly say, That they were as a proverb in the vale For endless industry. When day was gone, And from their occupations out of doors The son and father were come home, even then, Their labour did not cease; unless when all Turned to their cleanly supper-board, and there, [milk, Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed Sat round their basket piled with oaten cakes, [when their meal And their plain home-made cheese. Yet Was ended, Luke (forso the son was named) And his old father both betook themselves To such convenient work as might employ Their hands by the fire-side; perhaps to card Wool for the housewife's spindle, or repair Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, Or other implement of house or field. Down from the ceiling by the chimney'? 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 Living a life of eager industry. [hopes, 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 \vork, 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 Thethriftypairhadlived. For, as it chanced, Their cottage on a plot of rising ground Stood single, with large prospect, north and south, High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise, And westward to the village near the lake; And from this constant light, so regular And so far seen, the house itself, by all Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, Both old and young, was named THE EVENING STAR. POEMS FOUNDED OX THE AFFECTIONS. 59 Thus living on through such a length of years, [needs The shepherd, if he loved himself, must 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 often- times Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, Had done him female service, not alone For pastime and delight, as is the use Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked His cradle 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, [door Beneath that large old oak, which near their Stood, and, from its enormous breadth of shade, Chosen for the shearer's covert from the sun, Thence in our rustic dialect was called Vhe CLIPPING TREE,* a name which yt it bears. [shade, There, while they two were sitting in the 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 * Clipping is the word used in the North of England for shearing. With iron, making it throughou. in all Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff, And gave it to the boy; wherewith equipt He as a watchman oftentimes was placed At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock; And, to his office prematurely called, There stood the urchin, as you will divine, Something between a hindrance and a help; And for this course not always, I believe, Receiving from his father hire of praise; Though nought was left undone which staff or voice, [perform. Cr looks, or threatening gestures could But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand [heights, Against the mountain blasts; and to the Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, He with his father daily went, and they Were as companions, why should I relate That objects which the shepherd loved before [came Were dearer now? that from the boy there Feelings and emanations things which were Light to the sun and music to the wind; And that the old man's heart seemed bom again. Thus in his father's sight the boy grew up; And now when he had reached his eigh- teenth year, He was his comfort and his daily hope. While in this sort the simple household lived [came From day to day, to Michael's ear there Distressful tidings. Long before the time Of which I sneak, 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 [ture, Was summoned to discharge the forfei. 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 sooi: 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. 60 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE APFECTIONS. And his heart failed him. ' ' Isabel, " said he, Two evenings after he had heard the news, " I have been toiling more than seventy years, And in the open sunshine of God's love Have we all lived; yet if these fields of ours Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think That I could not lie quiet in my grave. Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself Has scarcely been more diligent than I; And I have lived to be a fool at last To my own family. An evil man That was, and made an evil choice, if he Were false to us; and if he were not false, There are ten thousand to whom Josslikethis 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- est, Another kinsman he will be our friend In this distress. He is a prosperous man, Thriving in trade and Luke to him shall go, [thrift And with his kinsman's help and his own 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, [paused, What can be gained?" At this the old man 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, [bought And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours A basket, which they filled with pedlar's wares ; And with this basket on his arm, the lad, Went up to London, found a master there, Who out of many chose the trusty boy To go and overlook his merchandise Beyond the seas : where he grew wondrous rich, And left estates and moneys to the poor, And at his birthplace built a chapel floored With marble, which he sent from foreign lands. [sort, These thoughts, and many others of like Massed 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. [best Make ready Luke's best garments, of the 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." [forth Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went With a light heart. The housewife foi five days [long \Vas restless morn and night, and all day Wrought on with her best fingers to pre- pare 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 [sleep : Heard him, how he was troubled in his And when they rose at morning she could see [noon That all his hopes were gone. That day at She said to Luke, while they two by them- selves [go: Were sitting at the door, "Thou must not We have no other child but thee to lose, N'one to remember do not go away, For if thou leave thy father he will die." The youth made answer with a jocund .voice ; And Isabel, when she had told her fears, Recovered heart. That evening her best fare Did she bring forth, and all together sat Like happy people round a Christmas fire. With daylight Isabel resumed her work; And all the ensuing week the house ap- peared As cheerful as a grove in spring : at length The expected letter from their kinsman came, With kind assurances that he would do His utmost for the welfare of the boy ; To which, requests were added, that forth- with [more He might be sent to him. Ten times or The letter was read over ; Isabel Went forth to show it to the neighbour? round ; Nor was there at that time on English land POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. A. prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel Had to her house returned, the old man said, [word "He shall depart to-morrow." To this 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 ; [stopped, And soon as they had reached the place he And thus the old man spake to him. " My son, [heart To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full I look upon thee, for thou art the aame That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, And all thy life hast been my daily joy. I will relate to thee some little part Of our two histories ; 'twill do thee good When thou art from me, even if I should speak [After thou Of things thou canst not know of. First cam'st into the world as oft befalls To new-born infants thou didst sleep away [tongue Two days, and blessings from thy father's Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on, And still I loved thee with increasing love. Never to living ear came sweeter sounds Than when I heard thee by our own fire- side [tune ; First uttering, without words, a natural When thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy [lowed month, Sing at thy mother's breast. Month fol- And in the open fields my life was passed And on the mountains, else I think that thou [knees. Hadst been brought up upon thy father's But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills, [young As well thou know'st, in us the old and 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 [his hand, He sobbed aloud. The old man grasped 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 (he; 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 loath 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, [was free. And till these three weeks past the land 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 ; [they stood, Then, pointing to the stones near which 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. [live Nay, boy, be of good hope; we both may 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 ! [ing fast Thy heart these two weeks has been beat- With many hopes It should be so Yes ves-- 62 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. T knew that thou couldst never have a wish To leave me, Luke : thou hast been bound to me Only by links of love : when thou art gone, What will be left to us ! But, I forget My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone, As I requested ; and hereafter, Luke, When thou art gone away, should evil men Be thy companions, think of me, my son, And of this moment ; hither turn thy thoughts, | fear And God will strengthen thee : amid all 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 [wilt see When thou return's!, thou in this place 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 [his heart The old man's grief broke from him ; to 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, [the boy Ere the night fell ; with morrow's dawn Began his journey, and when he /lad reached The public way, he put on a bold face ; And all the neighbours as he passed their doors [prayers, Came forth with wishes and with farewell That followed him till he was out of sight. A good report did froHi 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. [again So, many months passed on : and once The shepherd went about his daily work With confident and cheerful thoughts ; and now [hour Sometimes when he could find a leisure 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 : [well I have conversed with more than one who 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 [rocks Of an unusual strength. Among the He went, and still looked up upon 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 yeC The pity which was then in every heart For the old man and 'tis believed by all That many and many a day he thithe? 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, lyin^, at his feet. The length of full seven years from time to time [wrought, He at the building of this sheep-fold And left the work unfinished when he died. Three years, or little more, did Isabel Survive her husband : at her death thf estate Was sold, and went into a stranger's h^nd. The cottage which was named theEVENiNG STAR [the ground Is gone the ploughshare has been through On which it stood ; great changes have been wrought [is left In all the neighbourhood : yet the oak That grew beside their door ; and the re- mains Of the unfinished sheep-fold may be seen Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll. POEMS FOUNDED ON" THE AFFECTIONS. 63 THE WAGGONER. To CHARLES LAMB, ESQ. MY DEAR FRIEND, When I sent you, a few weeks ago, the Tale of Peter Bell, you asked " why THE WAGGONER was not added ?" To say the truth, from the higher tone of imagination, and the deeper touches of passion aimed at in the former, I apprehended, this little piece could not accompany it without disadvantage. In the year 1806, if I am not mistaken, THE WAGGONER was read to you in manu- script : and, as you have remembered it for so long a time, I am the more en- couraged to hope, that, since the localities on which it partly depends did not prevent its being interesting to you, it may prove acceptable to others. Being therefore in some measure the cause of its present appearance, you must allow me the grati- fication of inscribing it to you ; in acknow- ledgment of the pleasure I have derived from your writings, and of the high esteem with which I am, very truly yours, WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. RYDAL MOUNT, May 20, 1819. CANTO I. Tis spent this burning day of June ! Soft darkness o'er its latest gleams is steal- The dor-hawk, solitary bird, [ing ; Round the dim crags on heavy pinions wheeling, Buzzes incessantly, a tiresome tune ; That constant voice is all that can be heard In silence deeper far than that of deepest noon ! Confiding glow-worms ! 'tis a night Propitious to your earth-born light ;, But, where the scattered stars are seen In hazy straits the clouds between, Each, in his station twinkling not, Seems changed into a pallid spot. The air. as in a lion's den, Is close and hot ; and now and then Comes a tired and sultry breeze With a haunting and a panting, Like the stifling of disease ; The mountains rise to wondrous height, And in the heavens there hangs aweight ; But the dews allay the heat, And the silence makes it sweet. Hush, there is some one on the stir ! Tis Benjamin the waggoner ; Who long hath trod this toilsome way, Companion of the night and day. That far-off tinkling's drowsy cheer, Mixed with a faint yet grating sound In a moment lost and found, The wain announces by whose side. Along the banks of Rydal Mere, He paces on, a trusty guide, Listen ! you can scarcely hear ! Hither he his course is bending ;- Now he leaves the lower ground, And up the craggy hill ascending Many a stop and stay he makes, Many a breathing-fit he takes ; Steep the way and wearisome, Yet all the while his whip is dumb ! The horses have worked with right good will, And now have gained the top of the jiill ; He was patient they were strong And now they smoothly glide along, Gathering breath, and pleased to win The praises of mild Benjamin. Heaven shield him from mishap and snare But why so early with this prayer ? Is it for threatenings in the sky ? Or for some other danger nigh ? No, none is near him yet, though he Be one of much infirmity ; For, at the bottom of the brow, Where once the DOVE and Ol.iVE-BOUGH Offered a greeting of good ale To all who entered Grasmere Vale ; And called on him who must depart To leave it with a jovial heart ; There, where the DOVE and OLIVE-BOUGH Once hung, a poet harbours now, A simple water-drinking bard ; Why need our hero, then, (though frail His best resolves) be on his guard? He marches by, secure and bold, Yet, while he thinks on times of old, It seems that all looks wondrous cold ; He shrugs hisshoulders shakes his head-- And, for the honest folk within, It is a doubt with Benjamin Whether they be alive or dead ! Here is no danger, none at all ! Beyond his wish is he secure ; But pass a mile and then for trial, Then for the pride of self-flenial ; If he resist that tempting door, Which with such friendly voice w If he resist those casement panes, 64 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. And that bright gleam which thence will Upon his leaders' bells and manes, [fall Inviting him with cheerful lure ; For still, though all be dark elsewhere, Some shining notice will be there, Of open house and ready fare. The place to Benjamin full well Is known, and by as strong a spell As used to be that sign of love And hope the OLIVE-BOUGH and DOVE He knows it to his cost, good man ! Who does not know the famous SWAN ? Uncouth although the object be, An image of perplexity ; Yet not the less it is our boast, For it was painted by the host ; His own conceit the figure planned, 'Twas coloured all by his own hand ; And that frail child of thirsty clay, Of whom I sing Ibis rustic lay, Could tell with self-dissatisfaction Quaint stories of the bird's attraction !* Well ! that is past and in despite Of open door and shining light. And now the conqueror essays The long ascent of Dunmail-raise ; And with his team is gentle here As when he clomb from Rydal Mere ; His whip they do not dread his voice They only hear it to rejoice. To stand or go is at their pleasure ; t Their efforts and their time they measure By generous pride within the breast And, while they strain, and while they rest, He thus pursues his thoughts at leisure. Now am I fairly safe to-night And never was my heart more light. I trespassed lately worse than ever But Heaven will bless a good endeavour ; And, to my soul's delight, 1 find The evil one is left behind. Yes, let my master fume and fret, Here am I with my horses yet! My jolly team, he finds that ye Will work for nobody but me! Good proof of this the country gained, One day, when ye were vexed and strained I ntrusted to another's care, And forced unworthy stripes to bear. Here was it on this rugged spot Which now, contented with our lot, We climb that, piteously abused, Ye plunged in anger and confused : As chance would have it, passing by I saw you in your jeopardy : A word from me was like a charm The ranks were taken with one mind ; And your huge burthen, safe from harm, Moved like a vessel in the wind ! Yes, without me, up hills so high "iis vain to strive for mastery Then grieve not, jolly team ! though tough The road we travel, steep and rough. Though Rydal-heights and Dunmail-raise, And all their fellow banks and braes, Full often make you stretch and strain, And halt for breath and halt again, Yet to their sturdmess 'tis owing That side by side we still are going ! While Benjamin in earnest mood His meditations thus pursued, A storm, which had been smothered long. Was growing inwardly more strong ; And, in its struggles to get free. Was busily employed as he. The thunder had begun to growl He heard not, too intent of soul ; The a ; r was now without a breath He marked not that 'twas still as death. But soon large drops upon his head Fell with the weight of drops of lead ; He starts and, at the admonition, Takes a survey of his condition. The road is black before his eyes, Glimmering faintly where it lies ; Black is the sky and every hill, Up to the sky, is blacker still ; A huge and melancholy room, Hung round and overhung with gloorr. I Save that above a single height Is to be seen a lurid light, Above Helm-cragi a streak half dead. A burning of portentous red ; And, near that lurid light, full well The ASTROLOGER, sage Sidrophel, Where at his desk and book he sits, Puzzling on high his curious wits ; He whose domain is held in common With no one but the ANCIENT WOMAN, Cowering beside her rifted cell ; As if intent on magic spell ; Dread pair, that spite of wind and weather, Still sit upon Helm-crag together ! t A mountain of Grasmere, the broken summit This rude piece of self-taught art (such is , of which presents two figures, full as distinctly the progress of refinement) has been supplanted j shaped as that of the famous Cobbler, nenr by a professional production. | Arroquhar, in Scotland. POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 65 The ASTROLOGER was not unseen By solitary Benjamin : But total darkness came anon, And he and everything was gone. And suddenly a ruffling breeze, [trees (That would have sounded through the Had aught of sylvan growth been there) Was felt throughout the region bare : The rain rushed down the road was bat- tered. As with the force of billows shattered ; The horses are dismayed, nor know Whether they should stand o. go ; And Benjamin is groping near them, Sees nothing, and can scarcely hear them. He is astounded, wonder not, With such a charge in such a spot ; Astounded in the mountain gap By peals of thunder, clap on clap ! And many a terror-striking flash ; And somewhere, as it seems, a crash, Among the rocks ; with weight of rain, And sullen motions long and slow, That to a dreary distance go Till, breaking in upon the dying strain, Arending o'er his head begins the frayagain. Meanwhile, uncertain what to do, And oftentimes compelled to halt, The horses cautiously pursue Their way, without mishap or fault ; And now have reached that pile of stones, Heaped over brave King Dunmail's bones ; He who had once supreme command, Last king of rocky Cumberland ; His bones, and those of all his power, Slain here in a disastrous hour ! When, passing through this narrow Stony, and dark, and desolate, [strait, Benjamin can faintly hear A voice that comes from some one near, A female voice : "Whoe'er you be, Stop," it exclaimed, "and pity me !" And less in pity than in wonder, Amid the darkness and the thunder, The waggoner, with prompt command, Summons his horses to a stand. The voice, to move commiseration, Prolonged its earnest supplication " This storm that beats so furiously This dreadful place ! oh, pity me ! " While this was said, with sobs between, And many tears, but all unseen, There came a flash a startling glare, And all Seat-Sandal was laid bare i 'Tis not a time for nice suggestion, And Benjamin, without further question, Taking her for some way-worn rover, Said, " Mount, and get you under cover !" Another voice, in tone as hoarse As a swoln brook with rugged course, Cried out, ' ' Good brother, why so fast ? I've had a glimpse of you avast ! Or, since it suits you to be civil, Take her at once for good and evil !" " It is my husband," softly said The woman, as if half afraid : By this time she was snug within, Through help of honest Benjamin ; She and her babe, which to her breast With thankfulness the mother pressed ; And now the same strong voice more near Said cordially, " My fiiend, what cheer? Rough doings these ! as God's my judge, The sky owes somebody a grudge ! We've had in half an hour or less A twelvemonth's terror and distress !" Then Benjamin entreats the man Would mount, too, quickly as he can: The sailor, sailor now no more, But such he had been heretofore, To courteous Benjamin replied, " Go you your way, and mind not me; Fcr I must have, whate'er betide, My ass and fifty things beside, Go, and I'll folluw speedily !" The waggon moves and with its load Descends along the sloping road ; And to a little tent hard by Turns the sailor instantly ; For when, at closing-in of day, The family had come that way, Green pasture and the soft warm air Had tempted them to settle there. Green is the grass for beast to graze, Around the stones of Dun mail-raise \ The sailor gathers up his bed, Takes down the canvas overhead ; And, after farewell to the place, A parting word though not of grace, Pursues, with ass and all his store, The way the waggon went before. CANTO II. IF Wytheburn's modest house of prayer, As lowly as the lowliest dwelling, Had, with its belfry's humble stock, A little pair that hang in air, POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS, Been mistress also of a clock, (And one, too, not in crazy plight) Twelve strokes that clock would have been telling Under the brow of old Helvellyn Its bead-roll of midnight, Then, when the hero of my tale Was passing by, and down the vale (The vale now silent, hushed I ween, As if a storm had never been) Proceeding with an easy mind; While he, who had been left behind, Intent to use his utmost haste, Gained ground upon the waggon fast, And gives another lusty cheer ; For spite of rumbling of the wheels, A welcome greeting he can hear ; It is a fiddle in its glee Dinning from the CHERRY TREE ! Thence the sound the light is there As Benjamin is now aware, Who, to his inward thoughts confined, Had almost reached the festive door, When, startled by the sailor's roar, He hears a sound and sees the lighi, And in a moment calls to mind That 'tis the village MERRY-NIGHT ! tt Although before in no dejection, At this insidious recollection His heart with sudden joy is filled, His ears are by the music thrilled, His eyes take pleasure in the road olittering before him bright and broad ; And Benjamin is wet and cold, And there are reasons manifold [yearning That make the good, towards which he's Look fairly like a lawful earning. Nor has thought time to come and go, To vibrate between yes and no ; " For," cries the sailor, " glorious chance That blew us hither ! Let him dance Who can or will ; my honest soul Our treat shall be a friendly bowl !" He drav,j him to the door " Come in, Come, come," cries he to Benjamin; And Benjamin fth, v/oe is me ! Gave the word, the horses heard And halted, though reluctantly. " Blithe souls and lightsome hearts have Feasting at the CHERRY TREE !" [we A term well known in the north of England, and applied to rural festivals where young per- sons meet in the evening for the purpose of dancing. This was the outside proclamation, This was the inside salutation ; What bustling jostling high and low i A universal overflow , What tankards foaming from the tap ! What store of cakes in every lap ! What thumping stumping over-head ! The thunder had not been more busy : With such a stir, you would have said, This little place may well be dizzy ! 'Tis who can dance with greatest vigour 'Tis what can be most prompt and eager; j As if it heard the fiddle's call, i The pewter clatters on the wall ; The very bacon shows its feeling, Swinging from the smoky ceiling ! A steaming bowl a blazing fire What greater good can heart desire ? 'Twere worth a wise man's while to try The utmost anger of the sky ; To seek for thoughts of painful cast, If such be the amends at last. Now, should you think I judge amiss, The CHERRY TKEE shows proof of this For soon, of all the happy there, Our travellers are the happiest pair. All care with Benjamin is gone A Cassar past the Rubicon ! He thinks not of his long, long strife ; The sailor man, by nature gay, Hath no resolves to throw away ; And he hath now forgot his wife, Hath quite forgotten her or may be Deems that she is happier, laid Within that warm and peaceful bed ; Under cover, terror over, Sleeping by her sleeping baby. With bowl in hand, (it may not stand,- Gladdest of the gladsome band, Amid their own delight and fun, They hear when every dance is done They hear when every fit is o'er The fiddle's squeak\ that call to bliss, Ever followed by a kiss ; They envy not the happy lot, But enjoy their own the more .' While thus our jocund travellers fare, Up springs the sailor from his chair f At the close of each strathspey, or jig, a particular note from the fiddle summons the rus- tic to the agreeable duty of saluting his part- POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. 67 Limps (for I might have told before That he was lame) across the floor Is gone returns and with a prize ! With what ? a ship of lusty size ; A. gallant stately man of war, Fixed on a smoothly-sliding car. Surprise to all, but most surprise To Benjamin, who rubs his eyes, Not knowing that he had befriended A man so gloriously attended ! " This," cries the sailor, " a third-rate is, Stand back, and you shall see her gratis ! This was the flag-ship at the Nile, The Vanguard you may smirk and smile, But, pretty maid, if you look near, You'll find you've much in little here ! A nobler ship did never swim, And you shall see her in full trim: I'll set, my friends, to do you honour, Set every inch of sail upon her." So said, so done ; and masts, sails, yards, He names them all ; and interlards His speech with uncouth terms of art, Accomplished in the showman's part; And then, as from a sudden check, Cries out " 'Tis there, the quarter-deck On which brave Admiral Nelson stood A sight that would have roused your blood ! One eye he had, which, bright as ten, Burnt like a fire among his men ; Let this be land, and that be sea, Here lay the French and thus came we !" Hushed was by this the fiddle's sound, The dancers all were gathered round, And, such the stillness of the house, You might have heard a nibbling mouse ; While, borrowing helps where'er he may, The sailor through the story runs Of ships to ships and guns to guns ; And does his utmost to display The dismal conflict, and the might And terror of that wondrous night ! ' ' A bowl, a bowl of double measure, " Cries Benjamin, " a draught of length. To Nelson, England's pride and treasure, Her bulwark and her tower of strength !" When Benjamin had seized the bowl, The mastiff from beneath the waggon, Where he lay, watchful as a dragon, Rattled his chain 'twas all in vain, For Benjamin, triumphant soul ! He heard the monitory growl ; Heard and in opposition quaffed A deep, determined, desperate draught ! Nor did the battered tar forget, Or flinch from what he deemed his debt . Then, like a hero crowned with laure!, Back to her place the ship he led ; Wheeled her back in full apparel ; And so, flag flying at mast-head, Re-yoked her to the ass : anon, Cries Benjamin, " We must be gone." Thus, after two hours' hearty stay, Again behold them on their way ! CANTO 111. RIGHT gladly had the horses stirred, When they the wished-for greeting heard, The whip's loud notice from the door, That they were free to move once more. You think these doings must have bred In them disheartening doubts and dread; No, not a horse of all the eight, Although it be a moonless night, Fears either for himself or freight; For this they know, (and let it hide, In part, the offences of their guide,) That Benjamin, with clouded brains, Is worth the best with all their pains ; And, if they had a prayer to make, The prayer would be that they may take With him whatever comes in course, The better fortune or the worse ; [them That no one else may have business neai And, drunk or sober, he may steer them. So, forth in dauntless mood they fare, And with them goes the guardian pair. Now, heroes, for the true commotion, The triumph of your late devotion ! Can aught on earth impede delight, Still mounting to a higher height; And higher still a greedy flight ! Can ary low-born care pursue her, Can any mortal clog come to her ? No notion have they not a thought, That is from joyless regions brought ! And, while they coast the silent lake, Their inspiration 1 partake; Share their empyreal spirits yea, With their enraptured vision, see O fancy what a jubilee ! What shifting pictures clad in gleam. Of colour bright as feverish dreams ! Earth, spangled sky, and lake serene, Involved and restless all a scene Pregnant with mutual exaltation, Rich change, and multiplied creation ! This sight to me the muse imparts ; And then, what kindness in their hearts ! What tears of rapture, what vow-making, Profound entreaties, and hand-shaking ' POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. What solemn, vacant interlacing, As if they'd fall asleep embracing ! Then, in the turbulence of glee, And in the excess of amity, Says Benjamin, " That ass of thine, He spoils thy sport, and hinders mine ; If he were tethered to the waggon, He'd drag as well what he is dragging; And we, as brother should with brother, Might trudge it alongside each other?" Forthwith, obedient to command, The horses made a quiet stand ; And to the waggon s skirts was tied The creature, by the mastiff's side (The mastiff not well pleased to be So very near such company). This new arrangement made, the wain Through the still night proceeds again : No moon had risen her light to lend ; But indistinctly may be kenned The VANGUARD, following close behind, Sails spread, as i( to catch the wind ! " Thy wife and child are snug and warm, Thy ship will travel without harm ; I like," said Benjamin, "her shape and stature ; And this of mine this bulky creature Of which I have the steering this, Seen fairly, is not much amiss ! We want your streamers, friend, you know ; But altogether, as we go. We make a kind cf handsome show ! Among these hills from first to last, We've weathered many a furious blast; Hard passage forcing on, with head Against the storm, and canvas spread. I hate a boaster but to thee Will say't, who know'st both land and sea, The unluckiest hulk that sails the brine Is hardly worse beset than mine, When cross winds on her quarter beat; And, fairly lifted from my feet, I stagger onward Heaven knows how But not so pleasantly as now Poor pilot I, by snows confounded, And many a foundrous pit surrounded ! Vet here we are, by night and day [way, Grinding through rough and smooth our Through foul audfair our task fulfilling; And long shall be so yet God willing !" "Ay," said the tar, "through fair and foul- But save us from yon screeching owl !" That instant was begun a fray Which called their thoughts another way-- The mastiff, ill-conditioned carl ! What must he do but growl and snarl. Still more and more dissatisfied With the meek comrade at his side? Till, not incensed, though put to proof, The ass, uplifting a hind hoof, Salutes the mastiff on the head ; And so were better manners bred, And all was calmed and quieted. "Yon screech-owl," says the sailoi turning Back to his former cause of mourning, "Yon owl ! pray God that all be well ! "Fis worse than any funeral bell ; As sure as I've the gift of sight, We shall be meeting ghosts to-night !" Said Benjamin, " This whip shall lay' A thousand if they cross our way. I know that wanton's noisy station, I know him and his occupation ; The jolly bird hath learned his cheer On the banks of Windermere ; Where a tribe of them make merry, Mocking the man that keeps the ferry. Halloing from an open throat, Like travellers shouting for a boat. The tricks he learned at Windermere This vagrant owl is playing here That is the worst of his employment; He's in the height of his enjoyment !" This explanation stilled the alarm, Cured the foreboder like a charm ; This., and the manner, and the voice, Summoned the srilor to rejoice ; His heart is up he fears no evil From life or death, from man or devil ; He wheeled and, making many stops, Brandished his crutch against the moun tain tops; And, while he talked of blows and scars, Benjamin, among the stars, Beheld a dancing and a glancing; Such retreating and advancing As, I ween, was never seen In bloodiest battle since the days of Mars CANTO IV. THUS they, with freaks of proud delight. Beguile 2he remnant of the night ; And many a snatch of jovial song Regales them as they wind along ; While to the music from on high, The echoes make a glad reply. But the sage muse the revel heeds No farther than her story needs : POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. Nor will she servilely attend The loitering journey to its end. Blithe spirits of her own impel The muse who scents the morning air, To take of this transported pair A brief and unreproved farewell ; To quit the slow-paced waggon's side, And wander down yon hawthorn dell, With murmuring Greta for her guide. There doth she ken the awful form Of Raven-crag black as a storm Glimmering through the twilight pale ; And Gimmer-crag,* his tall twin-brother, Each peering forth to meet the other ; And, while she roves through St. John's Vale, Along the smooth unpathwayed plain, By sheep-track, or through cottage lane, Where no disturbance comes to intrude U pon the pensive solitude, Her unsuspecting eye, perchance, V\ ith the rude shepherd's favoured glance, Bt holds the faenes in array, Whose party-coloured garments gay The silent company betray ; Red, green, and blue ; a moment's sight ! For Skiddaw-top with rosy light Is touched and all the band take flight. Fly also, muse ! and from the dell Mount to the ridge of Nathdale Fell ; Thence look thou forth o'er wood and lawn, Hoar with the frost-like dews of dawn ; Across yon meadowy bottom look, Where close fogs hide their parent brook ; And see, beyond that hamlet small, The ruined towers of Threlkeld Hall, Lurking in a double shade, By trees and lingering twilight made ! There, at Blencathara's rugged feet. Sir Lancelot gave a safe retreat To noble Clifford ; from annoy Concealed the persecuted boy, Well pleased in rustic garb to feed His flock, and pipe on shepherd's reed ; Among this tnultitude of hills, Crags, woodlands, waterfalls, and rills ; Which soon the morning shall infold, From east to west, in ample vest Of massy gloom and radiance bold. The mists, that o'er the streamlet's bed Hung low, begin to rise and spread ; E,ven while I speak, their skirts of gray Are smitten by a silver ray ; * The crag of the ewe-lamb. And lo ! up Castrigg's naked steep (Where, smoothly urged, the vapours sweep Along and scatter and divide Like fleecy clouds self-multiplied) The stately waggon is ascending With faithful Benjamin attending, Apparent now beside his team Now lost amid a glittering steam. And with him goes his sailor friend, By this time near their journey's end, And, after their high-minded riot, Sickening into thoughtful quiet ; As if the morning's pleasant hour Had for their joys a killing power. They are drooping, weak, and dull ; But the horses stretch and pull ; With increasing vigour climb, Eager to repair lost time ; Whether by their own desert, Knowing there is cause for shame, They are labouring to avert At least a portion of the blame, Which full surely will alight Upon fits head, whom, in despite Of all his faults they love the best , Whether for him they are distressed ; Or, by length of fasting roused, Are impatient to be housed; Up against the hill they strain Tugging at the iron chain Tugging all with might and main Last and foremost, every horse To the utmost of his force ! And the smoke and respiration Rising like an exhalation, Blends with the mist, a moving shroud To form an undissolving cloud ; Which, with slant ray, the merry sun Takes delight to play upon. Never surely old Apollo He, or other god as old. Of whom in story we are told, Who had a favourite to follow Through a battle or elsewhere, Round the object of his care, In a time of peril, threw, Veil of such celestial hue ; Interposed so bright a screen Him and his enemies between ! Alas, what boots it ? who can hide When the malicious fates are bent On working out an ill intent? Can destiny be turned aside ? No sad progress of my story ! Benjamin, this outward glory 11 70 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS. Cannot shield thee from thy master, Who from Keswick has pricked forth, Sour and surly as the north ; And, in fear of some disaster, Comes to give what help he may, Or to hear what thou canst say ; If, as needs he must forebode, Thou hast loitered on the road ! [flight- His doubts his fears may now take The wished-for object is in sight ; Yet, trust the muse, it rather hath Stirred him up to livelier wrath ; Which he stifles, moody man ! With all the patience that he can ! To the end that at your meeting He may give thee decent greeting. There he is resolved to stop, Till the waggon gains the top ; But stop he cannot must advance : Him Benjamin, with lucky glance, Espies, and instantly is ready, Self-collected, poised, and steady ; And, to be the better seen, Issues from his radiant shroud. From his close attending cloud, With careless air and open mien. Erect his port, and firm his going ; So struts yon cock that now is crowing ; And the morning light in grace Strikes upon his lifted face, Hurrying the pallid hue away That might his trespasses betray. But what can all avail to clear him, Or what need of explanation, Parley, or interrogation ? For the master sees, alas ! That unhappy figure near him, Limping o'er the dewy grass, Where the road it fringes, sweet, Soft and cool to way-worn feet ; \nd, oh, indignity ! an ass, By his noble mastiff's side, Tethered to the waggon's tail : ^nd the ship, in all her pride, Following after in full sail ! Not to speak of babe and mother ; Who, contented with each other, And, snug as birds in leafy arbour, Find, within, a blessed harbour ! With eager eyes the master pries : Looks in and out and through and through ; Says nothing till at last he spies A wound upon die mastiffs head, A wound where plainly might be read What feats an ass's hoof can do ! But drop the rest : this aggravation, This complicated provocation, A hoard of grievances unsealed ; All past forgiveness it repealed ; And thus, and through distempered blood On both sides, Benjamin the good, The patient, and the tender-hearted, Was from his team and waggon parted ; When duty of that day was o'er, Laid down his whip and served no more, Nor could the waggon long survive Which Benjamin had ceased to drive : It lingered on ; guide after guide Ambitiously the office tried ; But each unmanageable hill Called for his patience and his skill ; And sure it is, that through this night, And what the morning brought to light, Two losses had we to sustain, We lost both WAGGONER and W'AIN ! Accept, O friend, for praise or blame, The gift of this adventurous song ; A record which 1 dared to frame, Though timid scruples checked me long ; They checked me and I left the theme Untouched in spite of many a gleam Of fancy which thereon was shed, Like pleasant sunbeams shifting still Upon the side of a distant hill : But nature might not be gainsaid ; For what I have and what I miss I sing of these it makes my bliss ! Nor is it I who play the part, But a shy spirit in my heart, That comes and goes will sometimes leap From hiding-places ten years deep ; Or haunts me with familiar face Returning, like a ghost unlaid, Until the debt I owe be paid. Forgive me, then ; for I had been On friendly terms with this machine : In him, while he was wont to trace Our roads, through many a long year's A living almanack had we : [space, We had a speaking diary, That, in this uneventful place, Gave to the days a mark and name By which we knew them when they came Yes, I, and all about me here, Through all the changes of the year, Had seen him through the mountains go, In pomp of mist or pomp of snow, Majestically huge and slow : / Or, with a milder grace adorning The landscape of a summer's morning ; POEMS OF THE FANCY. 71 While Grasmere smoothed her liquid plain The moving image to detain ; And mighty Fairfield, with a chime Of echoes, to his march kept time ; When little other business stirred, And little other sound was heard ; In that delicious hour of balm, Stillness, solitude, and calm, While yet the valley is arrayed, On this side with a sober shade ; On that is prodigally bright Crag, lawn, and wood with rosy light. But most of all, thou lordly wain ! I wish to have thee here again, When windows flap and chimney roars, And all is dismal out of doors ; And sitting by my fire, 1 see Eight sorry carts, no less a train ! Unworthy successors of thee, Come straggling through the wind and And oft, as they pass slowly on, [rain Beneath my window one by one See, perched upon the naked height The summit of a cumbrous freight, A single traveller and there Another then perhaps a pair The lame, the sickly, and the old ; Men, women, heartless with the cold ; And babes in wet and starveling plight ; Which once, be weather as it might, Had still a nest within a nest, Thy shelter and their mother's breast ! | Then most of all, then far the most, 1 Do I regret what we have lost ; I Am grieved for that unhappy sin Which robbed us of good Benjamin ; And of his stately charge, which none Could keep alive when he was gone ! 0f % Jfamg. A MORNING EXERCISE. FANCY, who leads the pastimes of the glad, Full oft is pleased a wayward dart to throw ; Sending sad shadows after things not sad, Peopling the harmless fields with signs of woe ; Beneath her sway, a simple forest cry Becomes an echo of man's misery. Blithe ravens croak of death ; and when the owl Tries his two voices for a favourite strain Tu-whit Tu-whoo! the unsuspecting fowl Foreoodes mishap, or seems but to com- plain ; Fancy, intent to harass and annoy, Can thus pervert the evidence of joy. Through border wilds where naked Indians stray, Myriads of notes attest her subtle skill ; A feathered task-master cries "WORK! AWAY ! " [WILL !"* j And, in thy iteration, " WHIP-POOR- * See Waterton's " Wanderings in South America. " Is heard the spirit of a toil-worn slave, leashed out of life, not quiet in the grave ! What wonder? at her bidding, ancient lays Steeped in dire griefs the voice of Philomel ; And that fleet messenger of summer days, The swallow, twittered subject to like spell But ne'er could fancy bend the buoyant lark To melancholy service hark ! oh, hark ! The daisy sleeps upon the dewy lawn, Not lifting yet the head that evening bowed ; But he is risen, a later star of dawn, Glittering and twinkling near yon rosy cloud ; Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark ; The happiest bird that sprang out of the ark! Hail, blest above all kinds Supremely skilled [low, Restless with fixed to balance, high with Thou leav'st the halcyon free her hopes to build On such forbearance as the deep may show , Perpetual flight, unchecked by earthly ties, Leav'st to the wandering bird of paradise POEMS OF THE FANCY. Faithful, though swift as lightning, the meek dove ; f Yet more hath nature reconciled in thee ; So constant with thy downward eye of love, Yet, in aerial singleness, so Iree ; So humble, yet so ready to rejoice In power of wing and never-wearied voice ! How would it please old ocean to partake, With sailors longing for a breeze in vain, The harmony that thou best lov'st to make Where earth resembles most his blank domain ! [ear Urania's self might welcome with pleased These matins mounting towards her native sphere. Chanter by heaven attracted, whom no bars [suit, To day-light known deter from that pur- 'Tis well that some sage instinct, when the stars [mute : Come forth at evening, keeps thee still and For not an eyelid could to sleep incline Wert thou among them, singing as they shine ! TO THE DAISY. " Her* divine skill taught me this, That from every thing I saw I could some instruction draw, And raise pleasure to the height Through the meanest object's sight. By the murmur of a spring, Or the least bough's rustelling ; By a daisy whose leaves spread Shut when Titan goes to bed ; Or a shady bush or tree ; She could more infuse in me Than all Nature's beauties can In some other wiser man." G. WITHER. IN youth from rock to rock I went, From hill to hill in discontent Of pleasure high and turbulent, Most pleased when most uneasy ; But now my own delights I make, My thirst at every rill can slake, And gladly nature's love partake Of thee, sweet daisy ! When winter decks his few gray hairs, Thee in the scanty wreath he wears : Spring parts the clouds with softest airs, That she may sun thee ; * His muse. Whole summer fields are thine by right ; And autumn, melancholy wight ! Doth in thy crimson head delight When rains are on thee. In shoals and bands, a morrice tram, Thou greet 'st the traveller in the lane ; If welcome once thou count 'st it gain ; Thou art not daunted, Nor car'st 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 couched an hour, Have I derived from thy sweet power Some apprehension ; Some steady love ; some brief delight ; Some memory that had taken flight ; Some chime of fancy wrong or right ; Or stray invention. If stately passions in me burn, And one chance look to thee should turn, I drink out of an humbler urn A lowlier pleasure ; The homely sympathy that heeds The common life, our nature breeds ; A wisdom fitted to the needs Of hearts at leisure. When, smitten by the morning ray, I see thee rise, alert and gay, Then, cheerful flower ! my spirits play With kindred gladness : And when, at dusk, by dews opprest T hou sink'st, the image of thy rest Hath often eased my pensive breast Of careful sadness. POEMS OF THE FANCY. 73 And all day long I number yet, All seasons through, another debt, Which I, wherever thou art met, To thee am owing ; An instinct call it, a blind sense ; A happy, genial influence, Coming one knows not how, nor whence, Nor whither going. Child of the year ! that round dost run Thy course, bold lover of the sun, And cheerful when the day's begun As morning leveret, Thy long-lost praise* thou shall regain ; Dear shall thou be to fulure men As in old time ; thou not in vain, Art nature's favourite. A WHIRL-BLAST from behind the hill Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound ; Then all at once the air was still, And showers of hailstones pattered round. Where leafless oaks towered high above, I sat within an undergrove Of tallest hollies, tall and green ; A fairer bower was never seen. From year to year the spacious floor With withered leaves is covered o'er, And all the year the bower is green. But see ! where'er the hailstones drop, The withered leaves all skip and hop, There's not a breeze no breath of air Yet here, and there, and every where Along the floor, beneath the shade By those embowering hollies made, The leaves in myriads jump and spring, As if wilh pipes and music rare Some Robin Good-fellow were there, And all those leaves, in festive glee, Were dancing to the minstrelsy. THE GREEN LINNET. BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on thy head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring's unclouded weather, In this sequestered nook how sweel To sit upon my orchard-seat ! And birds and flowers once more to greet, My last year's friends togelher. * See, in Chaucer and the elder poets, the honours formerly paid to this flower. One have I marked, the happiest guest In all Ihis covert of the blest ; Hail to Ihee, far above Ihe 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 j Make all one band of paramours, I 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. Upon yon tuft of hazel trees, That twinkle to Ihe gusty breeze, Behold him perched in ecstasies, Yet seeming still to hover ; | There ! where the fluller of his wings Upon his back and body flings Shadows and sunny glimmerings, Thai cover him all over. My sighl he dazzles, half deceives, A bird so like 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. THE CONTRAST. WITHIN her gilded cage confined, I saw a dazzling belle, A parrot of that famous kind Whose name is NONPAREIL. Like beads of glossy jet her eyes ; And, smoothed by nalure's skill, With pearl or gleaming agate vies Her finely-curved bill. Her plumy mantle's living hues In mass opposed to mass. Outshine the splendour that imbues The robes of pictured glass. And, sooth to say, an apter mate Did never tempt the choice Of feathered thing most delicate In figure and in voice. POEMS OF THE FANCY. But, exiled from Australian bowers, And singleness her lot, She trills her song with tutored powers, Or mocks each casual note. No more of pity for regrets With which she may have striven ! Now but in wantonness she frets, Or spite, if cause be given ; Arch, volatile, a sportive bird By social glee inspired , Ambitious to be seen or heard, And pleased to be admired ! This moss-lined shed, green, soft, and dry, Harbours a self-contented wren, Not shunning man's abode, though shy, Almost as thought itself, of human ken. Strange places, coverts unendeared She never tried, the very nest In which this child of spring was reared, Is warmed, through winter, by her feathery breast. To the bleak winds she sometimes gives A slender unexpected strain ; That tells the hermitess still lives, [vain. Though she appear not, and be sought in Say, Dora ! tell me by yon placid moon, If called to choose between the favoured pair L sa l on > Which would you be, the bird of the By lady fingers tended with nice care, Caressed, applauded, upon dainties fed, Or nature's DARKLING of this mossy shed ? TO THE SMALL CELANDINE.* 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. Common PUewort- Eyes of some men travel far For the finding of a star ; Up and down the heavens they go, Men that keep a mighty rout ! I'm as great as they, I trow, Since the day I found thee out, Little flower ! I'll make a stir Like a great astronomer. Modest, yet withal an elf Bold, and lavish of thyself ; Since we needs must first have met I have seen thee, high and low, Thirty years or more, and yet 'Twas a face I did not know ; Thou hast now, go where I may, Fifty greetings in a day. Ere a leaf is on a bush, In the time before the thrush Has a thought about its 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 nonf 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 ! Con>fort 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 ! Prophet of delight and mirth, Scorned and slighted upon earth ! Herald of a mighty band, Of a joyous train ensuing. POEMS OF THE FANCY. 75 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. 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 sheltered 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. THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE. " BEGONE, thou fond presumptuous elf," Exclaimed a thundering voice, " Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self Between me and my choice !" A small cascade fresh swoln with snows Thus threatened a poor briar-rose, That, all bespattered with his foam, And dancing high and dancing lov, Was living, as a child might know, In an unhappy home. " Dost thou presume my course to block ? Off, off ! or, puny thing ! I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock To which thy fibres cling." The flood was tyrannous and strong ; The patient briar suffered long, Nor did he utter groan or sigh, Hoping the danger would be past : But, seeing no relief, at last He ventured to reply. " Ah !" said the briar, " blame me not ; Why should we dwell in strife ? We who in this sequestered spot Once lived a happy life ! You stirred me on my rocky bed What pleasure through my veins you spread J The summer long, from day to day, My leaves you freshened and bedewed ; Nor was it common gratitude That did your cares repay. " When spring came on with bud and bel^ Among these rocks did I Before you hang my wreaths, to tell The gentle days were nigh ! And in the sultry summer hours, I sheltered you with leaves and flowers ; And in my leaves now shed and gone, The linnet lodged, and for us two Chanted his pretty songs, when you Had little voice or none. "But now proud thoughts are in your What grief is mine you see. [breast Ah ! would you think, even yet how blest Together we might be ! 76 POEMS OF TtTE FANCY. Though of botti (eat and flower bereft, Some ornaments to me are left Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, With which I in my humble \vay, Would deck you many a winter's day, A happy eglantine !" What more he said I cannot tell, The torrent thundered down the dell With aggravated haste ; I listened, nor aught else could hear ; The briar quaked, and much I fear Those accents were his last. THE OAK AND THE BROOM. A PASTORAL. His simple truths did Andrew glean Beside the babbling rills ; A careful student he had been Among the woods and hills. One winter's night, when through the trees The wind was roaring, on his knees His youngest born did Andrew hold : And while the rest, a ruddy quire, Were seated round their blazing fire, This tale the shepherd told : ' ' I saw a crag, a lofty stone As ever tempest beat ! Out of its head an Oak had grown, A Broom out of its feet. The time was March, a cheerful noon The thaw-wind, with the breath of June, Breathed gently from the warm south-west : When, in a voice sedate with age, This Oak, a giant and a sage, His neighbour thus addressed : " ' Eight weary weeks, through rock and Along this mountain's edge, [clay, The frost hath wrought both night and day, Wedge driving after wedge. Look up ! and think above your head What trouble, surely, will be bred ; Last night I heard a crash 'tis true, The splinters took another road I see them yonder what a load For such a .thing as you ! " ' You are preparing as before, to deck your slender shape ; And yet, just three years back no more You had a strange escape. Down from yon cliff A fragment broke ; In thunder down, with fire and smoke, And hitherward pursued its way : This ponderous block was caught by me, And o'er your head, as you may see, Tis hanging to this day ! " ' The thing had better been asleep Whatever thing it were, Or breeze, or bird, or dog, or sheep, That first did plant you there. For you and your green twigs decoy The little witless shepherd-boy To come and slumber in your bower ; And, trust me, on some sultry noon. Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon Will perish in one hour. " ' From me this friendly warning take'- The Broom began to doze, And thus to keep herself awake Did gently interpose : ' My thanks for your discourse are due ; That more than what you say is true I know, and I have known it long ; Frail is the bond by which we hold Our being whether young or old, Wise, foolish, weak, or strong. " ' Disasters, do the best we can. Will reach both great and small ; And he is oft the wisest man Who is not wise at all. For me, why should I wish to roam ! This spot is my paternal home, It is my pleasant heritage; My father many a happy year Here spent his careless blossoms, here Attained a good old age. ' ' ' Even such as his may be my lot. What cause have I to haunt My heart with terrors ? Am I not In truth a favoured plant ! On me such bounty summer pours, That I am covered o'er with flowers ; And, when the frost is in the sky. My branches are so fresh and gay That you might look at me and say. This plant can never die. " ' The butterfly, all green and gold. To me hath often flown, Here in my blossoms to behold Wings lovely as his own. When grass is chill with rain or dew. Beneath my shade, the mother ewe Lies with her infant lamb ; I see The love 'hey to each other make, And the sweet joy, which they partake. It is a joy to me.' POEMS OF THE FANCY. 77 " Her voice was blithe, her heart was light ; The Broom might have pursued Her speech, until the stars of night Their journey had renewed : But in the branches of the Oak Two ravens now began to croak Their nuptial song, a gladsome air ; And to her own green bower the breeze That instant brought two stripling bees To rest, or murmur there. "One night, my children ! from the north There came a furious blast ; At break of day I ventured forth, And near the cliff I passed. The storm had fallen upon the Oak, And struck him with a mighty stroke, And whirled, and whirled him far away ; And, in one hospitable cleft, The little careless Broom was left To live for many a day." SONG FOR THE SPINNING WHEEL. FOUNDED UPON A BELIEF PREVALENT AMONG THE PASTORAL VALES OF WESTMORELAND. SWIFTLY oirn the murmuring wheel ! Night has brought the welcome hour, When the weary fingers feel Help, as if from faery power ; Dewy night o'ershades the ground ; Turn the swift wheel round and round ! Now, beneath the starry sky, Crouch the widely-scattered sheep ; Ply the pleasant labour, ply ! For the spindle, while they sleep, Runs with motion smooth and fine, Gathering up a trustier line. Short-lived likings may be bred By a glance from fickle eyes ; But true love is like the thread Which the kindly wool supplies, When the flocks are all at rest Sleeping on the mountain's breast. 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 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, Did cover with leaves the little children, So painfully in the wood ? What ailed thee, Robin, that thou couldst 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 indoor sadness, He is the friend of our summer gladness: What hinders, then, that ye should be Playmates in the sunny weather, And fly about in the air together ! His beautiful wings in crimson are drest, A crimson as bright as thine own : If thou wouldst be happy in thy nest, O pious bird ! whom man loves best, Love him, or leave him alone ! THE KITTEN AND THE FALLING LEAVES. THAT way look, Tiy infant, lo ! What a pretty baby show ! See the kitten on the wall, Sporting with the leaves that fall, Withered leaves one two and three From the lofty elder-tree! Through the calm and frosty air Of this morning bright and fair, * 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 eneroy. 78 POEMS OF THE FANCY. Eddying round and round they sink Softly, slowly: one might think, From the motions that are made, Every little leaf conveyed Sylph or faery hither tending, To this lower world descending, Each invisible and mute, In his wavering parachute. But the kitten, how she starts, Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts! First at one, and then its fellow fust as light and just as yellow ; There are many now now one Now they stop; and there are none- What intenseness of desire In her upward eye of fire ! With a tiger-leap half way Now she meets the coming prey, Lets it go as fast, and then Has it in her power again : Now she works with three or four Like an Indian conjuror ; Quick as he in feats of art, Far beyond in joy of heart. Were her antics played in the eye Of a thousand standers-by, Clapping hands with shout and stare, What would little tabby care For the plaudits of the crowd ? Over happy to be proud, Over wealthy in the treasure Of her own exceeding pleasure! Tis a pretty baby-treat, Nor, I deem, for me unmeet; Here, for neither babe nor me, Other playmate can I see. Of the countless living things, That with stir of feet and wings, (In the sun or under shade Upon bough or grassy blade) And with busy revellings, Chirp and song, and murmurings, Made this orchard's narrow space, And this vale so blithe a place; Multitudes are swept away Never more to breathe the day: Some are sleeping; some in bands Travelled into distant lands; Others slunk to moor and wood, Far from human neighbourhood ; And, among the kinds that keep With us closer fellowship, With us openly abide, All have laid their mirth aside. Where is he that giddy sprite, Blue-cap, with his colours bright, Who was blest as bird could be, Feeding in the apple-tree; Made such wanton spoil and rout, Turning blossoms inside out; Hung with head towards the ground, Fluttered, perched, into a round Bound himself, and then unbound ? Lithest, gaudiest harlequin ! Prettiest tumbler ever seen ! Light of heart, and light of limb, What is now become of him ! Lambs that through the mountains went Frisking, bleating merriment, When the year was in its prime, They are sobered by this time. If you look to vale or hill, If you listen, all is still, Save a little neighbouring rill, That from out the rocky ground Strikes a solitary sound. Vainly glitters hill and plain, And the air is calm in vain ; Vainly morning spreads the lure Of a sky serene and pure ; Creature none can she decoy Into open sign of joy : Is it that they have a fear Of the dreary season near ? Or that other pleasures be Sweeter even than gaiety ? Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell In the impenetraole cell Of the silent heart which nature Furnishes to every creature ; Whatsoe'er we feel and know Too sedate for outward show, Such a light of gladness breaks, Pretty kitten ! from thy freaks,^ Spreads with such a living grace O'er my little Laura's face ; Yes, the sight so stirs and charms Thee, baby, laughing in my arms, That almost I could repine That your transports are not mine, That I do not wholly fare Even as ye do, thoughtless pair ! And I will have my careless season Spite of melancholy reason ; Will walk through life in such a way That, when time brings on decay, Now and then I may possess Hours of perfect gladsomeness. Pleased by any random toy ; By a kitten's busy joy, Or an infant's laughing eye Sharing in the ecstasy ; POEMS OF THE FANCY 79 I would fare like that or this, Find my wisdom in my bliss ; Keep the sprightly soul awake. And have faculties to take, Even from things by sorrow wrought, Matter for a jocund thought, Spite of care, and spite of grief, To gambol with life's falling leaf. A FLOWER GARDEN. TELL me, ye zephyrs ! that unfold, While fluttering o'er this gay recess, Pinions that fanned the teeming mould Of Eden's blissful wilderness, Did only softly-stealing hours, There close the peaceful lives of flowers ? Say, when the moving creatures saw All kinds commingled without fear, Prevailed alike indulgent law For the still growths that prosper here ? Did wanton fawn and kid forbear The half-blown rose, the lily spare ? Or peeped they often from their beds And prematurely disappeared, Devoured like pleasure ere it spreads A bosom to the sun endeared ? If such their harsh untimely doom, It falls not here on bud or bloom. All summer long the happy Eve Of this fair spot her flowers may bind, Nor e'er, with ruffled fancy, grieve, From the next glance she casts, to find That love for little, things by fate Is rendered vain as love for great. Vet, where the guardian fence is wound, So subtly is the eye beguiled It sees not nor suspects a bound, No more than in some forest wild ; Free as the light in semblance crost Only by art in nature lost. And, though the jealous turf refuse By random footsteps to be prest, And feeds on never-sullied dews, Ye, gentle breezes from the west, With all the ministers of hope, ^re tempted to this sunny slope ! And hither throngs of birds resort : Some, inmates lodged in shady nests, Some, perched on stems of stately port That nod to welcome transient guests ; While hare and leveret, seen at play. Appear not more shut out than they. Apt emblem (for reproof of pride) | This delicate enclosure shows ' Of modest kindness, that would hide | The firm protection she bestows ; | Of manners, like its viewless fence, Ensuring peace to innocence. Thus spake the moral muse her wing Abruptly spreading to depart, She left that farewell offering, Memento for some docile heart ; That may respect the good old age When fancy was truth's willing page ; [ And truth would skim the flowery glade, Though entering but as fancy's shade. TO THE DAISY. WITH little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Sweet daisy ! oft I talk to thee, For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming common-place Of nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace, Which love makes for thee ! Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes, Loose types of things through all degrees Thoughts of thy raising And many a fond and idle name I give to thee, for praise or blame, As is the humour of the game, While I am gazing. A nun demure, of lowly port ; Or sprightly maiden, of love's court, In thy simplicity the sport Of all temptations ; A queen in crown of rubies drest ; A starveling in a scanty vest ; Are all, as seems to suit thee best, Thy appellations. A little Cyclops, with one eye Staring to threaten and defy, That thought comes next and instantly The freak is over, The shape will vanish, and behold A silver shield with boss of gold, That spreads itself, aome faery bo!d In fight to cover 1 80 POEMR OF THE FANCY 1 see thee glittering from afar ; And then thou art a pretty star ; Not quite so fair as many are In heaven above thee ! Yet like a star, with glittering crest, Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest ;- May peace come never to his nest, Who shall reprove thee ! Sweet flower ! for by that name at last, When all my reveries are past, I call thee, and to that cleave fast, Sweet silent creature ! That breath'st with me in sun and air, Do thou, as thou art wont, repair My heart with gladness, and a share Of thy meek nature ! TO THE SAME FLOWER. BRIGHT flower, whose home is everywhere ! A pilgrim bold in nature's care, And all the long year through the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some cone rd with humanity, Given to no other flower I see The forest thorough ! f s it that man is soon deprest ? A thoughtless thing ! who, once unblest, Does little on his memory rest, Or on his reason ; But thou wouldst teach him how to find A shelter under every wind, A hope for times that are unkind And every season. Thou wander 'st the wide world about, Unchecked by pride or scrupulous doubt, With friends to greet thee, or without, Yet pleased and willing ; Meek, yielding to the occasion's call, And all things suffering from all, Thy function apostolical In peace fulfilling. TO A SKY-LARK. UP with me ! up with me into the clouds ! For thy song, lark, is strong ; Up with me, up with me into the clouds ! Singing, singing, With clouds and sky about thee ringing, Lift me, guide me till I find That spot which seems so to thy mind I have walked through wildernesses dreary, And to-day my heart is weary ; Had I now the wings of a faery Up to thee would I fly. There is madness about thee, and joy divine In that song of thine ; Up with me, up with 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 wouldst be loth To be such a ^raveller as I. Happy, happ/ ]iver, 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 Tcind, As full of gladness and as free of heaven, I, with my fate contented, will plod on, And hope for higher raptures, when life'' dav is done. TO A SEXTON. LET thy wheelbarrow alone Wherefore, sexton, piling still In thy bone-house bone on bone? 'Tis already like a hill In a field of battle made, Where three thousand skulls are laid ; These died in peace each with the other, Father, sister, friend, and brother. Mark the spot to which I point ! From this platform, eight feet square, Take not even a finger joint : Andrew's whole fire-side is there. Here, alone, before thine eyes, Simon's sickly daughter lies, From weakness now, and pain defended Whom he twenty winters tended. Look but at the gardener's pride How he glories, when he sees Roses, lilies, side by side, Violets in families ! By the heart of man, his tears, By his hopes and by his fears, Thou, old grey-beard ! art the warden Of a far superior garden. POEMS OF THE FANCY. 81 then, each to other dear, Let them all in quiet lie, Andrew there, and Susan here, Neighbours in mortality. And, should I live through sun and rain Seven widowed years without my Jane, O sexton, do not then remove her, Let one grave hold the loved and lover ! THE CORONET OF SNOWDROPS. WHO fancied what a pretty sight This rock would be if edged around With living snowdrops ? circlet bright ! How glorious to this orchard-ground ! Who loved the little rock, and set Upon its head this coronet? Was it the humour of a child ? Or rather of some love-sick maid, Whose brows, the day that she was styled The shepherd queen, were thus arrayed ? Of man mature, or matron sage ? Or old-man toying with his age ? I asked 'twas whispered The device To each and all might well belong : It is the spirit of Paradise That prompts such work, a spirit strong, That gives to all the self-same bent Where life is wise and innocent. SONG FOR THE WANDERING JEW. THOUGH the torrents from their fountains Roar down many a craggy steep, Yet they find among the mountains Resting-places calm and deep. Clouds that love through air to hasten, Ere the storm its fury stills, Helmet-like themselves will fasten On the heads of towering hills. What, if through the frozen centre Of the Alps the chamois bound, Yet he has a home to enter In some nook of chosen ground. If on windy days the raven Gambol like a dancing skiff, Not the less she loves her haven la the bo?om of the cliff Though the sea-horse in the oceao Own no dear domestic cave, Yet he slumbers by the motion Rocked of many a gentle wave. The fleet ostrich, till day closes Vagrant over desert sands, Brooding on her eggs reposes When chill night that care demands. Pay and night my toils redouble, Never nearer to the goal ; Night and day, I feel the trouble Of the wanderer in my soul. THE SEVEN SISTERS ; OR, THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE. SEVEN daughters had Lord Archibald, All children of one mother : I could not say in one short da) W lat love they bore each other. A garland of seven lilies wrought ! Seven sisters that together dwell ; But he, bold knight as ever fought, Their father, took of them no though 1 . He loved the wars so well. Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully. The solitude of Binnorie ! Fresh blows the wind, a western wind And from the shores of Erin, Across the wave, a rover brave To Binnorie is steering : Right onward to the Scottish strand The gallant ship is borne ; The warriors leap upon the land, And hark ! the leader of the band Hath blown his bugle horn. Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie. Beside a grotto of their own, With boughs above them closing, The seven are laid, and in the shade They lie like fawns reposing. But now, upstarting with affright At noise of man and steed, Away they fly to left, to right Of your fair household, father knight, Methinks you take small heed ! Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie. Away the seven fair Campbells fly, And, over hill and hollow, With menace proud, and insult loult The youthful rovers follow POEMS OF THE FANCY. Cried they, " Your father loves to roam : Enough for him to find The empty house when he comes home ; For us your yellow ringlets comb, For us be fair and kind !" Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie. Some close behind, some side by side, Like clouds in stormy weather, They run, and cry, ' ' Nay let us die, And let us die together." A lake was near ; the shore was steep ; There never foot had been ; They ran, and with a desperate leap Together plunged into the deep, Nor ever more were seen. Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie. The stream that flows out of the lake, As through the glen it rambles, Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone, For those seven lovely Campbells. Seven little islands, green and bare, Have risen from out the deep : The fishers say, those sisters fair By fairies are all buried there, And there together sleep. Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie. THE DANISH BOY. BETWEEN two sister moorland rills There is a spot that seems to lie Sacred to flowerets of the hills, And sacred to the sky. And in this smooth and open dell There is a tempest-stricken tree ; A corner-stone by lightning cut, The last stone of a cottage hut ; And in this dell you see A thing no storm can e'er destroy, The shadow of a Danish boy.* In clouds above, the lark is heard, But drops not here to earth for rest * These stanzas were designed to introduce a ballad upon the story of a Danish prince who had fled from battle, and for the sake of the valuables about him, was murdered by the inhabitant of a cottage in which he had taken refuge. The house fell under a curse, and the spirit of the youth, it was believed, haunted the valley where the crime had been committed. Within this nook the lonesome bird Did never build her nest. No beast, no bird hath here his home Bees, wafted on the breezy air, Pass high above those fragrant bells To other flowers ; to other dells Their burthens do they bear ; The Danish boy walks here alone : The lovely dell is all his own. A spirit of noon-day is he ; He seems a form of flesh and blood ; Nor piping shepherd shall he be, Nor herd-boy of the wood. A regal vest of fur he wears, In colour like a raven 'swing ; It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew ; But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue As budding pines in spring ; His helmet was a vernal grace, Fresh as the bloom upon his face A harp is from his shoulder slung ; He rests the harp upon his knee ; And there, in a forgotten tongue, He warbles melody. Of flocks upon the neighbouring hill He is the darling and the joy ; And often, when no cause appears, The mountain ponies prick their ears, They hear the Danish boy, While in the dell he sits alone Beside the tree and corner-stone. There sits he : in his face you spy No trace of a ferocious air, Nor ever was a cloudless sky So steady or so fair. The lovely Danish boy is blest And happy in his flowery cove : From bloody deeds his thoughts are far And yet he warbles songs of war, That seem like songs of love, For calm and gentle is his mien ; Like a dead boy he is serene. THE PILGRIM'S DREAM ; OR, THE STAR AND THE GLOW-WORM. A PILGRIM, when the summer day Had closed upon his weary way, A lodging begged beneath a castle's roof ; But him the haughty warder spurned ; And from the J;ate the pilgrim turned, To seek such c overt as the field Or heath-bespi inkled copse might yield, Or lofty wood, shower-proof. POEMS OF THE FANCY. 83 He paced along ; and, pensively, Halting beneath a shady tree, Whose moss-grown root might serve for couch or seat, Fixed on a star his upward eye ; Then, from the tenant of the sky He turned, and watched with kindred look, A glow-worm, in a dusky nook, Apparent at his feet. The murmur of a neighbouring stream Induced a soft and slumbrous dream, A pregnant dream, within whose shadowy bounds He recognised the earth-born star, And that which glittered from afar ; And (strange to witness !) from the frame Of the ethereal orb, there came Intelligible sounds. Much did it taunt the humbler light That now, when day was fled, and night Hushed the dark earth fast closing weary eyes, A very reptile could presume To show her taper in the gloom, As if in rivalship with one Who sate a ruler on his throne Erected in the skies. " Exalted star !" the worm replied. "Abate this unbecoming pride, Or with a less uneasy lustre shine ; Thou shrink'st as momently thy rays Are mastered by the breathing haze ; While neither mist, nor thickest cloud That shapes in heaven its murky shroud, Hath power to injure mine. " But not for this do I aspire To match the spark of local fire, That at my will burns on the dewy lawn, With thy acknowledged glories ; No ! Yet, thus upbraided, I may show What favours do attend me here, Till, like thyself, I disappear Before the purple dawn." When this in modest guise was said, Across the welkin seemed to spread A boding sound for aught but sleep unfit ! Hills quaked the rivers backward ran That star, so proud of late, looked wan ; And reeled with visionary stir In the blue depth, like Lucifer Cast headlong to the pit ! Fire raged, and when the spangled floor Of ancient ether was no more, New heavens succeeded, by the dream brought forth : And all the happy souls that rode j Transfigured through that fresh abode, i Had heretofore, in humble trust, Shone meekly 'mid their native dust, The glow-worms of the earth ! This knowledge, from an angel's voice Proceeding, made the heart rejoice Of him who slept upon the open lea : Waking at morn he murmured not; And, till life's journey closed, the spot Was to the pilgrim's soul endeared, Where by that dream he had been cheered Beneath the shady tree. HINT FROM THE MOUNTAINS FOR CERTAIN POLITICAL PRETENDERS^ "WHO but hails the sight with pleasure When the wings of genius rise, Their ability to measure With great enterprise ; But in man was ne'er such daring As yon hawk exhibits, pairing His brave spirit with the war in The stormy skies ! "Mark him, how his power he uses. Lays it by, at will resumes ! Mark, ere for his haunt he chooses Clouds and utter glooms ! There he wheels in downward mazes; Sunward now his flight he raises, Catches fire, as seems, and blazes With uninjured plumes ! " ANSWER. ' ' Stranger, 'tis no act of courage Which aloft thou dost discern ; No bold bird gone forth to forage 'Mid the tempest stern; But such mockery as the nations See, when public perturbations Lift men from their native stations. Like yon TUFT OF FERN; "Such it is; the aspiring creature Soaring on undaunted wing (So you fancied) is by nature A dull helpless thing, POEMS OF THE FANCY. Dry and withered, light and yellow; That to be the tempest's fellow ! Wait and you shall see how hollow Its endeavouring ! " STRAY PLEASURES. " Pleasure is spread through the earth fit 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 ! [them all ; The platform is small, but gives room for 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, [given; They from morning to even take whatever is 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. Men 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; [cares, A.nd if they had care, it has scattered their While they dance, crying, " Long as ye please ! " They dance not for me, Yet mine is their glee ! Thus pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts, to be claimed by whoever shall find; [kind, Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly : 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; [his brother; Each wave, one and t'other, speeds after They are happy, for that is their right ! ON SEEING A NEEDLECASE IN THE FORM OF A HARP, THE WORK OF E. M. S. FROWNS are on every muse's face, Reproaches from their lips are sent, That miir.ickry should thus disgrace The noble instrument. A very harp in all but size ! Needles for strings in apt gradation ! Minerva's self would stigmatize The unclassic profanation. Even her own needle that subdued Arachne's rival spirit, Though wrought in Vulcan's happiest mood, Like station could not merit. And this, too, from the laureate's child, A living lord of melody ! How will her sire be reconciled To the refined indignity? I spake, when whispered a low voice, " Bard ! moderate your ire ; Spirits of all degrees rejoice In presence of the lyre. ' ' The minstrels of pygmean bands, Dwarf genii, moonlight-loving fays, Have shells to fit their tiny hands And suit their slender lays. " Some, still more delicate of ear, Have lutes (believe my words) Whose framework is of gossamer, While sunbeams are the chords. "Gay sylphs this miniature will court, Made vocal by their brushing wings, And sullen gnomes will learn to sport Around its polished strings; " Whence strains to love-sick maiden dear, While in her lonely bower she tries To cheat the thought she cannot cheer, By fanciful embroideries. ' ' Trust, angry bard ! a knowing sprite, Nor think the harp her lot deplores; Though 'mid the stars the lyre shines bright, Love stools as fondly as he soars." POEMS OF THE FANCY. 85 ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER, ON BEING REMINDED, THAT SHE WAS A MONTH OLD ON THAT DAY. 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, [methinks, Frail, feeble monthling ! by that name, Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out Not idly. Hadst thou been of Indian birth, Couched on a casual bed of moss and leaves, And rudely canopied by leafy boughs, Or to the churlish elements exposed On the blank plains, the coldness of the night, Or the night's darkness, or its cheerful face Of beauty, by the changing moon adorned, Would, with imperious admonition, then Have scored thine age, and punctually timed Thine infant history, on the minds of those Who might have wandered with thee. Mother's love, Nor less than mother's love in other breasts, Will, among 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 solemnize thy helpless stata 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. [stain: Fair are ye both, and both are free from 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 travell'st so contentedly, and sleep 'st In such a heedless peace. Alas ! full soon Hath this conception, grateful to behold, Changed countenance, like an object sullied o'er By breathing mist ! and thine appears to be A mournful labour, while to her is given Hope and a renovation without end, That smile forbids the thought; for on thy face [dawn, Smiles are beginning, like the beams of 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 smile? 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, [arrived, Which, when the appointed season hath Joy, as her holiest language, shall adopt; And reason's go Bike power be proud to own. of % Jfmajgmatton:. 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 [mouth Pressed closely palm to palm and to his 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, [loud And long halloos, and screams, and echoes Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild Of mirth and jocund din! And, when it chanced That pauses of deep silence mocked his skill, Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise Has carried far into his heart the voice Of mountain torrents; or the visible scene Would enter unawares into his mind With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received Into the bosom of the steady lake. This boy was taken from his mates, and died [old. In childhood, ere he was full twelve years Fair is the spot, most beautiful the vale Where he was born: the grassy church-yard hangs Upon a slope above the village school; And through that church-yard when my way has led At evening, I believe, that oftentimes A long half-hour together I have stood Mute looking at the grave in which he lies! TO , OK HER FIRST ASCENT TO THE SUMMIT OF HELVELLYN. INMATE ot a mountain-dwelling, Thou hast clomb aloft, and gazed, From the watch-towers of Helvellyn ; Awed, delighted, and amazed Potent was the spell that bound thee, Not unwilling to obey ; For blue ether's arms, flung round thee Stilled the pantings of dismay. Lo! the dwindled woods and meadows ! What a vast abyss is there ! Lo! the clouds, the solemn shadows, And the glistenings heavenly fair ! And a record of commotion Which a thousant ridges yield; Ridge, and gulf, and distant ocean Gleaming like a silver shield! Take thy flight; possess, inherit Alps or Andes they are thine ! With the morning's roseate spirit, Sweep their length of snowy line ; Or survey the bright dominions In the gorgeous colours drest, Flung from off the purple pinions, Evening spreads throughout the west ! Thine are all the choral fountains Warbling in each sparry vault Of the untrodden lunar mountains ; Listen to their songs ! or halt, To Niphate's top invited, Whither spiteful Satan steered ; Or descend where the ark alighted. When the green earth re-appeared ; For the power of hills is on thee, As was witnessed through thine eye Then, when old Helvellyn won thee To confess their majesty ! TO THE CUCKOO. BLITHE new-comer ! I have heard 1 hear thee and rejoice. O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice ? While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear, From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off and near. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 87 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 I listened to ; that cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky. To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green ; And thou wert still a hope, a love ; Still longed for, never seen. And I can listen to thee yet ; Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again. O blessed bird ! the earth we pace Again appears to be An unsubstantial faery place ; That is fit home for thee ! A NIGHT-PIECE. THE sky is overcast With a continuous cloud of texture close, Heavy and wan, all whitened by the moon, Which through that veil is indistinctly seen, A dull, contracted circle, yielding light So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls, Chequering the ground from rock, plant, tree, or tower. At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam Startles the pensive traveller while he treads His lonesome path, with unobserving eye Bent earthwards : he looks up the clouds are split Asunder, and above his head he sees The clear moon, and the glory of the heavens. There, in a black blue vault she sails along Followed by multitudes of stars, that, smal And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss Drive as she drives ; how fast they whee away, Yet vanish not ! the wind is in the tree, But they are silent ; still they roll along Immeasurably distant ; and the vault, Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, Still deepens its unfathomable depth. At length the vision closes ; and the mind, undisturbed by the delight it feels, Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, s left to muse upon the solemn scene. WATER-FOWL. ' Let me be allowed the aid of verse to describe the evolutions which these visitants sometimes perform, on a fine day towards the close of winter." Extract from the Author's Bookon the Lakes. MARK how the feathered tenants of theflood, With grace of motion that might scarcely Inferior to angelical, prolong [seem Their curious pastime ! shaping in mid air (And sometimes with ambitious wing thpt soars High as the level of the mountain tops) A circuit ampler than the lake beneath, Their own domain ; but ever, while intent On tracing and retracing that large round, Their jubilant activity evolves Hundreds of curves and circles, to and fro, Upward and downward, progress intricate Yet unperplexed, as if one spirit swayed Their indefatigable flight. 'Tis done Ten times, or more, I fancied it had ceased; But lo ! the vanished company again Ascending ; they approach 1 hear their wings [sound Faint, faint at first ; and then an eager Past in a moment and as faint again ! They tempt the sun to sport amid their plumes ; They tempt the water, or the gleaming ice, To show them a fair image ; 'tis them- selves, [plain, Their own fair forms, upon the glimmering Painted more soft and fair as they descend Almost to touch ; then up again aloft, Up with a sally and a flash of speed, As if they scorned both resting-place and rest! ^ YEW-TREES. THERE is a yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, Which to this daystands single, in themidst 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 88 POEMS OP THE IMAGINATION. 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 Of intertwisted fibres serpentine Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved, Nor uninformed with phantasy, and looks That threaten the profane ; a pillared shade, [hue, Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown 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. ' VIEW FROM THE TOP OF BLACK COMB.* THIS height a ministering angel might select . [name For from the summit of Black Comb (dread Derived from clouds and storms !} the amplest range Of unobstructed prospect may be seen That British ground commands : low dusky tracts, [Cambrian hills Where Trent is nursed, far southward ! To the south-west, a multitudinous show ; And, in a line of eye-sight linked with these, The hoary peaks of Scotland that give birth To Teviot's stream, to Annan, Tweed, and Clyde ; * Black Comb stands at the southern extre- mity of Cumberland ; its base covers a much greater extent of ground than any other moun- tain in these parts; and, from its situation, the summit commands a more extensive view than sny other point iu Britain. Crowding the quarter whence the sun comes forth Gigantic mountains rough with crags, beneath, [base, Right at the imperial station's western Main Ocean, breaking audibly and stretched Far into silent regions blue and pale ; And visibly engirding Mona's Isle, That, as we left the plain, before our sight Stood like a lofty mount, uplifting slowly, (Above the convex of the watery globe) Into clear view the cultured fields that streak Her habitable shores ; but now appears A dwindled object, and submits to lie At the spectator's feet. Yon azure ridge, Is it a perishable cloud ? Or there Do we behold the frame of Erin's coast ? Land sometimes by the roving shepherd swain (Like the bright confines of another world) Not doubtfully perceived. Look home- ward now ! In depth, in height, in circuit, how serene The spectacle, how pure ! Of nature's works, In earth, and air, and earth-embracing sen, A revelation infinite it seems ; Display august of man's inheritance, Of Britain's calm felicity and power. 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 shoulder slung, A nutting-crook in hand, and turned my steps Towards the distant woods, a figure quaint, Tricked out in proud disguise of cast oft 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, [woods, More ragged than need was ! Among the 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 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 89 Drooped with its withered leaves, un- gracious sign Of devastation, but the hazels rose [hung, Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters 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 1 played ; A temper known to those, who, after long And weary expectation, have been blest With sudden happiness beyond all hope. Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves The violets of five seasons re-appear And fade, unseen by any human eye ; Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on For ever, and I saw the sparkling foam, And with my cheek on one of those green stones [trees, That, fleeced with moss, beneath the shady Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep, [sound, t heard the murmur and the murmuring 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, [away Even then, when from the bower I turned 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. 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 dawu ; A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay. I saw her upon nearer view, A spirit, yet a woman too ! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty ; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet ; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food ; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine ; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller betwixt 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. NIGHTINGALE ! thou surely art A creature of a fiery heart : [pierce ; These notes of thine they pierce and 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 ! THREE yeafs 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. 90 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. " Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse : and with me The girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain. "She shall be sportive as the fawn That wild with glee across the lawn Or up the mountain springs ; And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm Of mute insensate things. " The floating clouds their state shall lend To her ; for her the willow bend : Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the storm Grace that shall mould the maiden's form By silent sympathy. ' ' The stars of midnight shall be dear To her ; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face. " And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell ; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell." Thus nature spake the work was done How soon my Lucy's race was run ! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm and quiet scene ; The memory of what has been, And never more will be. A SLUMBER did my spirit seal ; I had no human fears : She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years. No motion has she now, no force ; She neither hears nor sees, * Rolled round in earth's diurnal cours With rocks and stones and trees ! THE HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE.* WHEN the brothers reached the gateway, Eustace pointed with his lance To the horn which there was hanging ; Horn of the inheritance. Horn it was which none could sound, No one upon living ground, Save he who came as rightful heir To Egremont's domains and castle fair. Heirs from ages without record Had the house of Lucie born, Who of right had claimed the lordshij. By the proof upon the horn : Each at the appointed hour Tried the horn, it owned his power ; He was acknowledged : and the blast, Which good Sir Eustace sounded was the last. With his lance Sir Eustace pointed, And to Hubert thus said he "What I speak this horn shall witness For thy better memory. Hear, then, and neglect me not ! At this time, and on this spot, The words are uttered from my heart, As my last earnest prayer ere we depart, ' ' On good service we are going Life to risk by sea and land, In which course if Christ our Saviour Do my sinful soul demand, Hither come thou back straightway, Hubert, if alive that day ; Return, and sound the horn, that we May have a living house still left in thee !" " Fear not !" quickly answered Hubert ; " As I am thy father's son, What thou askest, noble brother, With God's favour shall be done." So were both right well content : From the castle forth they went, And at the head of their array To Palestine the brothers took their way Side by side they fought, (the Lucies Were a line for valour famed,) And where'er their strokes alighted, There the Saracens were tamed. * This story is a Cumberland tradition : I have heard it also related of the Hall of Hutton John, an ancient residence of the Huddlestones, in a sequestered valley upon the river Dacor. POEMS OP THE IMAGINATION. 91 Whence, then, could it come the thought By what evil spirit brought ? Oh ! can a brave man wish to take [sake ? His brother's life, for lands and castle's "Sir !" the ruffians said to Hubert, "* Deep he lies in Jordan's flood," Stricken by this ill assurance, Pale and trembling Hubert stood. "Take your earnings." Oh ! that I Could have seen my brother die ! It was a pang that vexed him then ; And oft returned, again, and yet again. Months passed on, and no Sir Eustace ! Nor of him were tidings heard. Wherefore, bold as day, the murderer Back again to England steered. To his castle Hubert sped ; He has nothing now to dread. But silent and by stealth he came, And at an hour which nobody could name. None could tell if it were night-time, Night or day, at even or morn ; For the sound was heard by no one Of the proclamation-horn. But bold Hubert lives in glee : Months and years went smilingly ; With plenty was his table spread ; And bright the lady is who shares his bed. Likewise he had sons and daughters ; And, as good men do, he sate At his board by these surrounded, Flourishing in fair estate. And while thus in open day Once he sate, as old books say, A blast was uttered from the horn, Where by the castle-gate it hung forlorn. Tis the breath of good Sir Eustace ! He is come to claim his right : Ancient castle, woods, and mountains Hear the challenge with delight. Hubert ! though the blast be blown He is helpless and alone : Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word ! And there he may be lodged, and thou be lord. Speak ! astounded Hubert cannot ; And if power to speak he had, All are daunted, all the household Smitten to the heart, and sad. 'Tis Sir Eustace , if it be Living man, it must be he ! Thus Hubert thought in his dismay, And by a postern-gate he slunk away. Long, and long was he unheard of : To his brother then he came, Made confession, asked forgiveness, Asked it by a brother's name, And by all the saints in heaven ; And of Eustace was forgiven : Then in a convent went to hide His melancholy head, and there he died. But Sir Eustace, whom good angels Had preserved from murderers' hands, And from pagan chains had rescued, Lived with honour on his lands. Sons he had, saw sons of theirs : And through ages, heirs of heirs, A long posterity renowned, [sound. Sounded the horn which they alone could 1OODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL. A TRUE STORY. OH! what's the matter? what's the matter 1 What is't that ails young Harry Gill ? That evermore his teeth they chatter, Chatter, chatter, chatter still ! Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, Good duffle grey, and flannel fine , He has a blanket on his back, And coats enough to smother nine. In March, December, and in July, 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill ; The neighbours tell, and tell you truly, His teeth they chatter, chatter still ! At night, at morning, and at noon, 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill ; Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, His teeth they chatter, chatter still 5 Young Harry was a lusty drover. And who so stout of limb as he ? His cheeks were red as ruddy clover ; HU voice was like the voice of three. Old Goody Blake was old and poor ; 111 fed she was, and thinly clad ; And any man who passed her door Might see how poor a hut she had. All day she spun in her poor dwelling : And then her three hours' work at night, Alas ! 'twas hardly worth the telling, It would not pay for candle-light. Remote from sheltered village green, On a hill's northern side she dwelt, Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean, | And hoary dews are slow to melt. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. By the same fire to boil their pottage, Two poor old dames, as I have known, Will often live in one small cottage ; But she, poor woman ! housed alone. Twas well enough when summer came, The long, warm, lightsome summer-day, Then at her door the canty Dame Would sit, as any linnet gay. But when the ice our streams did fetter, Oh ! then how her old bones would shake, You would have said, if you had met her, Twas a hard time for Goody Blake. Her evenings then were dull and dead ! Sad case it was, as you may think, For very cold to go to oed ; And then for cold not sleep a wink. Oh, joy for her ! whene'er in winter The winds at night had made a rout ; And scattered many a lusty splinter And many a rotten bough about. Yet never had she, well or sick, As every man who knew her says, A pile beforehand, turf or stick, Enough to warm her for three days. Now, when the frost was past enduring, And made her poor old bones to ache, Could anything be more alluring Than an old hedge to Goody Blake ? And, now and then, it must be said, When her old bones were cold and chill, She left her fire, or left her bed, To seek the hedge of Harry Gill. Now Harry he had long suspected This trespass of old Goody Blake ; And vowed that she should be detected, And he on her would vengeance take. And oft from his warm fire he'd go, And to the fields his road would take. And there, at night, in frost and snow, He watched to seize old Goody Blake. And once, behind a rick of barley, Thus looking out did Harry stand : The moon was full and shining clearly, And crisp with frost the stubble land. He hears a noise he's all awake Again ! on tip-toe down the hill He softly creeps 'Tis Goody Blake, She's at the hedge of Harry Gill. Right glad was he when he beheld her : Stick after stick did Goody pull : He stood behind a bush of elder, Till she had filled her apron full. When with her load she turned about, The by-way back again to take ; He started forward with a shout, And sprang upon poor Goody Blake. And fiercely by the arm he took her, And by the arm he held her fast, And fiercely by the arm he shook her, And cried, " I've caught you, then, at last ! " Then Goody, who had nothing said, Her bundle from her lap let fall ; And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed To God that is the judge of all. She prayed, her withered hand uprearing l While Harry held her by the arm ' ' God ! who art never out of hearing, Oh, may he never more be warm ! " The cold, cold moon above her head, Thus on her knees did Goody pray, Young Harry heard what she had said : And icy cold he turned away He went complaining all the morrow That he was cold and very chill : His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow : Alas ! that day for Harry Gill ! That day he wore a riding-coat, But not a whit the warmer he : Another was on Thursday brought, And ere the Sabbath he had three. Twas all in vain, a useless matter And blankets were about him pinned ; Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter. Like a loose casement in the wind. And Harry's flesh it fell away ; And all who see him say, 'tis plain, That, live as long as live he may, He never will be warm again. No word to any man he utters, A-bed or up, to young or old ; But ever to himself he mutters, " Poor Harry Gill is very cold." A-bed or up, by night or day ; His teeth they chatter, chatter still. Now think, ye farmers all, I pray, Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill. 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 ; POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 93 Beside the lake, beneath the trees. Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shint 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 Outdid the sparkling waves in glee : A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company : T gazed and gazed but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought For jft 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. THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN. AT the corner of Wood Street, when day- light appears, [for three years : Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has sung Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard [bird. In the silence of morning the song of the 'Tis a note of enchantment ; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees ; Bright volumes of vapour through Loth- bury glide, [Cheapside. And a river flows on through the vale of Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, [her pail ; Down which she so often has tripped with And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's [loves. The one only dwelling on earth that she She looks, and her heart is in heaven : but they fade, . [shade : The mist and the river, the hill and the The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, [her eyes. And the colours have all passed away from POWER OF MUSIC. AN Orpheus ! an Orpheus ! yes, faith may grow bold, [ O i d ; _ And take to herself all the wonders of Near the stately Pantheon you'll meet with the same [i ts name. In the street that irom Oxford hath borrowed His station is there ; and he works on the crowd, fi oud . He sways them with harmony merry and He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim [him ? Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and What an eager assembly ! what an empire is this ! [bliss ; The weary have life and the hungry have The mourner is cheered, and the anxious have rest ; [opprest. And the guilt-burthened soul is no longer 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, [on back And the pale-visaged baker's, with basket That errand-bound 'prentice was passing in haste [runs to waste What matter ! he's caught and his time The newsman is stopped, though he stops on the fret, [in the net ! And the half-breathless lamplighter he's The porter sits down on the weight which he bore ; [her store ; The lass with her barrow wheels hither If a thief could be here he might pilfer at ease ; She sees the musician, tis all that she sees ! He stands, backed by the wall ; he abates not his din ; [ping in. His hat gives him vigour, with boons drop From the old and the young, from the poorest ; and there ! [spare. The one-pennied boy has his penny to Oh, blest are the hearers, and proud be the hand [thankful a band ; Of the pleasure it spreads through so I am glad for him, blind as he is ! all the while \\fith a smile. If thev speak 'tis to praise, and they praise 94. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 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 ! [tree. The music stirs in him like wind through a Mark that cripple who leans on his crutch ; like a tower That long has leaned forward, leans hour after hour ! [bound, That mother, whose spirit in fetters is While she dandles the babe in her arms to the sound. Now, coaches and chariots ! roar on like a stream ; f dream : Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a 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 . [little boat, Long is it as a barber's pole, or mast of Some little pleasure-skiff, that doth on Thames's waters float. 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, And envies him that's looking what an insight must it be ! Yet, showman, where can lie the cause? Shall thy implement have blame, A boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is put to shame ? Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes in fault ? Their eyes, or minds ? or, finally, is this resplendent vault ? Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as we have here ? Or gives a thing but small delight that never can be dear? The silver moon with all her vales, and hills of mightiest fame, Doth she betray us when they're seen ! or are they but a name ? Or is it rather that conceit rapacious ia and strong, And bounty never yields so much but it seems to do her wrong ? Or is it that when human souls a journey long have had, And are returned into themselves they cannot but be sad ? Or must we be constrained to think that these spectators rude, Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude, Have souls which never yet have risen, and therefore prostrate lie ? No, no, this cannot be men thirst for power and majesty ! Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful mind employ Of him v/ho 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 thej who pry and pore Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than before ; One after one they take their turn, nor have I one espied That doth not slackly go away, as if dis- satisfied. THE HAUNTED TREE. TO THOSE silver clouds collected round the sun [less His mid-day warmth abate not, seeming To overshade than multiply his beams i By soft reflection grateful to the sky, i To rocks, fields, woods. Nor doth our human sense Ask, for its pleasure, screen or canopy More ample than the time-dismantled oak Spreads o'er this tuft of heath, which now, attired In the whole fulness of its bloom, affords Couch beautiful as e'er for earthly use [art, Was fashioned ; whether by the hand of That eastern sultan, amid flowers en- wrought On silken tissue, might diffuse his limbs POEMS OS THE IMAGINATION. In languor ; or, by nature, for repose Of panting wood-nymph wearied by the P lady ! fairer in thy poet's sight [chase. Than fairest spiritual creature of the groves, Approach and thus invited crown with j rest [there are I The noon-tide hour ; though truly some { Whose footsteps superstitiously avoid This venerable tree ; for, when the wind Blows keenly, it sends forth a creaking sound (Above the general roar of woods and crags) Distinctly heard from far a doleful note ! As if (so Grecian shepherds would have deemed) The Hamadryad, pent within, bewailed Some bitter wrong. Nor is it unbelieved, By ruder fancy, that a troubled ghost Haunts this old trunk ; lamenting deeds of which [wind The flowery ground is conscious. But no Sweeps now along this elevated ridge ; Not even a zephyr stirs ; the obnoxious tree [down, Is mute, - and, in his silence, would look O lovely wanderer of the trackless hills, On thy reclining form with more delight Than his coevals, in the sheltered vale Seem to participate, the whilst they view Their own far str-t. ung arms and leafy heads Vividly pictured in some glassy pool, That, for a brief space, checks the hurrying stream ! 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 art, grazing, Their heads never raising ; There are forty feeding like one ! Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill ; The plough-boy is whooping anon anon: There's joy in the mountains ; There s life in the fountains ; Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing ; The rain is over and gone ! GIPSIES. YET are they here the same unbroken knot Of human beings, in the self-same spot ! Men, women, children, yea, the frame Of the whole spectacle the same 1 Only their fire seems bolder, yielding light, Now deep and red, the colouring of night , That on their gipsv-faces falls, Their bed of straw and blanket-walls. Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours, are gone, while 1 Have been a traveller under open sky, Much witnessing of change and cheer Yet as I left I find them here ! The weary sv.n betook himself to rest, Then issued vesper from the fulgent west, Outshining like a visible god The glorious path in which he trod. And now, ascending, after one dark hour And one night's diminution of her power, Behold the mighty moon ! this way She looks as if at them but they Regard not her : oh better wrong and strife, (By. nature transient; than such torpid life ; Life which the very stars reprove As on their silent tasks they move ! Yet witness all that stirs in heaven or earth ! In scorn I speak not ; they are what their birth And breeding suffer them to be ; Wild outcasts of society ! BEGGARS. SHE had a tall man's height, or more ; No bonnet screened her from the heat ; Nor claimed she service from the hood Of a blue mantle, to her feet Depending with a graceful flow ; Only she wore a cap pure as unsullied 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 amone the Grecia;: isles. 96 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. Her suit no faltering scruples checked ; Forth did she pour, in current free, Tales that could challenge no respect But from a blind credulity; And yet a boon I gave her ; for the creature Was beautiful to see a weed of glorious feature : I left her and pursued my way; And soon before me did espy A pair of little boys at play, Chasing a crimson butterfly: The taller followed with his hat in hand, Wreathed round with yellow flowers the gayest of the land. The other wore a rimless crown With leaves of laurel stuck about; And, while both followed up and down, Each whooping with a merry shout, 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 might flit Precursors of Aurora's car, Scattering fresh flowers ; though happier far, I ween, To hunt their fluttering game o'er rock and level green. They dart across my path but lo, Each ready with a plaintive whine ! Said I, " Not half an hour ago Vour mother has had alms of mine." "That cannot be," one answered "she is dead " I looked reproof they saw but neither hung his head. " She has been dead, sir, many a day." ' ' Sweet boys ; Heaven hears that rash reply ; It was your mother, as I say !" And, in the twinkling of an eye, " Come ! come !" cried one, and without more ado, [flew ! Off to some other play the joyous vagrants SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING, COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER. WHERE are they now, those wanton boys? For whose free range the daedal earth \Vas 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 1 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 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 ! 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. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 97 And she had made a pipe of straw, And from that paten 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 live-long day, She grew to woman's height. There came a youth from Georgia's shore A military casque he wore, With splendid feathers drest ; He brought them from the Cherokees ; The feathers nodded in the breeze, And made a gallant crest. From Indian blood you deem him sprung : Ah no ! he spake the English tongue, And bore a soldier's name ; And, when America was free From battle and from jeopardy, He 'cross the ocean came. With hues of genius on his cheek In finest tones the youth could speak. While he was yet a boy, The moon, the glory of the sun, And streams that murmur as they run, Had been his dearest joy. He was a lovely youth ! I guess The panther in the wilderness Was not so fair as he ; And when he chose to sport and play, No dolphin ever was so gay Upon the tropic sea. Among the Indians he had fought ; And with him many tales he brought Of pleasure and of fear ; Such tales as told to any maid By such a youth, in the green shade, Were perilous to hear. He told of girls a happy rout ! Who quit their fold with dance and shout, Their pleasant Indian town, To gather strawberries all day long ; Returning with a choral song When daylight is gone down. He spake of plants divine and strange every hour their blossoms change, Ten thousand lovely hues ! With budding, fading, faded flowers They stand the wonder of the bowers From mom 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 cne scarlet gleam Cover a hundred leagues, and seem To set the hills on fire- The youth of green savannas 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 ! ears! Ah me ! thee ' ' WTiat days and what sweet y< Our life were life indeed, with So passed in quiet bliss, And all the while," said he, " to know That we were in a world of woe, On such an earth as this !" And then he sometimes interwove Dear 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, Out shed at night to rear ; Or run my own adopted bride, A sylvan huntress at my side, And drive the flying deer ! " Beloved Ruth '."No more he said. The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed A solitary tear : She thought again and did agree With him to sail across the sea, And drive the flying deer. "And now, as fitting is and right, We in the church our faith will plight, A husband and a wife." POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 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 he while to think That on those lonesome floods, And green savannas, she should share His board with lawful joy, and bear His name in the wild woods. But, as you have before been told, This stripling, sportive, gay, and bold, And with his dancing crest So beautiful, through savage lands Had roamed about, with vagrant bands Of Indians in the west. The wind, the tempest roaring high, The tumult of a tropic sky, Might well be dangerous food For him, a youth to whom was given So much of earth so much of heaven, And such impetuous blood. Whatever in those climes he found Irregular in sight or sound Did to his mind impart A kindred impulse, seemed allied To his own powers, and justified The workings of his heart. Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought, The beauteous forms of nature wrought, Fair trees and lovely flowers ; The breezes their own languor lent : The stars had feelings, which they sent Into those gorgeous bowers. Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween That sometimes there did intervene Pure hopes of high intent : For passions linked to forms so fair And stately, needs must have their share Of noble sentiment. But ill he lived, much evil saw With men to whom no better law Nor better life was known ; Deliberately, and undeceived. Those wild men's vices he received, And gave them back his own. His genius and his moral frame Were thus impaired, and he became The slave of low desires : A man who without self-control Would seek what the degraded soul Unworthily admires. And yet he with no feigned delight Had wooed the maiden, day and night Had loved her, night and morn : What could he less than love a maid Whose heart with so much nature played ? So kind and so forlorn ! Sometimes, most earnestly, he said, ' ' O Ruth ! I 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. " 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 That she in half a year was mad, [had. 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. When Ruth three seasons thus had lain, There came a respite to her pain ; POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 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. \mong the fields she breathed again : The master-current of her brain Ran permanent and free ; And, coming*to the banks of Tone,* There did she rest ; and dwell alone Under the greenwood tree. The engines of her pain, the tools That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools, And airs that gently stir The vernal leaves, she loved them still, Nor ever taxed them with the ill Which had been done to her. A barn her winter bed supplies ; But, till the warmth of summer skies And summer days is gone, (And all do in this tale agree) She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, And other home hath none. An innocent life, yet far astray ! And Ruth will, long before her day, Be broken down and old : Sore aches she needs must have ! but less Of mind than body's wretchedness, From damp, and rain, and cold. If she is pressed 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 wa'k 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 funera 1 bell shall ring, And all the congregation sing A Christian psalm for thee. LAODAMIA. " WITH sacrifice before the rising mom : Vows have I made by fruitless hope in- spired ; [forlorn, And from the infernal gods, mid shades ' Of night, my slaughtered lord have I required : , Celestial pity I again implore ; Restore him to my sight great Jove, restore !" So speaking, and by fervent love endowed With faith, the suppliant heavenward lifts her hands ; While, like the sun emerging from a cloud, j Her countenance brightens and her eye expands ; [grows ; Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature And she expects the issue in repose O terror ! what hath she perceived ? O joy ! [behold ? What doth she look on ? whom doth she 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 [crowned thy prayer, That calms all fear : ' ' Such grace hath Laodamia ! that at Jove's command Thy husband walks the paths of upper air : [space ; He comes to tarry with thee three hours' Accept the gift behold him face to face !" j Forth sprang the impassioned queen her lord to clasp ! I 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. 1 ' ' Protesilaus, lo ! thy guide is gone ! * A river in Somersetshire, at no great dis- Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice: tance from the Quantock Hilla This is our palace. vender is thy throne; -. 100 POEMS OF TEE IMAGINATION. 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, Laodamla ! 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 know'st, the Delphic oracle fore- told [Trojan strand That the first Greek who touched the 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 depiest By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore ; Thou found'st and I forgive thee here thou art A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. ' ' But thou, though capable of sternest deed, iVert kind as resolute, and good as brave ; And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed [the grave ; That thou shouldst cheat the malice of Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair As when their breath enriched Thessalian ' ' No spectre greets me, no vain shadow this : Come, blooming hero, place thee by my side ! [kiss Give, on this well-known couch, one nuptial To me, this day, a second time thy bride!" Jove frowned in heaven ; the conscious Parcae threw Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. " This visage tells thee that my doom is past : Know, virtue were not virtue if the joys . Of sense were able to return as fast And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys Those raptures duly Erebus disdains : Calm pleasures there abide majestic 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 ungovernabte lovs. 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 ? [years, Medea's spells dispersed the weight of And ALson stood a youth 'mid youthful peers. ' ' The gods to us are merciful and they Yet further may relent : for mightier far Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star, Is love, though oft to agony distrest, And though his favourite seat be feeble woman's breast. " But if thou goest I follow " " Peace !" he said She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered ; The ghastly colour from his lips had fled ; In his deportment, shape, and mien, ap- peared 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 unsigned 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 ; POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 101 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 [and night : While tears were thy best pastime, day ' ' And while my youthful peers, before my eyes, (Each hero following his peculiar bent) Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise By martial sports, or, seated in the tent, Chieftains and kings in council were de- tained ; What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained. ' ' The wished-for wind was given : I then revolved The oracle, upon the silent sea ; And, if no worthier led the way, resolved That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be [strand, The foremost prow in pressing to the Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand. "Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang When of thy loss I thought, beloved wife ! On thee too fondly did my memory hang, And on the joys we shared in mortal life, The paths which we had trod- these foun- tains flowers ; My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers. "But should suspense permit the foe to cry, [array, ' Behold, they tremble ! haughty their 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 sympa- thized ; Be thy affections raised and solemnized. ' ' Learn by a mortal yearning to ascend Towards a higher object. Love was given, Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end: For this the passion to excess was driven That self might be annulled : her bondage prove The fetters of a dream, opposed to love." Aloud she shrieked ! for Hermes re- appears ! Round the dear shade she would have clung 'tis vain. The hours are past too brief had they been years ; And him no mortal effort can detain : Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly day, He through the portal takes his silent way, And on the palace floor a lifeless corse she lay. By no weak pity might the gods be moved ; She who thus perished not without the crime Of lovers that in reason's spite have loved, Was doomed to wander in a grosser clime, Apart from happy ghosts that gather flowers Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers. Yet tears to human suffering are due ; And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone, As fondly he believes. Upon the side - Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained) A knot of spiry trees for ages grew From out the tomb of him for whom she died ; And ever, when such stature they had gained That Ilium's walls were* subject to their view, The trees' tall summits withered at the sight ; A constant interchange of growth and blight ! * HER eyes are wild, her head is bare, The sun has burnt her coal-black hair ; Her eyebrows have a rusty stain, And she came far from over the main. * For the account of these long-lived trees, see Pliny's Natural History, lib. 16, cap. 44 ; and for the features in the character of Protesilaus see the " Iphigenia in Aulis " of Euripides. Vir- gil places the shade of Laodamia in a mournful region* among unhappy lovers. K 102 She has a baby on her arm, Or else she were alone ; And underneath the hay-stack warm, And on the green-wood stone, She talked and sung the woods among, And it was in the English tongue. "Sweet babe ! they say that I am mad, But nay, my heart is far too glad ; And I am happy when I sing Full many a sad and doleful thing : Then, lovely baby, do not fear ! I pray thee have no fear of me, But, safe as in a cradle, here, My lovely baby I thou shalt be : To thee I know too much I owe ; I cannot work thee any woe. A fire was once within my brain , frnd in my head a dull, dull pain ; And fiendish faces, one, two, three, Hung at my breast, and pulled at me. But then there came a sight of joy : It came at once to do me good ; I waked, and saw my little boy, My little boy of flesh and blood ; Oh, joy for me that sight to see ! For he was here, and only he. "Suck, little babe, oh, suck again ! It cools my blood ; it cools my brain : Thy lips I feel them, baby ! they Draw from my heart the pain away. Oh ! press me with thy little hand ; It loosens something at my chest ; About that tight and deadly band I feel thy little fingers prest. The breeze I see is in the tree : It comes to cool my babe and me. " Oh ! love me; love me, little boy ! Thou art thy mother's only joy ; And do not dread the waves below, When o'er the sea-rock's edge, we go ; The high crag cannot work me harm, Nor leaping torrents when they howl ; The babe I carry on my arm, He saves for me my precious soul : Then happy lie, for blest am I ; Without me my sweet babe would die. " Then do not fear, my boy ! for thee Bold as a lion I will be ; And I will always be thy guide, Through hollow snows and rivers wide. I'll build an Indian bower ; I know The leaves that make the softest bed : And, if from me thou wilt not go, But still be true till 1 am dead, My pretty thing ! then thou shall sing As merry as the birds in spring. ' ' Thy father cares not for my breast, 'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest ; 'Tis all thine own ! and, if its hue Be changed, that was so fair to view, 'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove ! My beauty, little child, is flown ; But thou wilt live with me in love, And what if mv poor cheek be brown? 'Tis well for me, thou canst not see How pale and wan it else would be. " Dread not their taunts, my little life; I am thy father's wedded wife ; And underneath the spreading tree We two will live in honesty. If his sweet boy he could forsake, With me he never would have stayed : From him no harm my babe can take, But he, poor man ! is wretched made And every day we two will pray For him that's gone and far away "I'll teach my boy the sweetest things I'll teach him how the owlet sings. My little babe ! thy lips are still, And thou hast almost sucked thy fill. Where art thou gone, my own dear child What wicked looks are those I see? Alas ! alas ! that look so wild, It never, never came from me : i If thou art mad, my pretty lad, Then I must be for ever sad. " Oh, smile on me, my little lamb ! For I thy own dear mother am. My love for thee has well been tried : I've sought thy father far and wide. I know the poisons of the shade, I know the earth-nuts fit for food ; Then, pretty dear, be not afraid ; We'll find thy father in the wood. Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away ! And there, my babe, we'll live for aye." RESOLUTION AND INDE- PENDENCE. 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 ; POEMS Of TtTE IMAGINATION. 103 Over his own sweet voice the stock-dove broods ; [ters ; The jay makes answer as the magpie chat- And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters. All things that love the sun are out of doors : The sky rejoices in the morning's birth ; The grass is bright with rain-drops ; on the moors The hare is running races in her mirth ; And with her feet she from the plashy earth Raises a mist ; that, glittering in the sun, Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run. I was a traveller then upon the moor ; I saw the hare that raced about with joy ; I heard the woods, the 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 ; [melancholy ! And all the ways of men so vain and But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might Of joy in minds that can no further go, As high as we have mounted in delight In our dejection do we sink as low, To me that morning did it happen so ; And fears, and fancies, thick upon me came ; Dim sadness and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could name. 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 ; Farfrom the world I walk, and from all care ; But there may come another day to me Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty. My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought, As if life's business were a summer mood ; As if all needful things would come un- sought To genial faith, still rich in genial good ; But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all ? I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride ; Of him who walked in glory and in joy Following his plough, along the mountain- side : By our own spirits are we deified : We poets in our youth begin in gladness ; But thereof 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 gray hairs. As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie Couched on the bald top of an eminence; Wonder to all who do the same espy, By what means it could thither come, and whence ; So that it seems a thing endued with sense : Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself; Such seemed this man, not all alivenordead, 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 gray 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 altogether, if it move at all. At length, himself unsettling, he the pond Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look Upon the muddy water, which he 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 glo rious day." A gentle answer did the old man make, In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew: 104 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 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. 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 ; [or chance ; Housing, with God's good help, by choice And in this way he gained an honest main- tenance. 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 ad- monishment. 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?" He with a smile did then his words repeat ; And said, that, gtuhering leeches, far and wide He travelled ; stirring thus about his feet The waters of the pools where they abide. "Once I could meet with them on every side ; But they have dwindled long by slow decay; Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may." While he was talking thus, the lonely place, The old man's shape, and speech, all troubled me : In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace About the weary moors continually, Wandering about alone and silently. While I these thoughts within myself pur- sued, [course renewed. He, having made a pause, the same dis- And soon with this he other matter blendr.d, 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 ; [lonely moor !" I'll think of the leech-gatherer on the THE THORN. " THERE is a thorn it looks so old, In truth, you'd find it hard to say How it could ever have been young, It looks so old and gray. Not higher than a two years' child It stands erect, this aged thorn ; No leaves it has, no thorny points ; It is a mass of knotted joints, A wretched thing forlorn. It stands erect, and like a stone With lichens it is overgrown. " Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown, With lichens to the very top, And hung with heavy tufts of moss, A melancholy crop : Up from the earth these mosses creep, And this poor thorn they clasp it round So close, you'd say, that they were bent With plain and manifest intent To drag it to the ground ; And all had joined in one endeavour To bury this poor thorn for ever. " High on a mountain's highest ridge, Where oft the stormy winter gale Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds It sweeps from vale to vale ; Not five yards from the mountain path, This thorn you on your left espy ; And to the left, three yards beyond, You see a little muddy pond Of water never dry ; Though but of compass small, and bare To thirsty suns and parching air. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 105 " And, close beside this aged thorn, There is a fresh and lovely sight, A beauteous heap, a hill of moss, Just half afoot in height. All lovely colours there you see, All colours that were ever seen ; And mossy net-work too is there As if by hand of lady fair The work had woven been ; And cups, the darlings of the eye, So deep is their vermilion dye. " Ah me ! what lovely tints are there ! Of olive green and scarlet bright, In spikes, in branches, and in stars, Green, red, and pearly white. This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss, Which close beside the thorn you see, So fresh in all its beauteous dyes, Is like an infant's grave in size, As like as like can be : But never, never any where, An infant's grave was half so fair. " Now would you see this aged thorn, This pond, and beauteous hill of moss, You must take care and choose your time The mountain when to cross. For oft there sits between the heap So like an infant's grave in size, And that same pond of which I spoke, A woman in a scarlet cloak, And to herself she cries, ' Oh, misery ! oh, misery ! Oh, woe is me ! oh, misery !' " At all times of the day and night This wretched woman thither goes ; And she is known to every star, And every wind that blows ; And there, beside the thorn, she sits When the blue daylight's in the skies, And when the whirlwind's on the hill, Or frosty air is keen and still, And to herself she cries, ' Oh, misery ! oh, misery ! Oh, woe is me ! oh, misery !" ' ' Now wherefore, thus, by day and night, In rain, in tempest, and in snow, Thus to the dreary mountain-top Does this poor woman go ? And why sits she beside the thorn When the blue daylight's in the sky, Or when the whirlwind's on the hill, Or frosty air is keen and still, And wherefore does she cry ? Oh, wherefore ? wherefore ? tell me why Does she repeat that doleful cry ?" ' ' I cannot tell ; I wish I could ; For the true reason no one knows : But would you gladly view the spot, The spot to which she goes ; The hillock like an infant's grave, The pond and thorn so old and ray ; Pass by her door 'tis seldom shut And, if you see her in her hut, Then to the spot away ! I never heard of such as dare Approach the spot when she is there." " But wherefore to the mountain-top Can this unhappy woman go, Whatever stay is in the skies, Whatever wind may blow?" " 'Tis known, that twenty years are passed Since she (her name is Martha Ray) Gave with a maiden's true good will Her company to Stephen Hill ; And she was blithe and gay, While friends and kindred all approved Of him whom tenderly she loved. "And they had fixed the wedding day, The morning that must wed them both ; But Stephen to another maid Had sworn another oath ; And with this other maid to church Unthinking Stephen went Poor Martha ! on that woefui day A pang of pitiless dismay Into her soul was sent ; A fire was kindled in her breast, Which might not burn itself to rest. "They say, full six months after this, While yet the summer leaves were green, She to the mountain-top would go, And there was often seen. Alas ! her lamentable state Even to a careless eye was plain ; She was with child, and she was mad ; Yet often she was sober sad From her exceeding pain. O guilty father, would that death Had saved him from that breach of faith ! Sad case for such a brain to hold Communion with a stirring child ! Sad case, as you may think, lor one Who had a brain so wild ! Last Christmas-eve we talked of this, And gray-haired Wilfred of the glen Held that the unborn infant wrought About its mother's heart, and brought Her senses back again : And when at last her time drew near, Her looks were calm, her senses clear. 106 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION: " More know I not, I wish I did, And it should all be told to you ; For what became of this poor child No mortal ever knew ; Nay if a child to her was born No earthly tongue could ever tell ; And if 'twas born alive or dead, Far less could this with proof be said ; But some remember well, That Martha Ray about this time Would up the mountain often climb. "And all that winter, when at night The wind blew from the mountain-peak, 'Twas worth your while, though in the dark, The church-yard path to seek : For many a time and oft were heard Cries coming from the mountain-head : Some plainly living voices were ; And others, I've heard many swear, Were voices of vhe dead : I cannot think, whate'er they say, They had to do with Martha Ray. " But that she goes to this old thorn, The thorn which I described to you, And there sits in a scarlet cloak, f will be sworn is true. For one day with my telescope, To view the ocean wide and bright, When to this country first I came, Ere I had heard of Martha's name, I climbed the mountain's height : A storm came on, and I could see No object higher than my knee. ' ' 'Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain ; No screen, no fence could I discover ; And then the wind ! in faith it was A wind full ten times over. I looked around, I thought I saw A jutting crag, and off I ran, Head-foremost, through the driving rain, The shelter of the crag to gain ; And as I am a man, Instead of jutting crag, I found A woman seated on the ground. ' ' I did not speak I saw her face ; Her face ! it was enough for me ; I turned about and heard her cry, ' Oh, misery ! oh, misery !' And there she sits, until the moon Through half the clear blue sky will go ; And, when the little breezes make The waters of the pond to shake, As all the country know, She shudders, and you hear her cry, ' Oh, misery ! oh, misery !' ' ' But what's the thorn ? and what the pond? And what the hill of moss to her? And what the creeping breeze that comes The little pond to stir ?" " I cannot tell ; but some will say She hanged her baby on the tree ; Some say she drowned it in the pond, Which is a little step beyond : But all and each agree, The little babe was buried there, Beneath that hill of moss so fair. " I've heard the moss is spotted red With drops of that poor infant's blood : But kill a new-born infant thus, I do not think she could! Some say, if to the pond you go, And fix on it a steady view, The shadow of a babe you trace, A baby and a baby's face, And that it looks at you ; Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain The baby looks at you again. " And some had sworn an oath that she Should be to public justice brought ; And for the little infant's bones With spades they would have sought. It might not be the hill of moss Before their eyes began to stir ! And for full fifty yards around, The grass it shook upon the ground ! Yet all do still aver The little babe is buried there, Beneath that hill of moss so fair. " I cannot tell how this may be ; But plain it is, the thorn is bound With heavy tufts of moss, that strive To drag it to the ground ; And this I know, full many a time, When she was on the mountain high, By day and in the silent night, When all the stars shone clear and bright That I have heard her cry, ' Oh, misery ! oh, misery ! Oh, woe is me ! oh, misery !' " HART-LEAP WELL. Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about five miles from Richmond in Yorkshire, arid near the side ef the road that leads from Riqji- POEMS OF THE HfAGINATlON. 107 mond to Askrigg. Its name is derived from a remarkable chase, the memory of which is preserved by the monuments spoken of in the second part of the following poem, which monuments do now exist as I have there de- scribed them. THE knight had ridden down from Wensley moor With the slow motion of a summer's cloud ; He turned aside towards a vassal's door, And "Bring another horse!" 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. The knight hallooed, he cheered, and chid them on [stern ; With suppliant gestures and upbraidings But breath and eyesight fail : and, one by one, [fern. The dogs are stretched among the mountain 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 ; 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, [feat : Stood his dumb partner in this glorious 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 [stilL The waters of the spring were trembling And now, too happy for repose or rest, (Never had living man such joyful lot !) Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west, [spot. And gazed and gazed upon that darling And climbing up the hill (it was at least Nine roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found [hunted beast Three several hoof- marks which the 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 thai fountain in the dell ! And they who do make mention of thesame, From this day forth shall call it HART- LEAP WELL. "And, gallant stag! to make thy praises known, Another monument shall here be raised ; Nor will I mention by what death he died ; 1 Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn But now the dead. knight beholds him lying I stone, [grazed. | And planted where thy hoofs the turf have 108 POEMS OF TJIE TMAGINATION. " And, in the summer-time when days are long, 1 will come hither with my paramour; And vith the dancers and the minstrel's song We will make merry in that pleasant bower. " Till the foundations of the mountains fail [dure ; My mansion with its arbour shall en- The joy of them who till the fields of Swale, [Ure!' And them who dwell among the woods of Then home he went, and left the hart, stone-dead, [spring. With breathless nostrils stretched above the Soon did the knight perform what he had said, And far and wide the fame thereof did ring. Ere thrice (he moon into her port had steered, ;\ 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 [twined, With trailing plants and trees were inter- 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 [bower. Made merriment within that pleasant 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 II. THE moving accident is not my trade, To freeze the blood I have no ready arts : Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts. As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair, It chanced that I saw standing in a dell Three aspens at three corners of a square : And one not four yards distant, near a well- What this imported I could ill divine: And pulling now the rein my horse to stop, I saw three pillars standing in a line, The last stone pillar on a dark hill-top. The trees were gray, with neither arms nor head : [green ; Half-wasted the square mound of tawny 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 at- tired, Came up the hollow : him did I accost, And what this place might be I then in- quired. The shepherd stopped, and that same story told [hearsed. Which in my former rhyme I have re- " A jolly place," said he, " in times of old ! But something ails it now; the spot is cursed. ' ' You see these lifeless stumps of aspen wood [elms- Some say that they are beeches, others 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 ; [well But as to the great lodge ! you might as Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream. ' ' There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep, Will wet his lips within that cup of stone ; And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep, This water doth send forth a dolorous groan. 1 ' Some say that here a murder has been done [part, And blood cries out for blood : but, for my I've guessed, when I've been sitting in the sun, That it was all for that unhappy hart, POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 109 " What thoughts must through the crea- ture's brain have past ! [steep, Even from the topmost stone, upon the Are but three bounds and look, sir, at this last O master ! it has been a cruel leap. " For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race; And in my simple mind we cannot tell What cause the hart might have to love this place, [the well. And come and make his death-bed near " Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank, Lulled by this fountain in the summer-tide ; This water was perhaps the first he drank When he had wandered from his mother's side. " In April here beneath the scented thorn He heard the birds their morning carols sing ; [born And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was Not half a furlong irom that self-same spring. " Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade; The sun on drearier hollow never shone ; So will it be, as I have often said, Till trees, and stones, and fountain, all are gone." "Gray-headed shepherd, thou hast spoken well ; [mine : Small difference lies between thy creed and 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, [gloom ; This is no common waste, no common 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 thai feels." SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE, UPON THE RESTORATION OF LORD CLIF- FORD, THE SHEPHERD, TO THE ES- TATES AND HONOURS OF HIS ANCES- TORS.* HIGH in the breathless hall the minstrel sate, [song. And Emont's murmur mingled with the The words of ancient time I thus translate, A festal strain that hath been silent long : * Henry Lord Clifford, etc., etc., who is the subject of this poem, was the son of John Lord Clifford, who was slain at Towton Field, which John Lord Clifford, as is known to the reader of English history, was the person who after the battle of Wakefield slew, in the pursuit, the young Earl of Rutland, son of the Duke of York, who had fallen in the battle, "in part of revenge " (say the authors of the History of Cumberland and Westmoreland) ; "for the earl's father had slain his." A deed which worthily blemished the author (says Speed) ; but who, as he adds, " dare promise anything tem- perate of himself in the heat of martial fury? chiefly when it was resolved not to leave any branch of the York line standing ; for so one maketh this lord to speak." This, no doubt, 1 would observe by the by, was an action suffi- ciently in the vindictive spirit of the times, and yet not altoge ther so bad as represented ; "for the earl was no child, as some writers would have him, but able to bear arms, being sixteen or seventeen years of age, as is evident from this (say the Memoirs of the Countess of Pem- broke, who was laudably anxious to wipe away, as far as could be, this stigma from the illustri- ous name to which she was born), that he was the next child to King Edward the Fourth, which his mother had by Richard Duke o{ York, and that king was then eighteen years of age ; and for the small distance betwixt her children, see Austin Vincent in his book of No- bility, page 622, where he writes of them all It may further be observed, that LorH Clifford, who was then himself only twenty-h e years of age, had been a leading man and commander, two or three years together in the army of Lan- caster, before this time ; and, therefore, would 110 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. "From town to town, from tower to The red rose is a gladsome flower, [tower, 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. 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. be less likely to think that the Earl of Rutland might be entitled to mercy from his youth. But independent of this act, at the best a cruel and savage one, the family of Clifford had done enough to draw upon them the vehement hatred of the House of York ; so that after the battle of Towton there was no hope for them but in flight and concealment. Henry, the subject of the poem, was deprived of his estate and honours during the space of twenty-four years ; all which time he lived as a shepherd in Yorkshire, or in Cumberland, where the estate of his father-in- law (Sir Lancelot Threlkeld) lay. He was re- stored to his estate and honours in the first year Of Henry the Seventh. It is recorded that, when called to parliament, he behaved nobly and wisely ; but otherwise came seldom to Lon- don or the court ; and rather delighted to live in the country, where he repaired several of his castles, which had gone to decay during the late troubles." Thus far is chiefly collected from Nicholson and Burn ; and I can add, from my own knowledge, that there is a tradition current in the village of Threlkeld and its neighbour- lioop, his principal retreat, that, in the course of his shepherd-life he had acquired great astro- nomical knowledge. I cannot conclude this note without adding a word upon the subject of those numerous and noble feudal edifices, spo- ken of in the poem, the ruins of some of which are, at this day, so great an ornament to that Interesting country. The Cliffords had always been distinguished for an honourable pride in these castles ; and we have seen that after 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 Brough'm. How glad Pendragon though the sleep Of years be on her ! She shall reap A taste of this great pleasure, viewing As in a dream her own renewing. Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem Beside her little humble stream ; And she that keepeth watch and ward Her statelier Eden's course to guard ; They both are happy at this hour, Though each is but a lonely tower : But here is perfect joy and pride For one fair house by Emont's side, This day distinguished without peer To see her master and to cheer Him, and his lady mother dear ! the wars of York and Lancaster they were re- built ; in the civil wars of Charles the First they were again laid waste, and again restored almost to their former magnificence by the cele- brated Lady Anne Clifford, Countess of Pem- broke, etc., etc. Not more than twenty-five years after this was done, when the estates of Clifford had passed into the Family of Tufton, three of these castles, namely, Brough, Broug- ham, and Pendragon, were demolished, and the timber and other materials sold by Thomas Earl of Thanet. We will hope that when this order was issued, the Earl had not consulted the text of Isaiah, s8th Chapter, I2th Verse, to which the inscription placed over the gate of Pendragon Castle, by the Countess of Pem- broke (I believe his grandmother) at the time she repaired that structure, refers the reader. "And they that shall be of thee shall build the old waste places ; thou shalt raise up the foundations of many generations ; and thou shalt be called the repairer of the breach, the restorer of paths to dwell in." The Earl of Thanet, the present possessor of the es- tates, with a due respect for the memory of his ancestors, and a proper sense of the value and beauty of these remains of antiquity, has (I am told) given orders that they shall be preserved from all depredations. * This line is from the Battle of Bosworth Field, by Sir John Beaumont (brother to the dramatist), whose poems are written with much spirit, elegance, and harmony. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 11! ' ' Oh ! it was a time forlorn When the fatherless was born Give her wings that she may fly, Or she sees her infant die ! Swords that are with slaughter wild Hunt the mother and the child. Who will take them from the light ? Yonder is a man in sight Yonder is a house but where ? No, they must not enter there. To the 'caves, and to the brooks, To the clouds of heaven she looks ; She is speechless, but her eyes Pray in ghostly agonies. Blissful Mary, mother mild, Maid and mother undefiled, Save a mother and her child ! " Now who is he that bounds with joy On Carrock's side, a shepherd boy ? No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass Light as the wind along the grass. Can this be he who hither came In secret, like a smothered flame? O'er whom such thankful tears were shed For shelter, and a poor man's bread ! God loves the child ; and God hath willed That those dear words should be fulfilled, The lady's words, when forced away, The last she to her babe did say. ' My own, my own, thy fellow-guest I may not be ; but rest thee, rest, For lowly shepherd's life is best !' ' ' Alas ! when evil men are strong No life is good, no pleasure long. The boy must part from Mosedale's groves, And leave Blencathara's rugged coves, And quit the flowers that summer brings To Glenderamakin's lofty springs ; Must vanish, and his careless cheer Be turned to heaviness and fear. Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise ! 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 ; 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 ; T ' 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, It is imagined by the people of the country that there are two immortal fish, inhabitants of this Tarn, which lies in the mountains not far from Threlkeld. Blencathara, mentioned before is the old and proper name of the mountain vulgarly called Saddle-back. t The martial character of the Cliffords is well known to the readers of English history : but it may not be improper here to say, by way of comment on these lines, and what fojlows, that, besides several others who perished in the same manner, the four immediate progenitors of tlie person in whose hearing this is supposed to he spoken, all died in the field. 112 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword, To his ancestors restored, Like a re-appearing star, Like a glory from afar, First shall head the flock of war !" Alas ! the fervent harper did not know That for a tranquil soul the lay was framed, Who, long compelled in humble walks to go, Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamer) Love had he found in huts where poor men lie ; [rills, His daily teachers had been woods and 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 m lofty place I'he wisdom which adversity had bred. Glad were the vales, and every cottage hearth ; [and more : The shepherd lord was honoured more And, ages after he was laid in earth, '' The good Lord Clifford " was the name he bore. THE ECHO. 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, and 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? Such rebounds our inward ear Often catches from afar ; Giddy mortals ! hold them dear ; Fgr of God, of God they are. TO A SKYLARK. ETHEREAL minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky '. Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound ? [eye Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and 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 mightst thou seem, proud privilege ! to All independent of the leafy spring, [sing Leave to the nightingale her shady wood ; A privacy of glorious light is thine ; [flood Whence thou dost pour upon the world a Of harmony, with rapture more divine ; Type of the wise who soar, but never roam ; True to the kindred points of heaven and home ! IT is no spirit who from heaven hath flown, And is descending on his embassy ; Nor traveller gone irom earth the heavens to espy ! Tis Hesperus there he stands with glit- tering crown. First admonition that the sun is down ! For yet it is broad daylight ! clouds pass by. A few are near him still and now the sky, He hath it to himself 'tis all his own. O most ambitious star ! thy presence brought A startling recollection to my mind Of the distinguished few among mankind, Who dare to step beyond their natural race, As thou seem'st now to do : nor was a thought Denied that even I might one day trace Some ground not mine ; and, strong her strength above, My soul, an apparition in the place, Tread there, with steps that no one shall reprove ! POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 113 FRENCH REVOLUTION, AS IT APPEARED TO ENTHUSIASTS AT ITS COMMENCEMENT.* REPRINTED FROM "THE FRIEND.' OH ! pleasant exercise of hope and joy ! 1 'or 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, [sets The beauty wore of promise that which (To take an image which was felt no doubt Among the bowers of paradise itself) The budding rose above the rose full blown. What temper at the prospect did not wake To happiness unthought of ? The inert Were roused, and lively natures rapt away ! They who had fed their childhood upon dreams, The playfellows of fancy, who had made All powers of swiftness, subtil ty, and strength [stirred Their ministers, who in lordly wise had 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, subterraneous fields, * This, and the extract (" The Influence of Natu- ral Objects"), page 28, and the first piece of this class, are from the unpublished poem of which some account is given in the preface to "The Ex- cursion." 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 entf We find our happiness, or not at all 1 THE PASS OF KIRKSTONE. W iTHi the mind strong fancies work, A deep delight the bosom thrills, Oft as I pass along the fork Of these fraternal hills : Where, save the rugged road, we find No appanage of human kind ; Nor hint of man ; if stone or rock Seem not his handy-work to mock By something cognizably shaped ; Mockery or model roughly hewn, And left as if by earthquake strewn, Or from the flood escaped : Altars for Druid service fit ; (But where no fire was ever lit, Unless the glow-worm to the skies Thence offer nightly acrifice ; Wrinkled Egyptian monument ; Green moss-grown tower ; or hoary tent ; Tents of a camp that never shall be raised ; On which four thousand years have gazed ! Ye plough-shares sparkling on the slopes ! Ye snow-white lambs that trip Imprisoned 'mid the formal props Of restless ownership ! Ye trees, that may to-morrow fall To feed the insatiate prodigal ! Lawns, houses, chattels, groves, and fields, All that the fertile valley shields ; Wages of folly baits of crime, Of life's uneasy game the stake, Playthings that keep the eyes awake Of drowsy, dotard time ; O care ! O guilt ! O vales and plains, Here, 'mid his own un vexed domains, A genius dwells, that can subdue At once all memory of you, Most potent when mists veil the sky, Mists that distort and magnify ; [breeze, While the coarse rushes, to the sweeping Sigh forth their ancient melodies ! List to those shriller notes ! that march Perchance was on the blast, When, through this height's inverted arch, Rome's earliest legion passed ! They saw, adventurously impelled, And older eyes than theirs beheld, POEMS OF THE This block and yon, whose church-like frame Gives to the savage pass its name. Aspiring road ! that lov'st to hide thy daring in a vapoury bourn, Not seldom may the hour return When thou shaft be my guide ; And I (as often we find cause, When life is at a weary pause, And we have panted up the hill Of duty with reluctant will) Be thankful, even though tired and faint, For the rich bounties of constraint ; Whence oft invigorating transports flow That choice lacked courage to bestow. My soul was grateful for delight That wore a threatening brow ; A veil is lifted can she slight The scene that opens now ! Though habitation none appear, The greenness tells, man must be there ; The shelter that the perspective Is of the clime in which we live ; Where toil pursues his daily round ; Where pity sheds sweet tears, and love, In woodbine bower or birchen grove, Inflicts his tender wound. Who comes not hither ne'er shall know How beautiful the world below ; Nor can he guess how lightly leaps The brook adown the rocky steeps. Farewell, thou desolate domain ! Hope, pointing to the cultured plain, Carols like a shepherd-boy ; And who is she ? Can that be joy ! Who, with a sunbeam for her guide, Smoothly skims the meadows wide ; While faith, from yonder opening cloud To hill and vale proclaims aloud, ' ' Whate'er the weak may dread, the wicked dare, Thy lot, O man, is good, thy portion fair!" EVENING ODE, COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING OF EX- TRAORDINARY SPLENDOUR AND BEAUTY. HAD this effulgence disappeared vVith flying haste, I might have sent, Among the speechless clouds, a look Of blank astonishment ; But 'tis endued with power to stay, And sanctify one closing day, That frail mortality may see What is ? ah no, but what can be ! Time was when field and watery covfe With modulated echoes rang, While choirs of fervent angels sang T*heir vespers in the grove ; [height, Or, ranged like stars along some sovereign Warbled, for heaven above and earth below. Strains suitable to both. Such holy rite, Methinks, if audibly repeated now From hill or valley, could not move Sublimer transport, purer love, Than doth this silent spectacle the gleam The shadow and the peace supreme ! No sound is uttered, but a deep And solemn harmony pervades The hollow vale from steep to steep, And penetrates the glades. Far-distant images draw nigh, Called forth by wondrous potency Of beamy radiancr, that imbues Whate'er it strikes, with gem-like hues In vision exquisitely clear, Herds range along the mountain side ; And glistening antlers are descried ; And gilded flocks appear. Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal eve ! But long as god-like wish, or hope divine, Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe That this magnificence is wholly thine ! From worlds not quickened by tne sun A portion of the gift is won ; An intermingling of heaven's pomp is spread On ground which British shepherds tread ! And, if there be whom broken ties Afflict, or injuries assail, Yon hazy ridges to their eyes Present a glorious scale, Climbing suffused with sunny air, To stop no record hath told where ! And tempting fancy to ascend, And with immortal spirits blend ! Wings at my shoulder seem to play ; But, rooted here, I stand and gaze [raise On those bright steps that heavenward Their practicable way. Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad, And see to what fair countries ye are bound ! And if some traveller, weary of his road, Hath slept since noon-tide on the grassy Ye genii ! to his covert speed ; [ground, And wake him with such gentle heed As may attune his soul to meet the dower Bestowed on this transcendent hour ! Such hues from their celestial urn Were wont to stream before my eye. lib Where'er it wandered in the morn Of blissful infancy. This glimpse of glory, why renewed ? Nay, rather speak with gratitude ; For, if a vestige of those gleams Survived, 'twas only in my dreams. Dread Power ! whom peace and calmness serve No less than nature's threatening voice, If aught unworthy L>e my choice, From THEE if I would swerve, Oh, let thy grace remind me of the light Full early lost, and fruitlessly, deplored ; Which, at this moment, on my wakingsight Appears to shine, by miracle restored ! My soul, though yet confined to earth, Rejoices in a second birth ; 'Tis past, the visionary splendour fades; And night approaches with her shades. Note. The multiplication of mountain ridges, described at the commencement of the third stanza of this ode, as a kind of Jacob's ladder, leading to Heaven, is produced either by watery vapours, or sunny haze ; in the present in- stance, by the latter cause. Allusions to the ode entitled " Intimations of Immortality," per- vade the last stanza of the foregoing poem. 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.* 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 them- selves * The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above Tintern. Among the woods and copses, nor disturb The wild green landscape. Once again I see [lines These hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little Of sportive wood run wild ; these pastoral farms, Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Sent up in silence, from among the trees i With some uncertain notice, as might seem, Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire The hermit sits alone. These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration : feelings, too, Of 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, [mood, Is lightened : that serene and blessed 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 through the woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee ! And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity, The picture of the mind revives again : While here I stand, not only with the sense 116 POJUMb OF THE IMAGINATION. 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 [then Who sought the thing he loved. For nature (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, [to me Their colours and their forms, were then 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 recompense. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing often- The still, sad music of humanity, [times Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean, and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man: \ motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, [am I still \nd rolls through all things. Therefore A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains ; and of all that we behold i rom this green earth ; of all the mighty world Of eye and ear, both what they half create,* * This line has a close resemblance to an ad- mirable line of Young, the exact expression of *hich I cannot recollect. And what perceive; well pleased to recog- nise In nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, [soul The guide, the guardian of my heart, and 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 1 catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while May I behold in thee what I was once, My dear, dear sister ! and this prayer I make, Knowing that nature never did betray The heart that loved her ; 'tis her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy : for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither fevii tongues, [men, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish 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, per- chance If I should be where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together ; and that I, so long A worshipper of nature, hither came, POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 117 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 ! PETER BELL, A TALE. " What's in a name ?" . . . " Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Csar !" To ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ., P. L. ETC. ETC. MY DEAR FRIEND, The tale of Peter Bell, which I now introduce to your notice, and to that of the public, has, in its manu- script state, nearly survived its minority ; for it first saw the light in the summer of 1798. During this long interval, pains have been taken at different times to make the production less unworthy of a favour- able reception; or, rather, to fit it for filling permanently a station, however humble, in the literature of my country. This has, indeed, been the aim of all my endeavours in poetry, which, you know, have been sufficiently laborious to prove that I deem the art not lightly to be approached ; and that the attainment of excellence in it may laudably be made the principal object of intellectual pursuit by any man, who, with reasonable consideration of circumstances, has faith in his own impulses. The poem of Peter Bell, as the prologue will show, was composed under a belief that the imagination not only does not require for its exercise the intervention of supernatural agency, but that, though such agency be excluded, the faculty may be called forth as imperiously, and for kindred results of pleasure, by incidents, within the compass of poetic proba- bility, in the humblest departments of daily life. Since that prologue was written, you have exhibited most splendid effects of judicious daring, in the opposite and usual course. Let this acknowledg- ment make my peace with the lovers of the supernatural ; and I am persuaded it will be admitted, that to you, as a master in that province of the art, the following tale, whether from contrast or congruity, is not an unappropriate offering. Accept it, then, as a public testimony of affectionate admira- tion from one with whose name yours ha' been often coupled (to use your own words^ for evil and for good ; and believe me to be, with earnest wishes that life and health may be granted you to complete the many important works in which you are engaged, and with high respect, most faithfully yours, WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. Rydal Mount, April 7, 1819. PROLOGUE. THERE'S something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon; But through the clouds I'll never float Until I have a little boat, Whose shape is like the crescent-moon. And now I have a little boat, In shape a very crescent-moon : Fast through the clouds my boat can sail; But if perchance your faith should fail, Look up and you shall see me soon ! The woods, my friends, are round you roaring, Rocking and roaring like a sea; The noise of danger fills your ears, And ye have all a thousand fears Both for my little boat and me ! Meanwhile untroubled I admire The pointed horns of rny canoe : And, did not pity touch my breast, To see how ye are all distrest, Till my ribs ached, I'd laugh at you ! Away we go, my boat and I Frail man ne'er sate in such another; Whether among the winds we strive, Or deep into the clouds we dive, Each is contented with the other. Away we go and what care we For treasons, tumults, and for wars ? We are as calm in our delight As is the crescent-moon so bright Among the scattered stars. Up goes my boat among the stars Through many a breathless field of light, Through many a long blue field of ether. 118 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her. Up goes my little boat so bright ! The Crab the Scorpion and the Bull We pry among them all have shot High o'er the red-hahed race of Mars, Covered from top to toe with scars ; Such company I like it not ! The towns in Saturn are decayed, And melancholy spectres throng them; The Pleiads, that appear to kiss Each other in the vast abyss, With joy I sail among them ! Swift Mercury resounds with mirth, Great Jove is full of stately bowers; But these, and all that they contain, What are they to that tiny grain, That little earth of ours ? Then back to earth, the dear green earth ; Whole ages if I here should roam, The world for my remarks and me Would not a whit the better be; I've left my heart at home. And there it is, the matchless earth ! There spreads the famed Pacific Ocean ! Old Andes thrusts yon craggy spear Through the gray clouds the Alps are here, Like waters in commotion ! Yon tawny slip is Libya's sands That silver thread the river Dnieper ^nd look, where clothed in brightest green Is a sweet isle, of isles the queen; Ye fairies, from all evil keep her ! And see the town where I was born ! Around those happy fields we span In boyish gambols I was lost Where I have been, but on this coast I feel I am a man. Never did fifty things at once Appear so lovely, never, never, How tunefully the forests ring ? To hear the earth's soft murmuring Thus could I hang for ever ! " Shame on you !" cried my little boat, " Was ever such a homesick loon, Within a living boat to sit, And make no better use of it, A boat twin-sister of the crescent moon ' ' ' Ne'er in the breast of full-grown poet Fluttered so faint a heart before ; Was it the music of the spheres That overpowered your mortal ears ! Such am shall trouble them no more. ' ' These nether precincts do not lack Charms of their own ; then come with me^ I want a comrade, and for you There's nothing that I would not do ; Nought is there that you shall not see. " Haste! and above Siberian snows We'll sport amid the boreal morning, Will mingle with her lustres, gliding Among the stars, the stars now hiding, And now the stars adorning. " I know the secrets of a land Where human foot did never stray ; Fair is that land as evening skies, And cool, though in the depth it lies Of burning Africa. ' ' Or we'll into the realms of faery, Among the lovely shades of things, The shadowy forms of mountains bare, And streams, and bowers, and ladies fair, The shades of palaces and kings ! " Or, if you thirst with hardy zeal Less quiet regions to explore, Prompt voyage shall to you reveal How heaven and earth are taught to feel The might of magic lore!" " My little vagrant form of light, My gay and beautiful canoe, Well have you played your friendly part ; As kindly take what from my heart Experience forces then adieu ! ' ' Temptation lurks among your words ; But, while these pleasures you're pursuing Without impediment or let, My radiant pinnace, you forget What on the earth is doing. ' ' There was a time when all mankind Did listen with a faith sincere To tuneful tongues in mystery versed ; Then poets fearlessly rehearsed The wonders of a wild career. " Go (but the world's a sleepy world, And 'tis, I fear, an age too late ;) Take with you some ambitious youth ; For, restless wanderer ! I, in truth, Am all unfit to be your mate. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 119 " Long have I loved what I behold, The night that calms, the 'day that cheers ; The common growth of mother earth Suffices me her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears. "The dragon's wing, the magic ring, I shall not covet for my dower, If I along that lowly way With sympathetic heart may stray, And with a soul of power. " These given, what more need I desire To stir to soothe or elevate ? What nobler marvels than the mind May in life's daily prospect find, May find or there create ? ' ' A potent wand doth sorrow wield ; What spell so strong as guilty fear ! Repentance is a tender sprite ; If aught on earth have heavenly might, Tis lodged within her silent tear. " But grant my wishes, let us now Descend from this ethereal height ; Then take thy way, adventurous skiff, More daring far than Hippogriff, And be thy own delight ! " To the stone-table in my garden, Loved haunt of many a summer hour, The squire is come ; his daughter Bess Beside him in the cool recess Sits blooming like a flower. " With these are many more convened ; They know not I have been so far I see them there, in number nine, Beneath the spreading Weymouth pine I see them there they are ! " There sits the vicar and his dame ; And there my good friend, Stephen Otter And, ere the light of evening fail, To them I must relate the tale Of Peter Bell the potter." Off flew my sparkling boat in scorn, Spurning her freight with indignation ? And I, as well as I was able, On two poor legs, toward my stone-table Limped on with some vexation. " Oh, here he is ! " cried little Bess She saw me at the garden door ; "We've waited anxiously and long," They cried, and all around me throng, Full nine of them or more! I " Reproach me not your fears be still- Be thankful we again have met ; Resume, my friends ! within the shade Your seats, and quickly shall be paid j The well-remembered debt." I spake with faltering voice, like one Not wholly rescued from the pale Of a wild dream, or worse illusion ; But, straight to cover my confusion, Began the promised tale. PART I. ALL by the moonlight river side Groaned the poor beast alas ! in vain ; The staff was raised to loftier height, And the blows fell with heavier weight As Peter struck and struck again. Like winds that lash the waves, or smite The woods, autumnal foliage thinning " Hold !" said the squire, "I pray you, hold ! Who Peter was let that be told, And start from the beginning." " A potter,* sir, he was by trade," Said I, becoming quite collected ; " And wheresoever he appeared, Full twenty times was Peter feared For once that Peter was respected. He, two-and-thirty years or more, Had been a wild and woodland rover ; Had heard the Atlantic surges roar On farthest Cornwall's rocky shore, And trod the cliffs of Dover. And he had seen Caernarvon's towers, And well he knew the spire of Sarum ; And he had been where Lincoln bell Flings o'er the fen its ponderous knell, Its far renowned alarum ! At Doncaster, at York, and Leeds And merry Carlisle had he been ; And all along the Lowlands fair, All through the bonny shire of Ayr And far as Aberdeen. And he had been at Inverness ; And Peter, by the mountain rills, Had danced his round with Highland lasses And he had lain beside his asses On lofty Cheviot Hills : * In the dialect of the north, a hawker earthenware is thus designated. 120 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. And he haa trudged through Yorkshire dales, Among the rocks and winding scars ; Where deep and low the hamlets lie Beneath their little patch of sky And little lot of stars : And all along the indented coast, Bespattered with the salt-sea foam ; Where'er a knot of houses lay On headland, or in hollow bay ; Sure never man like him did roam ! As well might Peter, in the Fleet, Have been fast bound, a begging debtor ; He travelled here, he travelled there ; But not the value of a hair Was heart or head the better. He roved among the vales and strerms, In the green wood and hollow dell ; They were his dwellings night and day, - But nature ne'er could find the way Into the heart of Peter Bell. In vain, through every changeful year, Did nature lead him as before ; A primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him, And it was nothing more. Small change it made in Peter's heart To see his gentle panniered train With more than vernal pleasure feeding, Where'er the tender grass was leading Its earliest green along the lane. In vain, through water, earth, and air The soul of happy sound was spread, When Peter, on some April morn, Beneath the broom or budding thorn, Made the warm earth his lazy bed. At noon, when by the forest's edge, He lay beneath the branches high, The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart, he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky ! On a fair prospect some have looked And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away. Within the breast of Peter Bell These silent raptures found no place He was a carl as wild and rude As ever hue-and-cry pursued. As ever ran a felon's race. i Of all that lead a lawless life, i Of all that love their lawless lives, In city or in village small, He was the wildest far of all ; He had a dozen wedded wives. Nay, start not ! wedded wives and twelve ! But how one wife could e'er come near In simple truth I cannot tell ; [him, For be it said Of Peter Bell, To see him was to fear him. Though nature could not teach his heart By lovely forms and silent weather, And tender sounds, yet you might see At once, that Peter Bell and she Had often been together. A savage wildness round him hung As of a dweller out of dcors ; In his whole figure and his mien A savage character was seen, Of mountains and of dreary moors. To all the unshaped half-human thoughts Which solitary nature feeds 'Mid summer storms or winter's ice, Had Peter joined whatever vice The cruel city breeds. His face was keen as is the wind That cuts along the hawthorn fence ; Of courage you saw little there, But, in its stead, a medley air Of cunning and of impudence. He had a dark and sidelong walk, And long and slouching was his gait ; Beneath his looks so bare and bold, You might perceive, his spirit cold Was playing with some inward bait His forehead wrinkled was and furred ; A work, one half of which was done By thinking of his whcns and hows ; And half, by knitting of his brows Beneath the glaring sun. There was a hardness in his cheek, There was a hardness in his eye, As if the man had fixed his face, In many a solitary place, Against the wind and open sk" ! POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 121 ONE NIGHT, (and now, my little Bess ! We've reached at last the promised tale ;) One beautiful November night, When the full moon was shining bright Upon the rapid river Swale, Along the river's winding banks Peter was travelling all alone ; Whether to buy or sell, or led By pleasure running in his head, To me was never known. He trudged along through copse and brake, He trudged along o'er hill and dale ; Nor for the moon cared he a tittle, And for the stars he cared as little, And for the murmuring river Swale. But, chancing to espy a path That promised to cut short the way, As many a wiser man hath done, He left a trusty guide for one That might his steps betray. To a thick wood he soon is brought Where cheerfully his course he weaves, And whistling loud may yet be heard, Though often buried, like a bird Darkling among the boughs and leaves. But quickly Peter's mood is changed, And on he drives with cheeks that burn In downright fury and in wrath There's little sign the treacherous path Will to the road return ! The path grows dim, and dimmer still ; Now up now down the rover wends With all the sail that he can carry, Till brought to a deserted quarry ; And there the pathway ends. He paused for shadows of strange shape, Massy and black, before him lay ; But through thedark, and through the cold, And through the yawning fissures old, Did Peter boldly press his way Right through the quarry ; and behold A scene of soft and lovely hue ! Where blue and gray, and tender green, Together make as sweet a scene As ever human eye did view. Beneath the clear blue sky he saw A little field of meadow ground ; But field or meadow name it not ; Call it of earth a small green plot, With rocks encompassed round. The Swale flowed under the gray rocks, But he flowed quiet and unseen ; You need a strong and stormy gale To bring the noises of the Swale To that green spot, so calm and green ! And is there no one dwelling here, No hermit with his beads and glass ? And does no little cottage look Upon this soft and fertile nook ? Does no one live near this green grass ? Across the deep and quiet spot Is Peter driving through the grass And now he is among the trees ; When, turning round his head, he sees A solitary ass. " A prize !" cried Peter, stepping back To spy about him far and near ; There's not a single house in sight, No woodman's hut, no cottage light, Peter, you need not fear ! There's nothing to be seen but woods, And rocks that spread a hoary gleam, And this one beast, that from the bed Of the green meadow hangs his head Over the silent stream. His head is with a halter bound; The halter seizing, Peter leapt Upon the creature's back, and plied With ready heel his shaggy side ; But still the ass his station kept. "What's this!" cried Peter, brandishing A new-peeled sapling ; though I deem. This threat was understood full well, Firm, as before, the sentinel Stood by the silent stream. Then Peter gave a sudden jerk, A jerk that from a dungeon floor Would have pulled up an iron ring ; But still the heavy-headed thing Stood just as he had stood before ! Quoth Peter, leaping from his seat, ' ' There is some plot against me laid ;' Once more the little meadow ground And all the hoary cliffs around He cautiously surveyed. All, all is silent rocks and woods, All still and silent far and near ! Only the ass, with motion dull, Upon the pivot of his skull Turns round his long left ear. 122 POEMS OF THR IMAGINATION. Thought Peter, What can mean all this? Some ugly witchcraft must be here ! Once more the ass, with motion dull, Upon the pivot of his skull Turned round his long left ear. Suspicion ripened into dread ; Yet with deliberate action slow, His staff high-raising, in the pride Of skill, upon the sounding hide, He dealt a sturdy blow. What followed ? yielding to the shock, The ass, as if to take his ease, In quiet uncomplaining mood, Upon the spot where he had stood, Dropped gently down upon his knees, And then upon his side he fell, And by the river's brink did lie ; And, as he lay like one that mourned, The beast on his tormentor turned \ shining hazel eye. Twas but one mild, reproachful look, A look more tender than severe ; And straight in sorrow, not in dread, He turned the eye-ball in his head Towards the river deep and clear. Upon the beast the sapling rings, Heaved his lank sides, his limbs they stirred ; He gave a groan, and then another, Of that which went before the brother, And then he gave a tliird. And Peter halts to gather breath, And, while he halts, was clearly shown (What he before in part had seen) How gaunt the creature was, and lean, Yea, wasted to a skeleton ! With legs stretched out and stiff he lay : No word of kind commiseration Fell at the sight from Peter's tongue ; With hard contempt his heart was wrung, With hatred and vexation. The meagre beast lay still as death And Peter's lips with fury quiver Quoth he, " You little mulish dog, I'll fling your carcase like a log Head-foremost down the river ! " An impious oath confirmed the threat That instant, while outstretched he lay, To all the echoes, south and north, And east and west, the ass sent forth A loud and piteous bray ! This outcry, on the heart of Peter, Seems like a note of joy to strike, Joy at the heart of Peter knocks ; But in the echo of the rocks Was something Peter did not like. Whether to cheer his coward breast, Or that he could not break the chain, In this serene and solemn hour, Twined round him by demoniac power, To the blind work he turned again. Among the rocks and winding crags Among the mountains far away Once more the ass did lengthen out More ruefully an endless shout, The long dry see-saw of his horrible bray ! What is there now in Peter's heart ? Or whence the might of this strange sound P The moon uneasy looked and dimmer, The broad blue heavens appeared to glim* mer, And the rocks staggered all around. From Peter's hand the sapling dropped ! Threat has he none to execute ' ' If any one should come and see That I am here, they'll think," quoth he, " I'm helping this poor dying brute." He scans the ass from limb to limb ; And Peter now uplifts his eyes ; Steady the moon doth look and clear, And like themselves the rocks appear, And quiet are the skies. Whereat, in resolute mood, once more He stoops the ass's neck to seize Foul purpose, quickly put to flight ! For in the pool a startling sight Meets him, beneath the shadowy trees. Is it the moon's distorted face ? The ghost-like image of a cloud f Is it a gallows there portrayed ? Is Peter of himself afraid ? Is it a coffin, or a shroud? A grisly idol hewn in stone ? Or imp from witch's lap let fall? Or a gay ring of shining fairies, Such as pursue their brisk vagaries In sylvan bower, or haunted hall ? Is it a fiend that to a stake Of fire his desperate self is tethering ? Or stubborn spirit doomed to yell In solitary ward or cell, Ten thousand miles from all his brethren 5 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 123 Never did pulse so quickly throb, And never heart so loudly panted ; He looks, he cannot choose but look ; Like one intent upon a book A book that is enchanted. Ah, well-a-day for Peter Bell ! He will be turned to iron soon, Meet statue for the court of fear ! His hat is up and every hair Bristles and whitens in the moon ! He looks he ponders looks again : He sees a motion hears a groan ; His eyes will burst his heart will break He gives a loud and frightful shriek, And drops, a senseless weight, as if his life were flown ! PART II. WE left our hero in a trance, Beneath the alders, near the river ; The ass is by the river side, And where the feeble breezes glide, Upon the stream the moonbeams quiver. A happy respite ! but at length He feels the glimmering of the moon ; Wakes with glazed eye, and feebly sighing To sink perhaps, where he is lying, Into a second swoon ! He lifts his head he sees his staff; He touches 'tis to him a treasure ! Faint recollection seems to tell That he is yet where mortals dwell A thought received with languid pleasure ! His head upon his elbow propped, Becoming less and less perplexed, Skyward he looks to rock and wood And then upon the glassy flood His wandering eye is fixed. Thought he, that is the face of o^ie In his last sleep securely bound ! So toward the stream his head he bent, And downward thrust his staff, intent The river's depth to sound. Now like a tempest-shattered bark That overwhelmed and prostrate lies, And in a moment to the verge Is lifted of a foaming surge Full suddenly the ass doth rise ! His staring bones all shake with joy And close by Peter's side he stands : V/hile Peter o'er the river bends, The little ass his neck extends, And fondly licks his hands. Such life is in the ass's eyes- Such life is in his limbs and ears That Peter Bell, if he had been The veriest coward ever seen, Must now have thrown aside his fears. The ass looks on and to his work Is Peter quietly resigned ; He touches here he touches there And now among the dead man's hair His sapling Peter has entwined. He pulls and looks and pulls again ; And he whom the poor ass has lost, The man who had been four days dead, Head foremost from the river's bed Uprises like a ghost ! And Peter draws him to dry land ; And through the brain of Peter pass Some poignant twitches, fast and faster, ' ' No doubt, " quoth he, " he is the master Of this poor miserable ass ! " The meagre shadow all this while What aim is his ? what is he doing ? His sudden fit of joy is flown, He on his knees hath laid him down, As if he were his grief renewing. Ek't no his purpose and his wisi. The suppliant shows, well as he can ; Thought Peter, whatsoe'er betide, t'll go, and he my way will guide To the cottage of the drowned man. encouraged by this hope, he moun'. Jpon the pleased and thankful as a ; And then, without a moment's stay, That earnest creature turned away, saving the body on the grass. ntent upon his faithful watch, The beast four days and nights had passed A sweeter meadow ne'er was seen, And there the ass four days had been, Nor ever once did break his fast ! Yet firm his step, and stout his heart ! The mead is crossed the quarry's mouth s reached but there the trusty guide nto a thicket turns aside, And takes his way towards the south. t24 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. When hark a burst of doleful sound ! And Peter honestly might say, The like came never to his ears, Though he has been, full thirty years, A rover night and day. Tis not a plover of the moors, 'Tis not a bittern of the fen ; Nor can it be a barking fox Nor night-bird chambered in the rocks Nor wild-cat in a woody glen ! The ass is startled and stops short Right in the middle of the thicket ; And Peter, wont to whistle loud Whether alone or in a crowd, Is silent as a silent cricket. What ails you now, my little Bess? Well may you tremble and look grave ! This cry that rings along the wood, This cry that floats adown the flood, Comes from the entrance of a cave ; I see a blooming wood-boy there, And, if I had the power to say How sorrowful the wanderer is, Your heart would be as sad as his Till you had kissed his tears away ! Holding a hawthorn branch in hand, All bright with berries ripe and red, Into the cavern's mouth he peeps Thence back into the moonlight creeps What seeks the boy? the silent dead His father ! Him doth he require, Whom he hath sought with fruitless pains, Among the rocks, behind the trees, Now creeping on his hands and knees, Now running o'er the open plains. And hither is he come at last, When he through such a day has gone, By this dark cave to be distrest Like a poor bird her plundered nest Hovering around with dolorous moan ! Of that intense and piercing cry The listening ass conjectures well; Wild as it is, he there can read Some intermingled notes that plead With touches irresistible ; But Peter, when he saw the ass Not only stop but turn, and change The cherished tenor of his pace That lamentable noise to chase, It wrought in him conviction strange ; A faith that, for the dead man's sake And this poor slave who loved him weii Vengeance upon his head will fall, Some visitation worse than all Which ever till this night befel. Meanwhile the ass to reach his home, Is striving stoutly as he may ; But, while he climbs the woody hill, The cry grows weak and weaker still And now at last it dies away ! So with his freight the creature turns Into a gloomy grove of beech, Along the shade with footsteps true Descending slowly, till the two The open moonlight reach. And there, along a narrow dell, A fair smooth pathway you discern, A length of green and open road As if it from a fountain flowed Winding away between the fern. The rocks that tower on either side Build up a wild fantastic scene ; Temples like those among the Hindoos, And mosques, and spires, and abbev windows, And castles all with ivy green ! And, while the ass pursues his way, Along this solitary dell, As pensively his steps advance, The mosques and spi r es change counte- nance, And look at Peter Bell ! That unintelligible cry Hath left him high in preparation, Convinced that he, or soon or late, This very night, will meet his fate And so he sits in expectation ! The strenuous animal hath clomb With the green path, and now he wends Where, shining like the smoothest sea, In undisturbed immensity A level plain extends. But whence that faintly-rustling sound Which, all too long, the pair hath chased. 1 A dancing leaf is close behind, Light plaything for the sportive wind Upon that solitary waste. When Peter spies the withered leaf. It yields no cure to his distress ; POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION: 125 " Where there is not a bush or tree, The very leaves they follow me So huge hath been my wickedness!" To a close lane they now are come, Where, as before, the enduring ass Moves on without a moment's stop, Nor once turns round his head to crop A bramble leaf or blade of grass. Between the hedges as they go, The white dust sleeps upon the lane ; And Peter, ever and anon Back-looking, sees, upon a stone Or in the dust, a crimson stain. A stain as of a drop of blood By moonlight made more faint and wan Ha ! why this comfortless despair ? He knows not how the blood comes there, And Peter is a wicked man. At length he spies a bleeding wound, Where he had struck the creature's head ; He sees the blood, knows what it is, A glimpse of sudden joy was his, But then it quickly fled ; Of him whom sudden death had seized He thought, of thee, O faithful ass ! And once again those darting pains, As meteors shoot through heaven's wide plains, Pass through his bosom and repass ! PART III. I'VE heard of one, a gentle soul, Though given to sadness and to gloom, And for the fact will vouch, one night It chanced that by a taper's light This man was reading in his room ; Bending, as you or I might bend At night o'er any pious book, When sudden blackness overspread The snow-white page on which he read, And made the good man round him look. The chamber walls were dark all round, And to his book he turned again ; The light had left the good man's taper, And formed itself upon the paper Into large letters bright and plain ! The godly book was in his hand And, on the page more black than coal, Appeared, set forth in strange array, A word which to his dying day Perplexed the good man's gentle soul. The ghostly word, full plainly seen, Did never from his lips depart ; But he hath said, poor gentle wight ! It brought full many a sin to light Out of the bottom of his heart. Dread spirits ! to torment the good Why wander from your course so far, Disordering colour, form, and stature ! Let good men feel the soul of nature, And see things as they are. I know you, potent spirits ! well, How, with the feeling and the sense Playing, ye govern foes or friends, Yoked to your will, for fearful ends And this 1 speak in reverence ! But might I give advice to you, Whom in my fear I love so well, From men of pensive virtue go, Dread beings ! and your empire show On hearts like that of Peter Bell. Your presence I have often felt In darkness and the stormy night ; And well I know, if need there be, Ye can put forth your agency When earth is calm, and heaven is bright. Then, coming from the wayward world, That powerful world in which ye dwell, Come, spirits of the mind ! and try To-night, beneath the moonlight sky, What may be done with Peter Bell ! Oh, would that some more skilful voice My further labour might prevent ! Kind listeners, that around me sit, I feel that I am all unfit For such high argument. I've played and danced with my narra. tion I loitered long ere I began : Ye waited then on my good pleasure, Pour out indulgence still, in measure As liberal as ye can ! Our travellers, ye remember well, Are thridding a sequestered lane ; And Peter many tricks is trying, And many anodynes applying, To ease his conscience of its pain. 126 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION By this nis heart is lighter far ; And, finding that he can account So clearly for that crimson stain, His evil spirit up again Does like an empty bucket mount. And Peter is a deep logician Who hath no lack of wit mercurial ; "Blood drops leaves rustle yet," quoth he, " This poor man never, but for me, Could have had Christian burial. " And, say the best you can, 'tis plain, That here hath been some wicked dealing ; No doubt the devil in me wrought ; I'm not the man who could have thought An ass like this was worth the stealing !" So from his pocket Peter takes His shining horn tobacco-box ; And, in a light and careless way, As men who with their purpose play, Upon the lid he knocks. Let them whose voice can stop the clouds Whose cunning eye can see the wind Tell to a curious world the cause Why, making here a sudden pause, The ass turned round his head and Appalling process ! I have marked The like on heath in lonely wood, And, verily, have seldom met A spectacle more hideous yet It suited Peter's present mood. And, grinning in his turn, his teeth He in jocose defiance showed When, to confound his spiteful mirth, A murmur, pent within the earth, In the dead earth beneath the road, Rolled audibly ! it swept along A muffled noise a rumbling sound ! 'Twas by a troop of miners made, Plying with gunpowder their trade, Some twenty fathoms under ground. Small cause of dire effect ! for, surely, If ever mortal, king or cotter, Believed that earth was charged to quake And yawn for his unworthy sake, 'Twas Peter Bell the potter ! But, as an oak in breathless air Will stand though to the centre hewn ; Or as the weakest things, if frost Have stiffened them, maintain their post ; So he, beneath the gazing moon ! Meanwhile the pair have reached a spot Where, sheltered by a rocky cove, A little chapel stands alone, With greenest ivy overgrown, And tufted with an ivy grove. Dying insensibly away From human thoughts and purposes, The building seems, wall, roof, and tower To bow to some transforming power, And blend with the surrounding trees. Deep-sighing as he passed along, Quoth Peter, "In the shire of Fife, 'Mid such a ruin, following still From land to land a lawless will, I married my sixth wife !" The unheeding ass moves slowly on, And now is passing by an inn Brimful of a carousing crew, That make, with curses not a few, An uproar and a drunken din. I cannot well express the thoughts Which Peter in those noises found ; A stifling power compressed his frame, As if confusing darkness came Over that dull and dreary sound. For well did Peter know the sound ; The language of those drunken joys To him, a jovial soul, I ween, But a few hours ago, had been A gladsome and a welcome noise. Now, turned adrift into the past, He finds no solace in his course ; Like planet-stricken men of yore, He trembles, smitten to the core By strong compunction and remorse. But, more than all, his heart is stung To think of one, almost a child ; A sweet and playful Highland girl, As light and beauteous as a squirrel, As beauteous and as wild ! A lonely house her dwelling was, A cottage in a heathy dell ; And she put on her gown of green, And 1 >ft her mother at sixteen, And followed Peter Bell. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. J.27 But many good and pious thoughts Had she ; and, in the kirk to pray, Two long Scotch miles, through rain or snow, To kirk she had been used to go, Twice every Sabbath-day. And, when she followed Peter Bell It was to lead an honest life ; For he, with tongue not used to falter, Had pledged his troth before the altar To love her as his wedded wife. A mother's hope is hers ; but soon She drooped and pined like one forlorn ; From Scripture she a name did borrow ; Benoni, or the child of sorrow, She called her babe unborn. Fcr she had learned how Peter lived, And took it in most grievous part ; She to the very bone was worn, And, ere that little child was born, Died of a broken heart. And now the spirits of the mind Are busy with poor Peter Bell ; Upon the rights of visual sense Usurping, with a prevalence More terrible than magic spell. Close by a brake of flowering furze (Above it shivering aspens play) He sees an unsubstantial creature, His very self in form and feature, Not four yards from the broad highway : And stretched beneath the furze he sees The Highland girl it is no other ; And hears her crying, as she cried, The very moment that she died, " My mother ! oh, my mother !" The sweat pours down from Peter's face, So grievous is his heart's contrition ; With agony his eye-balls ache While he beholds by the furze-brake This miserable vision ! Calm is the well-deserving brute, His peace, hath no offence betrayed ; But now, while down that slope he wends, A voice to Peter's ear ascends, Resounding from the woody glade : Though clamorous as a hunter's horn Re-echoed from a naked rock, Tis from the tabernacle List ! Within, a fervent Methodist Is preaching to no heedless flock '. " Repent ! repent !" he cries aloud, " While yet ye may find mercy ; strive To love the Lord with all your might, Turn to Him, seek Him day and night ! And save your souls alive. 1 ' Repent ! repent ! though ye have gone Through paths of wickedness and woe, After the Babylonian harlot, | And, though your sins be red as scarlet, They shall be white as snow !" Even as he passed the door, these words Did plainly come to Peter's ears : And they such joyful tidings were, The joy was more than he could bear ! He melted into tears. Sweet tears of hope and tenderness ! And fast they fell, a plenteous shower ! His nerves, his sinews seemed to melt ; Through all his iron frame was felt A gentle, a relaxing power ! Each fibre of his frame was weak ; Weak all the animal within ; But, in its helplessness, grew mild And gentle as an infant child, An infant that has known no sin. Meanwhile the persevering ass, , Towards a gate in open view, Turns up a narrow lane ; his chest Against the yielding gate he pressed, And quietly passed through. And up the stony lane he goes ; No ghost more softly ever trod ; Among the stones and pebbles, he Sets down his hoofs inaudibly, As if with felt his hoofs were shod. Along the kne the trusty ass Had gone two hundred yards, not more : When to a lonely house he came, He turned aside towards the same, And stopped before the door. Thought Peter, 'tis the poor man's home . He listens not a sound is heard Save from the trickling household rill, But, stepping o'er the cottage-sill, Forthwith a little girl appeared. 128 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. She to the meeting-house was bound In hope some tidings there to gather ; No glimpse it is no doubtful gleam She saw and uttered with a scream, " My father ! here's my father !" The very word was plainly heard, Heard plainly by the wretched mother Her joy was like a deep affright ; And forth she rushed into the light, And saw it was another ! And instantly, upon the earth, Beneath the full moon shining bright, Close to the ass's feet she fell ; At the same moment Peter Bell Dismounts in most unhappy plight. What could he do ? The woman lay Breathless and motionless ; the mind Of Peter sadly was confused ; But, though to such demands unused, And helpless almost as the blind, He raised her up, and while he held Her body propped against his knee, The woman waked and when she spied The poor ass standing by her side She moaned most bitterly. " Oh ! God be praised my heart's at ease For he is dead I know it well !" At this she wept a bitter flood ; And, in the best way that he could, His tale did Peter tell. He trembles he is pale as death His voice is weak with perturbation He turns aside his head he pauses ; Poor Peter from a thousand causes Is crippled sore in his narration. At length she learned how he espied The ass in that small meadow ground ; And that her husband now lay dead, Beside that luckless river's bed In which he had been drowned. A piercing look the sufferer cast Upon the beast that near her stands ; She sees 'tis he, that 'tis the same ; She calls the poor ass by his name, And wrings, and wrings her hands. " Oh, wretched loss untimely stroke ! If he had died upon his bed ! He knew not one forewarning pain He never will come home again Is dead for ever dead !" Beside the woman Peter stands : His heart is opening more and more ; A holy sense pervades his mind : He feels what he for human kind Had never felt before. At length, by Peter's arm sustained, The woman rises from the ground "Oh, mercy ! something must be done, My little Rachel, you must run, Some willing neighbour must be found. " Make haste my little Rachel do, The first you meet with bid him come, Ask him to lend his horse to-night And this good man, whom Heaven requite, Will help to bring the body home." Away goes Rachel, weeping loud ; An infant, waked by her distress, Makes in the house a piteous cry, And Peter hears the mother sigh, "Seven are they, and all fatherless !" And now is Peter taught to feel That man's heart is a holy thing ; And Nature, through a world of death, Breathes into him a second breath, More searching than the breath of spring. Upon a stone the woman sits In agony of silent grief From his own thoughts did Peter start ; He longs to press her to his heart, From love that cannot find relief. But roused, as if through every limb Had past a sudden shock of dread, The mother o'er the threshold flies, And up the cottage stairs she hies, And to the pillow gives her burning he? d. And Peter turns his steps aside Into a shade of darksome trees, Where he sits down, he knows not how, With his hands pressed against his brow, His elbows on his tremulous knees. There, self-involved, does Peter sit Until no sign of life he makes, As if his mind were sinking deep Through years that have been long asleep! The trance is past away he wakes, He lifts his head and sees the ass Yet standing in the clear moonshine. ' ' When shall I be as good as thou ? Oh ! would, poor beast, that I had novf A heart but half as good as thine 1" MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 129 But he who deviously hath sought His father through the lonesome woods, Hath sought, proclaiming to the ear Of night his inward grief and fear He comes escaped from fields and floods ; With weary pace is drawing nigh He sees the ass and nothing living Had ever such a fit of joy As hath this little orphan boy, For he has no misgiving ! Towards the gentle ass he springs, And up about his neck he climbs ; In loving words he talks to him, He kisses, kisses face and limb, He kisses him a thousand times ! This Peter sees, while in the shade He stood beside the cottage door : And Peter Bell, the ruffian wild, Sobs loud, he sobs even like a child, " Oh ! God, I can endure no more !' Here ends my tale : for in a trice Arrived a neighbour with his horse ; Peter went forth with him straightway ; And, with due care, ere break of day Together they brought back the corse. And many years did this poor ass, Whom once it was my luck to see Cropping the shrubs of Leming Lane, Help by his labour to maintain The widow and her family. And Peter Bell, who, till that night, Had been the wildest of his clan, Forsook his crimes, repressed his folly, And after ten months' melancholy, Became a good and honest man. TO . HAPPY the feeling from the bosom thrown In perfect shape (whose beauty time shall spare Though a breath made it)like a bubble blown For summer pastime into wanton air ; Happy the thought best likened to a stone Of the sea-beach, when, polished with nice care, Veins it discovers exquisite and rare, Which for the loss of that moist gleam atone That tempted first to gather it. O chief Of friends ! such feelings if I here present, Such thoughts, with others mixed less for- tunate ; Then smile into my heart a fond belief That thou, if not with partial joy elate, Receiv'st the gift for more than mild con- tent ! 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. WRITTEN IN VERY EARLY YOUTH. CALM is all nature as a resting wheel. The kine are couched upon the dewy grass ; The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass, Is cropping audibly his later meal : [steal Dark is the ground ; a slumber seems to O'er vale, and mountain, and thestarlesssky. Now, in this blank of things, a harmony, Home-felt, and home-created, seems to heal ISO MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. That grief for which the senses still supply Fresh food ; for only then, when memory Is hushed, am I at rest. My friends ! restrain Those busy cares that would allay my pain : Oh i leave me to myself ; nor let me feel The officious touch that makes me droop again. ADMONITION. Intended more particularly for the perusal of those who may have happened to be ena- moured of some beautiful place of retreat, in the country of the lakes. WELL mayst thou halt, and gaze with brightened 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, [window, door, Even thine, though few thy wants ! Roof, 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 [away. On which it should be touched would melt " BELOVED vale !" I said, "when I shall con Fhose many records of my childish years, Remembrance of myself and of my peers Will press me down : to think of what is gone Will be an awful thought, if life have one." But, when into the vale I came, no fears Distressed me ; from mine eyes escaped no tears ; Deep thought, or awful vision, had I none. By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost, I stood of simple shame the blushing thrall ; So narrow seemed the brooks, the fields so small. A juggler's balls old time about him tossed ; I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed ; and all The weight of sadness was in wonder lost. PELION and Ossa nourish side by side, Together in immortal books enrolled : His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold ; And that inspiring hill which " did divide Into two ample horns his forehead wide, " Shines with poetic radiance as of old ; While not an English mountain we behold By the celestial muses glorified, [crowds : Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in What was the great Parnassus' self to thee, Mount Skiddaw ? In his natural sovereignty Our British hill is fairer far : he shrouds His double front among Atlantic clouds, And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly. THERE is a little unpretending rill Of limpid water, humbler far than aught That ever among men or naiads sought Notice or name ! It quivers down the hill, Furrowing its shallow way with dubious will ; [brought Yet to my mind this scanty stream is Oftener than Ganges or the Nile, a thought Of private recollection sweet and still ! Months perish with their moons ;year treads on year ; But, faithful Emma, thou with me canst say [pear, That, while ten thousand pleasures disap- And flies their memory fast almost as they, The immortal spirit of one happy day Lingers beside that rill, in vision clear. HER only pilot the soft breeze the boat Lingers, but fancy is well satisfied ; [side, With keen-eyed hope, with memory, at her And the glad muse at liberty to note All that to each is precious, as we float Gently along ; regardless who shall chide If the heavens smile, and leave us free to glide, Happy associates breathing air remote From trivial cares. But, fancy and the muse, Why have I crowded this small bark with you And others of your kind, ideal crew ! While here sits one whose brightness owes its hues To flesh and blood ; no goddess from above, No fleeting spirit, but my own true love ? THE fairest, brightest hues of ether fade ; The sweetest notes must terminate and die; O friend ! thy flute has breathed a harmony Softly resounded through this rocky glade ; Such strains of rapture as the genius played In his still haunt on Bagdad'ssummithigh ;* He who stood visible to Mirza's eye, See the Vision of Mkza, in the Spectator. MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 131 Never before to human sight betrayed. Lo, in the vale, the mists of evening spread ! The visionary arches are not there, Nor the green islands, nor the shining seas ; Yet sacred is to me this mountain's head, From which I havr been lifted on the breeze Of harmony, above all earthly care. UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE (Painted by Sir G. H. Beaumont, Bart.) PRAISED be the art whose subtle power could stay Yon cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape ; Nor would permit the thin smoke to escape, Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day ; [their way, Which stopped that band of travellers on Ere they were lost within the shady wood ; And showed the bark upon the glassy flood For ever anchored in her sheltering bay. Soul-soothing art ! which morning, noon- tide, even Deserve with all their changeful pageantry ; Thou, with ambition modest yet sublime, Here, for the sight of mortal man, hast given [time To one brief moment caught from fleeting The appropriate calm of blest eternity. ' WHY, minstrel, these untuneful mur- murings [jar ?' ' Dull, flagging notes that with each other " Think, gentle lady, of a harp so far From its own country, and forgive the strings." A simple answer ! but even so forth springs, From the Castalian fountain of the heart, The poetry of life, and all that art Divine of words quickening insensate things. From the submissive necks of guiltless men Stretched on the block, the glittering axe recoils ; Sun, moon, and stars, all struggle in the toils Of mortal sympathy ; what wonder then If the poor harp distempered music yields Toils sad lord, far from "lis native fields? AERIAL rock whose solitary brow From this low threshold daily meets my sight, When I step forth to hail the morning light ; Or quit the stars with lingering farewell how Shall fancy pay to thee a grateful vr>w ? How, with the muse's aid, her love attest ? Ey planting on thy naked head the crest Of an imperial castle, which the plough Of ruin shall not touch. Innocent scheme ! That doth presume no more than to supply A grace the sinuous vale and roaring stream Want, through neglect of hoar antiquity. Rise, then, ye votive towers, and catch a gleam Of golden sunset, ere it fade and die ! GENTLE sleep ; do they belong to thee, These twinklings of oblivion ! Thou dost love To sit in meekness, like the brooding dove, A captive never wishing to be free. This tiresome night, O sleep ! thou art to me A fly, that up and down himself doth shove Upon a fretful rivulet, now above Now on the water vexed with mockery. 1 have no pain that calls for patience, no ; Hence am I cross and peevish as a child ; Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe, Yet ever willing to be reconciled : O gentle creature ! do not use me so, But once and deeply let me be beguiled. A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by, One after one ; the sound of rain, and b^es Murmuring ; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, [pure sky ; Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and "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, [stealth . And could not win thee, sleep ! by any So do not let me wear to-night away : Without thee what is all the morning's wealth ? Come, blessed barrier betwixt day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health ! TO SLEEP. FOND words have oft been spoken to thee, sleep ! [names ; I And thou hast had thy store of tenderes/ I The very sweetest words that fancy frame? 132 MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. When thankfulness 01 heart is strong and deep ! Dear bosom child we call thee, that dost steep [tames In nch reward all suffering ; balm that All anguish ; saint that evil thoughts and aims Takest away, and into souls dost creep, Like tr> a. breeze from heaven. Shall I alone, I surely not a man ungently made, Call thee worst tyrant by which flesh is crost ? Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown, Mere slave of them who never for thee prayed, [most ! Still last to come where thouart wanted THE WILD DUCK'S NEST. THE imperial consort of the fairy king Owns not a sylvan bower ; or gorgeous cell With emerald floored, and with purpureal shell Ceilinged and roofed, that is so fair a thing As this low structure for the tasks of spring [swell Prepared by one who loves the buoyant Of the brisk waves, yet here consents to dwell ; [brooding-wing. And spreads in steadfast peace her Words cannot paint the o'ershadowing yew- tree-bough, And dimly-gleaming nest, a hollow crown Of golden leaves inlaid with silver down, Fine as the mother's softest plumes allow : I gaze and almost wish to lay aside Humanity, weak slave of cumbrous pride ! WRITTEN UPON A BLANK LEAF IN " THE COMPLETE ANGLER." WHILE flowing rivers yield a blameless sport, [benign ! Shall live the name of Walton ; sage Whose pen, the mysteries of the rod and line Unfolding, did not fruitlessly exhort To reverend watching of each still report That nature utters from her rural shrine. Meek, nobly versed in simple discipline, He found the longest summer day too short, To his loved pastime given by sedgy I^ee, Or down the tempting maze of Shawford brook ! Fairer than life itself, in this sweet book, The cowslip bank and shady willow tree, And the fresh meads ; where flowed from every nook Of his full bosom, gladsome piety ! TO THE POET, JOHN DYER, BARD of the Fleece, whose skilful geniur made [bright ; That work a living landscape fair and Nor hallowed less with musical delight Than those soft scenes through which thy childhood strayed, Those southern tracts of Cambria, "deep embayed, With green hills fenced, with ocean's murmur lulled, " Though hasty fame hath many a chaplet culled [shade For worthless crowns, while in the pensive Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced, [and still, Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek A grateful few, shall love thy modest lay, Long as the shepherd's bleating flock shall stray O'er naked Snowdon's wide aerial waste ; Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill! ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED THE PUBLICATION OF A CERTAIN POEM. See Milton's sonnet, beginning " A book was writ of late called 'Tetrachordon.' " A BOOK came forth of late, called " Peter Bell ;" [good Not negligent the style ; the matter ? As aught that song records of Robin Hood ; Or Roy, renowned through many a Scottish dell; But some (who brook these hackneyed themes full well, [blood) Nor heat at Tam o'Shanter's name their Waxed wroth, and with foul claws, a harpy brood, On bard and hero clamorously fell. Heed not, wild rover once through heath and glen. [choice. Who mad'st at length the better life thy Heed not such onset ! nay, if praise of men To thee appear not an unmeaning voice, Lift up that gray-haired forehead, and rejoice In the just tribute of thy poet's pen ! TO THE RIVER DERWENT. AMONG the mountains were we nursed, loved stream ! [sail, Thou, near the eagle's nest within brief ' . of his bold wing floating on the gale, MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 133 Where thy deep voice could lull me ! Faint the beam Of human life when first allowed to gleam On mortal notice. Glory of the vale, [frail Such thy meek outset, with a crown though Kept in perpetual verdure by the steam Of thy soft breath ! Less vivid wreath entwined [worn, Nemaean victor's brow ; less bright was Meed of some Roman chief in triumph borne [his car With captives chained ; and shedding from The sunset splendours of a finished svar Upon the proud enslavers of mankind ! COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE VALLEYS OF WESTMORELAND ON EASTER SUNDAY. WITH each recurrence of this glorious morn That saw the Saviour in His human frame Rise from the dead, erewhile the cottage- dame Put on fresh raiment till that hour unworn; Domestic hands the home-bred wool had shorn, [fleece. And she who span it culled the daintiest In thoughtful reverence to the Prince of Peace, [thorn . Whose temples bled beneath the platted A blest estate when piety sublime These humble props disdained not ! O green dales ! Sad may I be who heard your Sabbath chime When art's abused inventions were un- known ; [own ; Kind nature's various wealth was all your And benefits were weighed in reason's scales ! GRIEF, thou hast lost an ever-ready friend Now that the cottage spinning-wheel is mute ; And care a comforter that best could suit Her froward mood, and softliest reprehend ; And love a charmer's voice, that used to lend, More efficaciously than aught that flows From harp or lute, kind influence to compose Tht throbbing pulse, else troubled without end ; [rest Even joy could tell, joy craving truce and From her own overflow, what power sedate On those revolving motions did await Assiduously, to soothe her aching breast And to a point of just relief abate The mantling triumphs of a day too blest. EXCUSE is needless when with love sincere Of occupation, not by fashion led, Thou turn'st the wheel that slept with dust o erspread ; My nerves from no such murmur shrink- though near, Soft as the dorhawk's to a distant ear, When twilight shades bedim the mountain's head. [thread She who was feigned to spin our vital Might smile, O lady ! on a task once dear To household virtues. Venerable art, Torn from the poor ! yet will kind Heaven protect Its own, not left without a guiding chart, If rulers, trusting with undue respect To proud discoveries of the intellect, Sanction the pillage of man's ancient heart. DECAY OF PIETY. OFT have I seen, ere time had ploughed my cheek, [call Matrons and sires who, punctual to the Of their loved church, on fast or festival Through the long year the house of prayer would seek : By Christmas snows, by visitation bleak Of Easter winds, unscared, from hut or hall They came to lowly bench or sculptured stall, But with one fervour of devotion meek. I see the places where they once were known, And ask, surrounded even by kneeling crowds, Is ancient piety for ever flown ? Alas ! even then they seemed like fleecy clouds [have won That, struggling through the western sky, Their pensive light from a departed sun ! COMPOSED ON THE EVE OF THE MARRIAGE OF A FRIEND, IN THE VALE OF GRASMERE. WHAT need of clamorous bells, or ribands g av - These humblenuptials to proclaim or grace ? Angels of love, look down upon the place, Shed on the chosen vale a sun-bright day ! Yet no proud gladness would the bride display Even for such promise ; serious is her lace. Modest her mien ; and she, whose thoughts keep pace t'entleness, in that becoming way M 134 MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. Will thank you. Faultless doth the maid appear, No disproportion in her soul, no strife : But, when the closer view of wedded life Hath shown that nothing human can be clear From frailty, for that insight may the wife To her indulgent lord become more dear. FROM THE ITALIAN OF M'CHAEL ANGELO. YES ! hope may with my strong desire keep pace, And I be undeluded, unbetrayed ; For if of our affections none find grace In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God made The world which we inhabit ! Better plea Love cannot have, than that in loving thee Glory to that eternal peace is paid, Who such divinity to thee imparts As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts. His hope is treacherous only whose love dies With beauty, which is varying every hour ; But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power [less flower, Of outward change, there blooms a death- Thai breathes on earth the air of paradise. FROM THE SAME. No mortal object did these eyes behold When first they met the placid light of thine, And my soul felt her destiny divine, And hope of endless peace in me grew bold: Heaven-born, the soul a heaven-ward course must hold ; Beyond the visible world she soars to seek ( For what delights the sense is false and weak) Weal form, the universal mould. The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest In that which perishes : nor will he lend His heart to aught which doth on time depend. 'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love, [best, That kills the soul : love betters what is Even here below, but more in heaven above. FROM THE SAME. TO THE SUPREME BEING. THE prayers I make will then be sweet indeed If Thou the spirit give by which I pray : My unassisted heart is barren clay That of its native self can nothing feed : Of good and pious works Thou art the seed, [may : That quickens only where Thou say'st it Unless Thou show to us Thine own true way [lead. No man can find it. Father ! Thou must Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind By which such virtue may in me be bred That in Thv holy footstep^ 1 may tread ; The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind, That I may have the power to sing of Thee, And sound Thy praises everlastingly. 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 [power, But how could I forget thee? Through what Even for the least division of an hour, Have I been so beguiled as to be blind To my most grievous loss? That thought's return Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more ; That neither present time, nor years unborn Could to my sight that heavenly face restore. METHOUGHT I saw the footstep? 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, [groan !" "Thou art our king, O Death ! to thee we I seem 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 [gone ; Pleasing remembrance of a thought fore- A lovely beauty in a summer grave ! " WEAK is the will of man, his judgment blind ; Remembrance persecutes, and hope betrays 1 MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 135 Heavy is woe ; and joy, for human-kind, A mournful thing, so transient is the blaze!" Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days Who wants the glorious faculty assigned To elevate the more-than-reasoning mind, And colour life's dark cloud with orientrays. Imagination is that sacred power, Imagination lofty and refined ; 'Tis hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of Faith, and round the sufferer s temples bind [shower, Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind. A goodly vessel did 1 then espy Come like a giant from a haven broad ; And lustily along the bay she strode, " Her tackling rich, and of apparel high, ' j This ship was nought to me, nor I to het-. I Yet I pursued her with a lover's look ; This ship to all the rest did I prefer . When will she turn, and whither? She will brook [must stir; No tarrying ; where she comes the winds On went she, and due north her journey took. 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, [thought, If thou appear'st untouched by solemn 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. THE world is too much with us : late and soon, [powers: Getting and spending, we lay waste our Little we see in nature that is ours; j 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 1, 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. 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, [ an( i there (From time to time, like pilgrims, here Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark, Of the old sea some reverential fear, Is with me at thy farewell, joyous bark ! WITH ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed; Some lying fast at anchor in the road, Some veering up and down, one knew not why. A VOLANT tribe of bards on earth are found, Who, while the flattering zephyrs round them play, [of clay ; On " coignes of vantage " hang their nests How quickly from that aery hold unbound, Dust for oblivion ! To the solid ground Of nature trusts the mind that builds foraye ; Convinced that there, there only, she can lay Secure foundations. As the year runs round, Apart she toils within the chosen ring ; While the stars shine, or while day's purple eye Is gently closing with the flowers of spring; Where even the motion of an angel's wing Would interrupt the intense tranquillity Of silent hills, and more than silent sky. How sweet it is, when mother fancy rocks The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood ! An old place, full of many a lovely brood, Tall trees, green arbours, and ground- flowers in flocks ; [stocks, And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn I Like a bold girl, who plays her agile prank? 136 MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. At wakes and fairs with wandering mounte- banks, [and mocks When she stands cresting the clown's head, The crowd beneath her. Verily I think, Such place to me is sometimes like a dream Or map of the whole world : thoughts, link by link, [gleam Enter through ears and eyesight, with such Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink, And leap at once from the delicious stream. PERSONAL TALK. / 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, [stalk, Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the These all wear out of me, like forms, with chalk [night, Painted on rich men's floors for one feast Better than such discourse doth silence long, Long, barren silence, square with my desire; To sit without emotion, hope, or aim, In the loved presence of my cottage-fire, And listen to the flapping of the flame, Or kettle whispering its faint undersong. ' ' YET life, " you say, ' ' is life ; we have seen and see, And with a living pleasure we describe ; And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe The languid mind into activity. Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee Are fostered by the comment and the gibe. " Even be it so : yet still among your tribe, Our daily world's true worldlings, rank not me ! [lies Children are blest, and powerful; their world More justly balanced , partly at their feet, And part far from them sweetest melodies Are those that are by distance made more sweet ; Teyes, Whose mind is but the mind of his own He is a slave ; the meanest we can meet ! 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 ; I Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear The gentle lady married to the Moor ; And heavenly Una with her milk-white lamb. IV. 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. 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 lashioned to infuse Faith in the whispers of the lonely muse, While the whole world seems adverse to desert. And oh ! when nature sinks, as oft she may, Through long-lived pressure of obscure distress, Still to be strenuous for the bright reward, And in the soul admit of no decay, Brook no continuance of weak-mindedness ; Great is the glory, for the strife is hard ! ; FROM the dark chambers of dejection freed, WiNGS have we, and as far as we can go I Spurning the unprofitable yoke of care, We may find pleasure : wilderness and Rise, Gillies, rise : the gales of youth shall wood, fmood j bear Blank ocean and mere sky, support that j Thy genius forward like a winged steed. Which with the lofty sanctifies the low, i Though bold Bellerophon (so Jove decreed MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. In wrath) fell headlong from the fields of air, Yet a rich guerdon waits on minds that dare, If aught be in them ot immortal seed, And reason govern that audacious flight Which heaven-ward they direct. Then droop not thou, Erroneously renewing a sad vow In the low dell 'mid Roslin's faded grove : A cheerful life is wha 1 the muses love, A soaring spirit is their prime delight. FAIR prime of life ! were it enough to gild With ready sunbeams every straggling shower ; And, if an unexpected cloud should lower, Swiftly thereon a rainbow arch to build For fancy's errands, then, from fields half- tilled [flower, Gathering green weeds to mix with poppy Thee might thy minions crown, and chant thy power, Unpitied by the wise, all censure stilled. Ah ! show that worthier honours are thy due ; Fair prime of life ! arouse the deeper heart ; Confirm the spirit glorying to pursue Some path of steep ascent and lofty aim ; And, if there be a joy that slights the claim Of grateful memory, bid that joy depart. I HEARD (alas ! 'twas only in a. dream) Strains which, as sage antiquity believed, By waking ears have sometimes been re- ceived Wafted adown the wind from lake or stream ; A most melodious requiem, a supreme And perfect harmony of notes, achieved By a fair swan on drowsy billows heaved, O'er which her pinions shed a silver gleam. For is she not the votary of Apollo ? And knows she not, singing as he inspires, That bliss awaits her which the ungenial hollow * Of the dull earth partakes not, nor desires? Mount, tuneful bird, and join the immortal quires ! [vain to follow. She soared and I awoke, struggling in RETIREMENT. IF the whole weight of what we think and feel Save only far as thought and feeling blend With action, were as nothing, patriot friend ! * See the " Phaedo" of Plato, by which this son- net was suggested. From thy remonstrance would be no appeal .' But to promote and fortify the weal Of our own being ; is her paramount end ; A truth which they alone shall comprehend Who shun the mischief which they cannot heal. [bliss ; Peace in these feverish times is sovereign Here, with no thirst but what the stream can slake, And startled only by the rustling brake, Cool air I breathe ; while the unincumbered mind, By some weak aims at services assigned To gentle natures, thanks not heaven amiss. 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 con- demn [stem . Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and 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, Itgladdensme, O worthy, short-lived youth ! To think how much of this will be thy praise. 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 with it an exile's grief ; The sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned His visionary brow : a glow-worm lamp, It cheered mild Spenser, called from faery - land [a damp To struggle through dark ways ; and when Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet, whence he blew Soul-animating strains alas, too few ! NOT love, nor war, nor the tumultuous swell Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change, Nor duty struggling with afflictions strange, 138 MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell ; But where untroubled peace and concord dwell, There also is the muse not loth to range, Watching thebluesmokeof theelmy grange, Skyward ascending from the twilight dell. Meek aspirations please her, lone endea- vour, And sage content, and placid melancholy ; She loves to gaze upon a crystal river, Diaphanous, because it travels slowly ; Soft is the music that would charm for ever ; The flower of sweetest smell is shyandlowly. SEPTEMBER, 1815. WHILE not a leaf seems faded, while the fields, With ripening harvest prodigally fair, In brightest sunshine bask, this nipping air, [wields Sent from some distant clime where winter His icy scimitar, a foretaste yields Of bitter change and bids the flowers beware ; And whispers to the siler* birds, " Prepare Against the threatening foe your trustiest shields." For me, who under kindlier laws belong To nature's tuneful quire, this rustling dry Through leaves yet green, and yon crys- talline sky,. Announce a season potent to renew, 'Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song, And nobler cares than listless summer knew. NOVEMBER I. How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright [head, The effluence from yon distant mountain's Which, strewn with snow as smooth as heaven can shed, Shines like another sun on mortal sight Uprisen, as if to check approaching night, And all her twinkling stars. Who now would tread, [head If so he might, yon mountain's glittering Terrestrial but a surface, by the flight Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wing, Unswept, unstained ! Nor shall the aerial powers Dissolve that beauty destined to endure, White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure, Through all vicissitudes till genial spring Have filled the laughing vales with wel- come flowers. COMPOSED DURING A STORM. ONE who was suffering tumult in his soul Yet failed to seek the sure relief of prayer, Went forth his course surrendering to the care [prowl Of thr fierce wind, while mid-day lightnings Insidiously, untimely thunders growl ; While trees, dim-seen, in frenzied numbers tear The lingering remnant of their yellow hair, And shivering wolves, surprised with dark- ness, howl As if the sun were not. He raised his eye Soul-smitten for, that instant, did appeal Large space, 'mid dreadful clouds, of purest sky, An azure orb shield of tranquillity, Invisible, unlooked-for minister Of providential goodness ever nigh ! TO A SNOWDROP. LONE flower, hemmed in with snows, and white as they, But hardier far, once more I see thee bend Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend, Like an unbidden guest. Though day by day, [waylay Storms, sallyiig from the mountain-tops, The rising suti, and on the plains descend ; Yet art thou welcome, welcome as a friend Whose zeal outruns his promise ! Blue-eyed May Shall soon behold this border thickly set With bright jonquils, their odours lavishing On the soft west-wind and his frolic peers ; Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, Chaste snowdrop, venturous harbinger of spring, And pensive monitor of fleeting years ! COMPOSED A FEW DAYS AFTER THE FOREGOING. WHEN haughty expectations prostrate lie, And grandeur crouches like a guilty thing, Oft shall the lowly weak, till nature bring Mature release, in fair society Survive, and fortune's utmost anger try ; Like these frail snowdrops that together cling, And nod their helmets smitten by the wing Of many a furious whirl-blast sweeping by. Observe the faithlul flowers ! if small to great [to stand May lead the thoughts, thus struggling used The Emathian phalanx, nobly obstinate ; MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 139 And so the bright immortal Theban band, Whom onset, fiercely urged at Jove's com- mand, Might overwhelm but could not separate ! THE stars are mansions built by nature's hand ; The sun is peopled ; and with spirits blest, Say, can the gentle moon be unpossest ? Huge ocean shows, within his yellow strand, A habitation marvellously planned, For life ^ occu-y ; n love and rest ; AA that we see is dome, or vault, or nest, Or fort, erected at her sage command. Is this a vernal thought? Even so, the spring [heart, Gave it while cares were weighing on my "Mid song of biivls, and insects mumuring ; And while the youthful year's prolific art- - Of bud, leaf, blade, and flower was fashioning Abodes, where self-disturbance hath no part. TO LADY BEAUMONT. LADY ! the songs of spring were in the grove [flowers ; While I was shaping beds for winter While I was planting green unfading bowers, And shrubs to hang upon the warm alcove, And sheltering wall; and still, as fancy wove [powers The dream, to time and nature's blended I gave this paradise for winter hours, A labyrinth, lady ! which yourfeet shall rove. Yes ! when the sun of life more feebly shines, Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn gloom Or of high gladness you shall hither bring ; And these perennial bowers and murmur- ing pines Be gracious as the music and the bloom And all the mighty ravishment of spring. TO THE LADY MARY LOWTHER, With a selection from the poems of Anne, Coun- tess of Winchelsea ; and extracts of similar character from other writers ; transcribed by a female friend. LADY ! I rifled a Parnassian cave (But seldom trod) of mildly-gleaming ore ; And culled, from sundry beds, a lucid store Of genuine crystals, pure as those that pave The azure brooks where Dian joys to luve Her spotless limbs; and ventured to explore Dim shades for reliques, upon Lethe's shore, Cast up at random by the sullen wave. To female hands the treasures were re- signed ; [clear And lo this work ! a grotto bright and From stain or taint ; in which thy blameless mind [austere; May feed on thoughts though pensive not Or, if thy deeper spirit be inclined To holy musing, it may enter here. There is a pleasure tn poetic pains Which only poets know ; 'twas rightly said , Whom could the muses else allure to tread Their smoothest paths, to wear their lightest chains ? When happiest fancy has inspired the strains, How oft the malice of one luckless word Pursues the enthusiast to the social board, Haunts him belated on the silent plains ! Yet he repines not, if his thought stand clear At last of hindrance and obscurity, Fresh as the star that crowns the brow of morn ; Bright, speckless as a softly-moulded tear The moment it has lefr 'he virgin's eye, Or rain-drop lingering on the pointed thorn. THE shepherd, looking eastward, softly- said, [bright !" " Bright is thy veil, O moon, as thou art Forthwith, that little cloud, in ether spread, And penetrated all with tender light, She cast away, and showed her fulgent hca,] Uncovered ; dazzling the beholder's sight As if to vindicate her beauty's right, Her beauty thoughtlessly disparaged. Meanwhile that veil, removed or thrown aside, [went ; Went floating from her, darkening as it And a huge mass, to bury or to hide, Approached the glory of this firmament ; Who meekly yields, and is obscured ; content With one calm triumph of a modest pride. HAIL, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour ! Not dull art thou as undiscerning night : But studious only to remove from sight Day's mutable distinctions. Ancient power ! [ low . er - Thus did the waters gleam, the mountains To the rude Briton, when, in wolf-skin vest Here roving wild he laid him down to rest 140 MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. On the bare rock, or through a leafy bower Looked ere his eyes were closed. By him was seen The self-same vision which we now behold, At thy meek bidding, shadowy power ! brought forth ; [tween ; These mighty barriers, and the gulf be- The floods, the stars, a spectacle as old As the beginning of the heavens and earth ! Of a dark chamber where the mighty sleep . Far more than fancy to the influence bends When solitary nature condescends To mimic time s forlorn humanities. WITH how sad steps, O moon, thou climb'st the sky, " How silently, and with how wan a face !" Where art thou ? Thou whom I have seen on high [rac ! Running among the clouds a wood-nymph's Unhappy nuns, whose common breath's a sigh [P ace ' Which they would stifle, move at such a The northern wind, to call thee to the chase, Must blow to-night his bugle horn. Had I The power of Merlin, goddess ! this should be : [riven, And the keen stars, fast as the clouds were Should sally forth, an emulous company, Sparkling, and hurrying through the clear blue heaven ; [given, But, Cynthia ! should to thee the palm be Queen both for beauty and for majesty. EVEN as the dragon's eye that feels the stress Of a bedimming sleep, or as a lamp Suddenly glaring through sepulchral damp, So burns yon taper 'mid a black recess Of mountains, silent, dreary, motionless: The lake below reflects it not ; the sky Muffled in clouds affords no company To mitigate and cheer its loneliness. Ifet round the body of that joyless thing, Which sends so far its melancholy light, Perhaps are seated in domestic ring A gay society with faces bright, [sing, Conversing, reading, laughing ; or they While hearts and voices in the song unite. MARK the concentred hazels that inclose Yon old gray stone, protected from the ray Of noontide suns : and even the beams that play [blows, And glance, while wantonly the rough wind Are seldom free to touch the moss that grows Upon that roof amid embowering gloom The very image framing of a tomb, Inwnich some ancient chieftain finds repose Among the lonely mountains. Live, ye trees '. [keep And thou, gray stone, the pensive likeness CAPTIVITY. ' ' As the cold aspect of a sunless way Strikes through the traveller's frame with deadlier chill, Oft as appears a grove, or obvious hill, Glistening with unparticipated ray, Or shining slope where he must never stray ; So joys, remembered without wish of will, Sharpen the keenest edge of present ill, On the crushed heart a heavier burthen lay. Just Heaven, contract the compass of my mind To fit proportion with my altered state ! Quench those felicities whose light I find Reflected in my bosom all too late ! Oh, be my spirit, like my thraldom, strait ; And, like mine eyes that stream with sorrow, blind." BROOK ! whose society the poet seeks Intent his wasted spirits to renew ; And whom the curious painter doth pursue Through rocky passes, among flowery creeks, [breaks ; And tracks thee dancing down thy water- If wish were mine some type of thee to view, Thee, and not thee thyself, I would not do Like Grecian artists, give thee human cheeks, Channels for tears ; no naiad shouldst thou be, [hairs ; Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints nor It seems the eternal soul is clothed in thee With purer robes than those of flesh and blood, And hath bestowed on thee a better good ; Unwearied joy, and life without its cares. COMPOSED ON THE BANKS OF A ROCKY STREAM. DOGMATIC teachers of the snow-white fur ! Ye wrangling schoolmen of the scarlet hood ! Who, with a keenness not to be withstood, Press the point home, or falter and demur, Checked in your course by many a teasing burr ; These natural council-seats your acrid blood Might cool ; and, as thegenius of theflood Stoops willingly to animate and spur Each lighter function slumbering in tLt brain, MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 141 Von eddying balls of foam these arrowy gleams, That o'er the pavement of the surging streams Welter and flash a synod might detain With subtle speculations, haply vain, But surely less so than your far-fetched themes ! THIS, AND THE TWO FOLLOWING, WERE SUGGESTED BY MR. W. WESTALL'S VIEWS OF THE CAVES, ETC., IN YORKSHIRE PURE element of waters ! wheresoe'er Thou dost forsake thy subterranean haunts, Green herbs, bright flowers, and berry- bearing plants, Rise into life and in thy train appear : And, through the sunny portion of the year, Swift insects shine, thy hovering pur- suivants : And, if thy bounty fail, the forest pants ; And hart and hind and hunter with his spear, Languish and droop together. Nor unfelt In man's perturbed soul thy sway benign ; And, haply, far within the marble belt Of central earth, where tortured spirits pine For grace and goodness lost, thy murmurs melt [with thine.* Their anguish, and they blend sweet songs MALHAM COVE. WAS the aim frustrated by force or guile, When giants scooped from out the rocky ground Tier under tier this semicirque profound ? (Giants the same who built in Erin's isle That causeway with incomparable toil !) Oh, had this vast theatric structure wound With finished sweep into a perfect round, No mightier work had gained the plausive smile Of all-beholding Phoebus ! But, alas, Vain earth ! false world ! Foundations must be laid (WAS, In heaven ; for, 'mid the wreck of is and Things incomplete, and purposes betrayed Make sadder transits o'er truth's mystic glass Than noblest objects utterly decayed. AT early dawn, or rather when the air Glimmers with fading light, andshadowyevt Is busiest to confer and to bereave, Then, pensive votary ! let thy feet repair To Gordale-chasm, terrific as the lair Where the young lions couch ; for so, by leave Of the propitious hour, thou mayst perceive The local deity, with oozy hair And mineral crown, beside his jagget, urn Recumbent. Him thou mayst behold, who hides His lineaments by day, yet there presides, Teaching the docile waters how to turn ; Or, if need be, impediment to spurn, And force their passage to the salt- sea tides ! * Waters (as Mr. Westall informs us in the let- ter-press prefixed to his admirable views) are j invariably found to flow through these caverns. THE MONUMENT COMMONLY CALLED LONG MEG AND HER DAUGHTERS, NEAR THE RIVER EDEN. A WEIGHT of awe not easy to be borne* Fell suddenly upon my spirit cast From the dread bosom of the unknown past, When first I saw that sisterhood forlorn ; And her, whose massy strength and stature scorn [placed The power of years pre-eminent, and Apart to overlook the circle vast. Speak, giant-mother ! tell it to the morn While she dispels the cumbrous shades of night ; Let the moon hear, emerging from a cloud, At whose behest uprose on British ground Thy progeny ; in hieroglyphic round Forth-shadowing, some have deemed, the infinite, The inviolable God, that tames the proud ! COMPOSED AFTER A JOURNEY ACROSS THE HAMILTON HILLS, YORKSHIRE. DARK and more dark the shades of evening fell ; T tne nour I The vvished-for point w?s reached, but late * The daughters of Long Meg, placed in a perfect circle, eighty yards in diameter, are seventy-two in number, and from more than three yards above ground, to less than so many feet : a little way out of the circle stands Long Meg- herself, a single stone, eighteen feet high. When the author first saw this monument, as he came upon it by surprise, he might overrate its importance as an object ; but, though it will not bear a comparison with Stonehenge, he must U'2 MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. And little could be gained from all that dower Of prospect, whereof many thousands tell. Yet did the glowing west in all its power Salute us : there stood Indian citadel, Temple of Greece, and minster with its tower Substantially expressed a place for bell Or clock to toll from. Many a tempting isle, With groves that never were imagined, lay 'Mid seas how steadfast ! objects all for the eye Of silent rapture ; but we felt the while We should forget them ; they are of the sky, And from our earthly memory fade away ! Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calna 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 ! 1820. " They are of the sky, And from our earthly memory fade away." THESE words were uttered as in pensive mood L s 'S nt : We turned, departing from that solemn A contrast and reproach to gross delight, And life's unspiritual pleasures daily wooed! But now upon this thought 1 cannot brood ; It is unstable as a dream of night ; Nor will I praise a cloud, however bright, Disparaging man's gifts, and proper food. Grove, isle, with every shape of sky-built dome, Though clad in colours beautiful and pure, Find in the heart of man no natural home ; The immortal mind craves objects that endure : [roam, These cleave to it ; from these it cannot Nor they from it : their fellowship is secure. OXFORD, MAY 30, YE sacred nurseries of blooming youth ! In whose collegiate shelter England's flowers [hours Expand enjoying through their vernal The air of liberty, the light of truth ; Much have ye suffered from time's gnawing tooth, Yet, O ye spires of Oxford ! domes and towers ! [powers Garden., and groves ! your presence over- The soberness of reason ; till, in sooth, Transformed, and rushing on a bold ex- change, I slight my own beloved Cam, to range Where silver Isis leads my stripling feet ; Pace the long avenue, or glide adown The stream-like windings of that glorious street. An eager novice robed in fluttering gown ! COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1803. EARTH has not anything to show more fair : [by Dull would he be of soul who could pass 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 ; say, he has not seen any other relique of those dark ages which can pretend to rival it in singu- larity and dignity of eppearaoce. OXFORD, MAY 30, 1820. SHAME on this faithless heart ! that could allow [space ; Such transport though but for a moment's Not while to aid the spirit of the place The crescent moon clove with its glittering prow [bough, The clouds, or night-bird sang from shady But in plain daylight : She too, at my side, Who, with her heart's experience satisfied, Maintains inviolate its slightest vow ! Sweet fancy ! other gifts must I receive ; Proofs of a higher sovereignty I claim ; Take from her brow the withering flowers of eve, [restore : And to that brow life's morning wreath Let her be comprehended in the frame Of these illusions, or they please no more. RECOLLECTION OF THE PORTRAIT OF KING HENRY VIII. TRINITY LODGE, CAMBRIDGE. THE imperial stature, the colossal stride, Are yet before me ; yet do I behold The broad full visage, chest of amplest mould, [pride: The vestments broidered with barbaric And lo ! a poniard, at the monarch's side, Hangs ready to be grasped in sympathy MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 143 With the keen threafenings of that fulgent j eye, [scried, i Below the whke-rimmed bonnet, far de- ! Who trembles now at thy capricious mood ? i 'Mid those surrounding worthies, haughty king ! We rather think, with grateful mind sedate, ; How Providence educeth, from the spring ' Of lawless will, unlooked-for streams of good, [abate. Which neither force shall check nor time ON THE DEATH OF HIS MAJESTY GEORGE III. WARD of the law ! dread shadow of a king ! [room ; Whose realm had dwindled to one stately Whose universe was gloom immersed in gloom, [fling, Darkness as tliick as life o'er life could Save haply for some feeble glimmering Of faith and hope ; if thou, by nature's doom, Gently hast sunk into the quiet tomb, Why should we bend in grief, to sorrow cling, [flowing tears, When thankfulness were best ! Fresh- Or, where tears flow not, sigh succeeding sigh, yield to such after-thought the sole reply Vhich justly it can claim. The nation hears [years, In this deep knell silent for threescore An unexampled voice of awful memory. JUNE, 1820. FAME tells of groves from England far away* Groves that inspire the nightingale to trill And modulate, with subtle reach of skill Elsewhere unmatched, her ever- varying lay; Such bold report I venture to gainsay : For I have heard the choir of Richmond Hill Chanting, with indefatigable bill, Strains, that recalled to mind a distant day ; [wood , When, haply under shade of that same And scarcely conscious of the dashing oars Plied steadily between those willowy shores, The sweet-souled poet of " The Seasons " stood [mood, Listening, and listening long, in rapturous Ye heavenly birds ! to your progenitors. * Wallachia is the country alluded to. PARSONAGE IN OXFORDSHIRE. WHERE holy ground begins, unhallowed ends, Is marked by no distinguishable line; The turf unites, the pathways intertwine; And, wheresoe'er the stealing footstep tends, [friends, Garden, and that domain where kindred, And neighbours rest together, here con- found [sound Their several features, mingled like the Of many v.aters, or as evening blends With shady night. Soft airs, from shrub and flower, (grave; Waft fragrant greetings to each silent And while those lofty poplars gently wave Their tops, between them comes and goes a sky Bright as the glimpses of eternity, To saints accorded in their mortal hour. COMPOSED AMONG THE RUINS OF A CASTLE IN NORTH WALES. THROUGH shattered galleries, 'nid roofless halls, [trayed, Wandering with timid footstep oft be- The stranger sighs, nor scruples to upbraid Old Tii.ie, though he, gentlest among the thralls Of destiny, upon these wounds hath laid His lenient touches, soft as light that falls, From the'wan moon, upon the towers and walls, [shade. Light deepening the profoundest sleep of Relic of kings ! wreck of forgotten wars, To winds abandoned and the prying stars, Time laves thee! at his call the seasons twine [hoar; Luxuriant wreaths around thy forehead And, though past pomp no changes can restore, A soothing recompense, his gift, is thine ! TO THE LADY E. B. AND THE HON. MISS P. Composed in the grounds of Plass Newidd, near Llangollyn, 1824. A STREAM, to mingle with your favourite Dee, Along the Vale of Meditation flows;* So styled by those fierce Britons, pleased to see In nature's face the expression of repose; * Glyn Myrvr. [44 HlBOXZLAmsOV'8 SONNETS. Or haply there some pious hermit chose To lite and die, the peace of heaven his aim ; [owes, To whom the wild sequestered region At this late day, its sanctifying name. Glyn Cafaillgaroch, in the Cambrian tongue, [spot In ours the Vale of Friendship, let this Be named ; where, faithful to a low-roofed cot, On Deva's banks, ye have abode so long ; Sisters in love a love allowed to climb, Even on this earth, above the reach f time! TO THE TORRENT AT THE DEVIL S BRIDGE, NORTH WALES. How art thou named ? In search of what strange land [such force From what huge height, descending ? Can Of waters issue from a British source, Or hath not Pindus fed thee, where the band [hand Of patriots scoop their freedom out, with Desperate as thine? Or, come the in- cessant shocks [throbbing rocks From that young stream, that smites the Of Viamala ? There I seem to stand, As in life's morn; permitted to behold, From the dread chasm, woods climbing above woods In pomp that fades not, everlasting snows, And skies that ne'er relinquish their repose : Such power possess the family of floods Over the minds of poets, young or old ! " Gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name." THOUGH narrow be that old man's cares, and near, The poor old man is greater than he seems : For he hath waking empire, wide as dreams : An ample sovereignty of eye and ear. Rich are his walks with supernatural cheer; The region of his inner spirit teems With vital sounds and monitory gleams Oi high astonishment and pleasing fear. He the seven birds hath seen, that never part. [rounds, Seen the Seven Whistlers in their nightly And counted them: and oftentimes will start [hounds, For overhead are sweeping Gabriel's Doomed, with their impious lord, the flying hart To chase for ever, on aerial grounds ! WILD Redbreast ! hadst thou at Jemimas! lip [might say, Pecked, as at mine, thus boldly, Love A half- blown rose had tempted thee to sip Its glistening dews : but hallowed is the clay [is gray, Which the muse warms ; and I, whose head Am not unworthy of thy fellowship ; Nor could I let one thought one motion slip That might thy sylvan confidence betray. For are we not all His, without whose care [ground ? Vouchsafed, no sparrow falleth to the Who gives His angels wings to speed through air, [profound ; And rolls the planets through the blue Then peck or perch, fond flutterer ! nor forbear To trust a poet in still musings bound. WHEN Philoctetes in the Lemnian isle Lay couched ; upon that breathless monu ment, On him, or on his fearful bow unbent, Some wild bird oft might settle, and be- guile The rigid features of a transient smile, Disperse the tear, or to the sigh give vent, Slackening the pains of ruthless banish- ment From home affections, and heroic toil. Nor doubt that spiritual creatures round us move, Griefs to allay that reason cannot heal ; And very reptiles have sufficed to prove To fettered wretchedness, that no Bastille Is deep enough to exclude the light of love, Though man for brother man has ceased to feel. WHILE Anna's peers and early playmates tread [marge ; In freedom mountain turf and river's Or float with music in the festal barge ; Rein the proud steed, or through the dance are led ; Her doom it is to press a weary bed Till oft her guardian angel, to some charge More urgent called, will stretch his wings at large, [head. And friends too rarely prop the languid Yet helped by genius untired comforter ! The presence even of a stuffed owl for her Can cheat the time ; sending her fancy out To ivied castles and to moonlight skies, MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. T4o Though he can neither stir a plume, nor shout, [eyes. Nor veil, with restless film, his staring TO THE CUCKOO. NOT the whole warbling grove in concert heard [can thrill When sunshine follows shower, the breast Like the first summons, cuckoo ! of thy bill, With its twin notes inseparably paired. The captive, 'mid damp vaults unsunned, unaired, Measuring the periods of his lonely doom, That cry can reach; and to the sick man's room Sends gladness, by no languid smile de- clared, [search The lordly eagle-race through hostile May perish ; time may come when never more The wilderness shall hear the lion roar ; But long as cock shall crow from household perch [thy wing, To rouse the dawn, soft gales shall speed And thy erratic voice be faithful to the spring ! THE INFANT M M . UNQUIET childhood here by special grace Forgets her nature, opening like a flower That neither feeds nor wastes its vital power In painful struggles. Months each other chase, [trace And nought untunes that infant's voice ; a Of fretful temper sullies not her cheek ; Prompt, lively, self-sufficing, yet so meek That one enrapt with gazing on her face, (Which even the placid innocence of death Could scarcely make more placid, heaven more bright,) Might learn to picture, for the eye of faith, The virgin, as she shone with kindred light ; A nursling couched upon her mother's knee, Beneath some shady palm of Galilee. TO ROTHA Q . ROTHA, my spiritual child ! this head was gray When at the sacred font for thee I stood ; Pledged till thou reach the verge of woman- hood, 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 stili, Embodied in the music of this lay. Breathed forth beside the peaceful moun- tain stream* [mother's ear Whose murmur soothed thy languid After her throes, this stream of name more dear Since thou dost hear it, a memorial theme For others ; for thy future self a spell To summon fancies out of time's dark cell. 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, [cheek, When I behold thy blanched unwithered Thy temples fringed with locks of gleaming white, [meek, And head that droops because the soul is Thee with the welcome snowdrop I com- pare, [that climb That child of winter, prompting thoughts From desolation towards the genial prime ; Or with the moon conquering earth's misty air, [light And filling more and more with crystal As pensive evening deepens into night. IN my mind's eye a temple, like a cloud Slowly surmounting some invidious hill, Rose out of darkness : the bright work stood still, [proud, And might of its own beauty have been 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 [spire Under the grave of things ; Hope had her Star-high, and pointing still to something higher ; L sald ' Trembling I gazed, but heard a voice i Hell gates are powerless phantoms when we build. *The river Rotha, that flows into Windermer< from the lakes of Grasmere and Rydal. 146 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. CONCLUSION. TO . IF these brief records, by the Muses' art Produced as lonely nature or the strife That animates the scenes of public life Inspired, may in thy leisure claim a part ; And if these transcripts of the private heart Have gained a sanction from thy falling tears, Then I repent not : but my soul hath fears Breathed from eternity ; for as a dan Cleaves the blank air, life flies : now eve*y day Is but a glimmering spoke in the swift wheel Of the revolving week. Away, away, All fitful cares, all transitory zeal ; So timely grace the immortal wing may heal, And honour rest upon the senseless clay. [mortals of a Cottr tit 1803. DEPARTURE FROM THE VALE OF GRASMERE. AUGUST 1803. THE gentlest shade that walked Elysian plains Might sometimes covet dissoluble chains ; Even for the tenants of the zone that lies Beyond the stars, celestial paradise, Methinks 'twould heighten joy, to overleap At will the crystal battlements, and peep Into some other region, though less fair, To see how things are made and managed there ; [bold Change for the worse might please, incursion Into the tracts of darkness and of cold ; O'er Limbo lake with aery flight to steer, And on the verge of Chaos hang in fear. Such animation often do I find, L mm d. Power in rny breast, wings growing in my Then, when some rock or hill is overpast, Perchance without one look behind me cast, Some barrier with which nature, from the birth [earth. Of things, has fenced this fairest spot on Oh, pleasant transit, Grasmere ! to resign Such happy fields, abodes so calm as thine ; Not like an outcast with himself at strife ; The slave of business, time, or care for life. But moved by choice ; or, if constrained in part, Yet still with nature's freedom at the heart ; To cull contentment upon wildest shores, And luxuries extract from bleakest moors ; With prompt embrace all beauty to infold, And having rights in all that we behold. Then why these lingering steps? A bright adieu, Fora brief absence, proves that love is true; Ne'er can the way be irksome or forlorn, That winds into itself, for sweet return. TO THE SONS OF BURNS, AFTER VISITING THE GRAVE OF THEIR FATHER. " The poet's grave is in a corner of the church- yard. We looked at it with melancholy and painful reflections, repeating to each other his own verses, 'Is there a man whose judgment clear," etc.' Extract from the Journal o_f ?ny Fellow- Traveller. 'MiD crowded obelisks and urns, I sought the untimely grave of Burns ; Sons of the bard, my heart still mourns With sorrow true ; And more would grieve, but that it turns Trembling to you ! Through twilight shades of good and ill Ye now are panting up life's hill, And more than common strength and skil' Must ye display, If ye would give the better will Its lawful sway. Hath nature strung your nerves to bear Intemperance with less harm, beware ! But if the poet's wit ye share, Like him can speed The social hour for tenfold care There will be need. MEMOR1A LS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 147 Fven nonest men delight will take To spare your failings for his sake, Will flatter you, and fool and rake Your steps pursue ; And of your father's name will make A snare for you. Far from their noisy haunts retire, And add your voices to the quire That sanctify the cottage fire With service meet ; There seek the genius of your sire, His spirit greet ; Or where, 'mid "lonely heights and hows, ' He paid to nature tuneful vows ; Or wiped his honourable brows Bedewed with toil, While reapers strove, or busy ploughs Upturned the soil ; His judgment with benignant ray Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way ; But ne'er to a seductive lay Let faith be given ; Nor deem that ' ' light which leads astray, Is light from heaven." Let no mean hope your souls enslave : Be independent, generous, brave ; Your father such example gave, And such revere : But be admonished by his grave, And think, and fear ! ELLEN IRWIN, OR THE BRAES OF KIRTLE. FAIR Ellen Irwin, when she sate Upon the braes of Kittle,* Was lovely as a Grecian maid Adorned with wreaths of myrtle. Young Adam Bruce beside her lay ; And there did they beguile the day With love and gentle speeches, Beneath the budding beeches. From many knights and many squires The Bruce had been selected ; And Gordon, fairest of them all, By Ellen was rejected. * The Kirtle is a river in the southern part of Scotland, on whose banks the events here re- lated took place. Sad tidings to that noble youth ! For it may be proclaimed with truth, If Bruce hath loved sincerely, That Gordon loves as dearly. But what is Gordon's beauteous face, And what are Gordon s crosses, To them who sit by Kirtle's braes Upon the verdant mosses? Alas that ever he was born ! The Gordon, couched behind a thorn, Sees them and their caressing ; Beholds them blest and blessing. Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts That through his brain are travelling, And, starting up, to Brace's heart He launched a deadly javelin ! Fair Ellen saw it when it came, And, stepping forth to meet the ?=>me, Did with her body cover The youth, her chosen lover. And, falling into Brace's arms, Thus died the beauteous Ellen, Thus, from the heart of her true-love, The mortal spear repelling. And Brace, as soon as he had slaiu The Gordon, sailed away to Spain; And fought with rage incessant Against the Moorish crescent. But many days, and many months, And many years ensuing, This wretched knight did vainly seek The death that he was wooing : So coming his last help to crave, Heart-broken, upon Ellen's grave His body he extended, And there his sorrow ended. Now ye, who willingly have heard The tale I have been telling, May in Kirkonnel churchyard view The grave of lovely Ellen : By Ellen's side the Brace is laid; And, for the stone upon its head. May no rude hand deface it, And its forlorn Hie JACET ! TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. (AT INVERSNAID, 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 : 148 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. And these gray rocks ; this household lawn These trees, a veil just half withdrawn ; This fall of water, that doth make A murmur near the silent lake ; This little bay, a quiet road That holds in shelter thy abode ; In truth together 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 ! I neither know thee nor thy peers ; And yet my eyes are filled with tears. With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when I am far away For never saw I mien, or face, I n 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 ! So have I, not unmoved in mind, Seen birds of tempest-loving kind, Thus beating up against the wind. What hand but would a garland cull For thee, who art so beautiful ? Oh, happy pleasure! here to dwell Beside thee in some heathy dell; Adopt your homely ways and dress, A shepherd, thou a shepherdess ! But I could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality: Thou art to me but as a wave Of the wild sea : and I would have Some claim upon thee, if I could, Though but of common neighbourhood. What joy to hear thee, and to see ! Thy elder brother I would be, Thy father anything to thee ! Now thanks to Heaven ! that ot its grace Hath led me to this lonely place. Joy have I had ; and going hence I bear away my recompense. In spots like these it is we prize Our memory, feel that she hath eyes : Then, why should I be loth to stir ? I feel this place was made for her ; To give new pleasure like the past, j Continued long as life shall last. i 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 ! 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 ; [wild Where sights were rough, and sounds were And every thing unreconciled ; In some complaining, dim retreat, For fear and melancholy meet ; But this is calm ; there cannot be A more entire tranquillity. Does then the bard sleep here indeed? Or is it but a groundless creed ! What matters it? 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. MEMORIALS OF A TOUR hV SCOTLAND. STEPPING WESTWARD. [While my fellow-traveller and I were walking by the side of Loch Katrine, one fine even- ing after sunset, in our road to a hut where, in the course of our tour, we had been hos- pitably entertained some weeks before, we met, in one of the loneliest parts of that soli- tary region, two well-dressed women, one of whom said to us, by way of greeting, " What! you are stepping westward ?"] " What! you are stepping -westward ?' 'Twould be a wildish destiny, [_" Yea." 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 skv 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 de;tiny ; 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 : ts power was felt ; and while my eye Was fixed upon the glowing sky, The echo of the voice inwrought A human sweetness with the thought X travelling through the world that lay Before me in my endless way. THE SOLITARY REAPER. BEHOLD her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland lass ! Reaping and singing by herself ; Stop here, or gently pass ! Mone she cuts, and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain ; Oh, listen ! for the vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No nightingale did ever chant More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt. Among Arabian sands : Such thrilling voice was never heard In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-oft things And battles long ago : Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again ! Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang As if her song could have no ending ; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending ; I listened motionless and still ; And as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more. ADDRESS TO KILCHURN CASTLE UPON LOCH AWE. " From the top of the hill a most impressive scene opened upon our view, a ruined castle on an island at some distance from the shore, backed by a cove of the mountain Cruachan, down which came a foaming stream. Tile castle occupied every foot of the island that was visible to us, appearing to rise out of the water, mists rested upon the mountain side, with spots of sunshine , there was a mild desolation in the low-grounds, a solemn gran- deur in the mountains, and the castle was wild, yet stately not dismantled of turrets nor the walls broken down, though obvi- ously a ruin." Extract from the Journal of my Companion. CHILD of loud-throated war ! the moun- tain stream Roars in thy hearing ; but thy hour of rest Is come, and thou art silent in thy age ; Save when the winds sweep by and sounds are caught Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs. Oh ! there is life that breathes not : powsrs there are That touch each other to the quick in modes Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive, [care No soul to dream of. What art thou, from Cast off abandoned by thy rugged sire, Nor by soft peace adopted ; though, in place And in dimension, such that thou mightst seem N ISO MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. But a mere footstool to yon sovereign lord, Hugh Cruachan, (a thing that meaner hills Might crush, nor know that it had suffered harm ;) Yet he, not loth, in favour of thy claims To reverence suspends his own ; submitting All that the God of nature hath conferred, All that he has in common with the stars, To the memorial majesty of time Impersonated in thy calm decay ! Take, then, thyseat, vicegerent unreproved ! Now, while 3. farewell gleam of evening light Is fondly lingering on thy shattered front, Do thou. in turn, be paramount ; and rule Over the pomp and beauty of a scene Whose mountains, torrents, lake, and woods, unite [joined, To pay thee homage ; and with these are 1 n willing admiration and respect, Two hearts, which in thy presence might be called [power, Youthful as spring. Shade of departed Skeleton of unfleshed humanity, [call The chronicle were welcome that should Into the compass of distinct regard The toils and struggles of thy infancy ! Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice ; Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye, Frozen by distance so, majestic pile, To the perception of this age, appear Thy fierce beginnings, softened and subdued And quieted in character ; the strife, The pride, the fury uncontrollable, Lost on the aerial heights of the Crusades !* ROB ROY'S GRAVE. A FAMOUS man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer's joy ! And Scotland has a thief as good, An outlaw of as daring mood ; She has her brave Rob Roy ! Then clear the weeds from off his grave, And let us chant a passing stave In honour of that hero brave ! * The tradition is that the castle was built by a lady during the absence of her lord in Pales- tine. Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart And wondrous length and strength of arm : Nor craved he more to quell his foes, Or keep his friends from harm. Yet was Rob Roy as wise as brave ; Forgive me if the phrase be strong ; A poet worthy of Rob Roy Must scorn a timid song. Say, then, that he was wise as brave ; As wise in thought as bold in deed : For in the principles of things He sought his moral creed. Said generous Rob, ' ' What need of books ? Burn all the statutes and their shelves : They stir us up against our kind ; And worse, against ourselves. " We have a passion, make a law, Too false to guide us or control ! And for the law itself we fight In bitterness of soul. " And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose Distinctions that are plain and few : These find I graven on my heart : That tells me what to do. ' ' The creatures see of flood and field, And those that travel on the wind ! With them no strife can last ; they live In peace, and peace of mind. " For why ? because the good old rule Sufficeth them, the simple plan, That they should take who have the power And they should keep who can. "A lesson that is quickly learned, A signal this which all can see ! Thus nothing here provokes the strong To wanton cruelty. ' ' All freakishness of mind is checked ; He tamed, who foolishly aspires ; While to the measure of his might Each fashions his desires. " All kinds, and creatures, stand and fall By strength of prowess or of wit : 'Tis God's appointment who must sway And who is to submit. ' ' Since, then, the rule of right is plain, And longest life is but a day ; To have my ends, maintain my rights, I'll take the shortest way." MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 151 And thus among these rocks he lived, Through summer heat and winter snow : The eagle, he was lord above, And Rob was lord below. So was \i-would, at least, have been But through untowardness of fate : For polity was then too strong ; He came an age too late. Or shall we say an age too soon ? For, were the bold man living now, How might he flourish in his pride, With buds on every bough ! Then rents and factors, rights of chase, Sheriffs, and lairds and their domains, Would all have seemed but paltry things, Not worth a moment's pains. Rob Roy had never lingered here, To these few meagre vales confined ; But thought how wide the world, the times How fairly to his mind ! And to his sword he would have said, ' ' Do thou my sovereign will enact From land to land through half the earth ! Judge thou of law and fact ! " Tis fit that we should do our part ; Becoming, that mankind should learn That we are not to be surpassed In fatherly concern. " Of old things all are over old, Of good things none are good enough : We'll show that we can help to frame A world of other stuff. ' ' I, too, will have my kings that take From me the sign of life and death : Kingdoms shall shift about, like clouds, Obedient to my breath." And, if the word had been fulfilled, As might have been, then, thought of joy ! France would have had her present boast ; And we our own Rob Roy ! Oh ! say not so ; compare them not ; I would not wrong thee, champion brave ! Would wrong thee nowhere ; least of all Here standing by thy grave. Forthou, although with some wild thoughts, Wild chieftain of a savage clan ! Hadst this to boast of ; thou didst love The liberty of man. And, had it been thy lot to live With us who now behold the light, Thou wouldst have nobly stirred thyself, And battled for the right. For thou wert still the poor man's stay, The poor man's heart, the poor man's hand ; And all the oppressed, who wantedstrength, Had thine at their command. Bear witness many a pensive sigh Of thoughtful herdsman when he strays Alone upon Loch Veol's heights, And by Loch Lomond's braes ! And, far and near, through vale and hill, Are faces that attest the same ; The proud heart flashing through the eyes, At sound of Rob Roy's name. COMPOSED AT CASTLE. DEGENERATE Douglas ! oh, the unworthy lord ! [please, Whom mere despite of heart could so far And love of havoc (for with such disease Fame taxes him) that he could send forth word, To level with the dust a noble horde, A brotherhood of venerable trees, Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these, Beggared and outraged ! Many hearts deplored The fate of those old trees ; and oft with pain [gaze The traveller, at this day, will stop and On wrongs, which nature scarcely seems to heed : For sheltered places, bosoms, nooks, and bays, [Tweed, And the pure mountains, and the gentle And the green silent pastures, yet remain. YARROW UNVISITED. [See the various poems the scene of which ii laid upon the banks of the Yarrow ; in par- ticular, the exquisite ballad of Hamilton, be- ginning " Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow !"] FROM Stirling Castle we had seen The mazy Forth unravelled ; 152 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 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." '' Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, Who have been buying, selling, Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own ; Each maiden to her dwelling ! On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, Hares couch, and rabbits burrow ! But we will downwards with the Tweed, Nor turn aside to Yarrow. " There's Gala Water, Leader Haughs, Both lying right before us ; And Dry burgh, where with chiming Tweed The lintwhites sing in chorus ; There's pleasant Teviotdale, 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 My true love sighed for sorrow : [scorn : And looked me in the face, to think I thus could speak of Yarrow ! "Oh! green," said I, "are Yarrow's And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! [holms, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, * But we will leave it growing. O'er hilly path, and open strath, We'll wander Scotland thorough ; But, though so near, we will not turn Into the dale of Yarrow. ' ' Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of 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 ? * See Hamilton's ballad, as above. 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 !" IN THE PASS OF KILLICRANKIE, AN INVASION BEING EXPECTED, OCTOBER 1803. Six thousand veterans practised in war's game, Tried men at Killicrankie were arrayed Against an equal host that wore the plaid, Shepherds and herdsmen. Like a whirl- wind came [flame ; The Highlanders, the slaughter spread like And Garry, thundering down his mountain road, Was stopped, and could not breathe beneath the load Of the dead bodies. Twas a day of shame For them whom precept and the pedantry Of cold mechanic battle do enslave. Oh, for a single hour of that Dundee, Who on that day the word of onset gave ! Like conquest would the men of England see ; And her foes find a like inglorious grave. THE MATRON OF JEDBURGH A\ T D HER HUSBAND. [At Jedburgh, my companion and I went into private lodgings for a few days : and the fol- lowing verses were called forth by the character and domestic situation of our hos- tess. ] AGE ! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers, And call a train of laughing hours ; And bid them dance and bid them sing ; And thou, too, mingle in the ring ! Take to thy heart a new delight ; If not, make merry in despite That there is one who scorns thy power : But dance ! for under Jedburgh tower. MEMORIALS OF A TOUR TN SCOTLAND. 153 A matron dwells, who though she bears Our mortal complement of years, Lives in the light of youthful glee, And she will dance and sing with thee. Nay ! start not at that figure there ! Him who is rooted to his chair ! Look at him look again ! for he Hath long been of thy family. With legs that move not, if they can, And useless arms, a trunk of man, He sits, and with a vacant eye ; A sight to make a stranger sigh ! Deaf, drooping, that is now his doom : His world is in this single room ; Is this a place for mirthful cheer ? Can merrymaking enter here ? The joyous woman is the mate Of him in that forlorn estate ! He breathes a subterraneous damp ; But bright as vesper shines her lamp ; He is as mute as Jedburgh tower ; She jocund as it was of yore, With all its bravery on ; in times When all alive with merry chimes, Upon, a sun-bright morn of May, It roused the vale to holiday. I praise thee, matron ! and thy due Is praise ; heroic praise, and true With admiration I behold Thy gladness unsubdued and bold : Thy looks, thy gestures, all present The picture of a life well spent : This do I see ; and something more ; A strength unthought of heretofore ! Delighted am I for thy sake ; And yet a higher joy partake. Our human nature throws away Its second twilight, and looks gay ; A land of promise and of pride Unfolding, wide as life is wide. Ah ! see her helpless charge ! inclosed Within himself as seems, composed ; To fear of loss, and hope of gain, The strife of happiness and pain, Utterly dead ! yet in the guise Of little infants, when their eyes Begin to follow to and fro The persons that before them go, He tracks her motions, quick or slow. Her buoyant spirit can prevail Where common cheerfulness would fail ; She strikes upon him with the heat Of July suns : he feels it sweet ; An animal delight, though dim ! Tis all that now remains for him ! The more I looked, I wondered more- And, while I scanned them o'er and o'er, A moment gave me to espy A trouble in her strong black eye ; A remnant of uneasy light, A flash of something over bright ! Nor long this mystery did detain My thoughts ; she told in pensive strain That she had borne a heavy yoke, Been stricken by a twofold stroke ; 111 health of body ; and had pined Beneath worse ailments of the mind. So be it ! but let praise ascend To Him who is our Lord and friend ! Who from disease and suffering Hath called for thee a second spring ; Repaid thee for that sore distress By no untimely joyousness ; Which makes of thine a blissful state : And cheers thy melancholy mate ! FLY, some kind spirit, fly to Grasmere-dale, Say that we come, and come by this day's light ; [height ; Glad tidings ! spread them over field and But chiefly let one cottage hear the tale ; There let a mystery of joy prevail, The happy kitten bound with frolic might, And Rover whine, as at a second sight Of near-approaching good that shall not fail; And from that infant's face let joy appear ; Yea, let our Mary's one companion child, That hath her six weeks' solitude beguiled With intimations manifold and dear, While we have wandered over wood and wild, Smile on his mother now with bolder cheer. THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY. A TALE TOLD BY THE FIRESIDE, AFTER RETURNING TO THE VALE OF GRAS- MERE. Now we are tired of boisterous joy. Have romped enough, my little boy ! Jane hangs her head upon my breast, And you shall bring your stool and rest ; This corner is your own. There ! take your seat, and let me see That you can listen quietly ; And, as I promised, I will tell That strange adventure which befel A poor blind Highland boy. 154 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. A Highland boy ! why call him so ? Because, my darlings, ye must know, In land where many a mountain towers, Far higher hills than these of ours ! He from his birth had lived. He ne'er had seen one earthly sight : The sun, the day ; the stars, the night ; Or tree, or butterfly, or flower, Or fish in stream, or bird in bower, Or woman, man, or child. And yet he neither drooped nor pined, Nor had a melancholy mind ; For God took pity on the boy, And was his friend ; and gave him joy Of which we nothing know. His mother, too, no doubt above Her other children him did love : For, was she here, or was she there, She thought of him with constant care, And more than mother's love. And proud she was of heart, when clad In crimson stockings, tartan plaid, And bonnet with a feather gay, To kirk he on the Sabbath-day Went hand in hand with her. A dog, too, had he; not for need, But one to play with and to feed ; Which would have led him, if bereft Of company or friends, and left Without a better guide. And then the bagpipes he could blow ; And thus from house to house would go, And all were pleased to hear and see ; For none made sweeter melody Than did the poor blind boy. Yet he had many a restless dream ; Both when he heard the eagles scream, And when he heard the torrents roar, And heard the water beat the shore Near which their cottage stood. Beside a lake their cottage stood, Not small like ours, a peaceful flood ; But one of mighty size, and strange ; That, rough or smooth, is full of change, And stirring in its bed. For to this lake by night and day, The great sea-water finds its way Through long, long windings of the hills ; And drinks up all the pretty rills, And rivers large and strong : Then hurries back the road it came Returns, on errand still the same ; This did it when the earth was new ; And this for evermore will do, As long as earth shall last. And with the coming of the tide, Come boats and ships that safely ride, Between the woods and lofty rocks ; And to the shepherds with their flocks Bring tales of distant lands. And of those tales, whate'er they were, The blind boy always had his share ; Whether of mighty towns, or vales With warmer suns and softer gales, Or wonders of the deep. Yet more it pleased him, more it stirred, When from the water-side he heard The shouting, and the jolly cheers, The bustle of the mariners In stillness or in storm. But what do his desires avail ? For he must never handle sail ; Nor mount the mast, nor row, nor float In sailor's ship, or fisher's boat Upon the rocking waves. His mother often thought, and said, What sin would be upon her head If she should suffer this. " My son, Whate'er you do, leave this undone ; The danger is so great." Thus lived he by Loch Leven's side, Still sounding with the sounding tide, And heard the billows leap and dance, Without a shadow of mischance, Till he was ten years old. When one day (and now mark me well, Ye soon shall know how this befel) He in a vessel of his own, On the swift flood is hurrying down Towards the mighty sea. : In such a vessel never more j May human creature leave the shore ! If this or that way he should stir, W T oe to the poor blind mariner ! For death will be his doom. But say what bears him ? Ye have seen The Indian's bow, his arrows keen, Rare beasts, and birds with plumage bright Gifts which, for wonder or delight, Are brought in ships from fer. MEMORIALS OF A TOUli IN SCOTLAND. 155 Such gifts had those seafaring men Spread round that haven in the glen ; Each hut, perchance, might have its own, And to the boy they all were known ; He knew and prized them all. The rarest was a turtle shell Which he, poor child, had studied well ; A shell of ample size, and light As the pearly car of Amphitrite, That sportive dolphins drew. And, as a coracle that braves On Vaga's breast the fretful waves, This shell upon the deep would swim, And gaily lift its fearless brim Above the tossing surge. And this the little blind boy knew : And he a story strange, yet true, Had heard, how in a shell like this An English boy, oh, thought of bliss ! Had stoutly launched from shore ; Launched from the margin of a bay Among the Indian isles, where lay His father's ship, and had sailed far, To join that gallant ship of war, In his delightful shell. Our Highland boy oft visited The house which held this prize ; and, led By choice or chance, did thither come One day when no one was at home, And found the door unbarred. While there he sate, alone and blind, That story flashed upon his mind ; A bold thought roused him, and he took The shell from out its secret nook, And bore it on his head. He launched his vessel and in pride Of spirit, from Loch Leven's side, Stepped into it his thoughts all free As the light breezes that with glee Sang through the adventurer's hair, A while he stood upon his feet ; He felt the motion took his seat ; Still better pleased as more and more The tide retreated from the shore, And sucked and sucked him in. And there he is in face of heaven ! How rapidly the child is driven ! The fourth part of a mile I ween He thus had gone, ere he was seen Bv any human eye. But when he was first seen, oh, me, What shrieking and what misery ! For many saw ; among the rest His mother, she who loved him best, She saw her poor blind boy. But for the child, the sightless boy, It is the triumph of his joy ! The bravest traveller in balloon, Mounting as if to reach the moon, Was never half so blessed. And let him, let him go his way, Alone, and innocent, and gay ! "or, if good angels love to wait On the forlorn unfortunate, This child will take no harm. But now the passionate lament, Which from the crowd on shore was sent, The cries which broke from old and youn& [n Gaelic, or the English tongue, Are stifled all is still. And quickly with a silent crew A boat is ready to pursue ; And from the shore their course they take, And swiftly down the running lake They follow the blind boy. But soon they move with softer pace ; So have ye seen the fowler chase On Grasmere's clear unruffled breast A youngling of the wild-duck's nest With deftly-lifted oar. Or as the wily sailors crept To seize (while on the deep it slept) The hapless creature which did dwell Erewhile within the dancing shell, They steal upon their prey. With sound the least that can be made They fo'Jow, more and more afraid, More cautious as they draw more near But in his darkness he can hear, And guesses their intent. " Lei-ghaLei-gha "then did he cry, " Lei-ghaLei-gha "most eagerly ; Thus did he cry, and thus did pray, And what he meant was, "Keep away, And leave me to myself !" Alas ! and when he felt their hands You've often heard of magic wands, That with a motion overthrow A palace of the proudest show, Or melt it into air. 156 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND So all his dreams, that inward light With which his soul had shone so bright, All vanished ; 'twas a heartfelt cross To him, a heavy, bitter loss, As he had ever known. But hark ! a gratulating voice With which the very hills rejoice : 'Tis from the crowd, who tremblingly Had watched the event, and now can see That he is safe at last. And then, when he was brought to land, Full sure they were a happy band, Which gathering round did on the banks Of that great water give God thanks, And welcomed the poor child. And in the general joy of heart The blind boy's little dog took part ; He leapt about, and oft did kiss His master's hands in sign of bliss, With sound like lamentation. But most of all, his mother dear. She who had fainted with her fear, Rejoiced when waking she espies The child ; when she can trust her eyes ; And touches the blind boy. She led him home, and wept amain, When he was in the house again : Tears flowed in torrents from her eyes ; She could not blame him, or chastise : She was too happy far. Thus, after he had fondly braved The perilous deep, the boy was saved ; And, though his fancies had been wild, Yet he was pleased and reconciled To live in peace on shore. And in the lonely Highland dell Still do they keep the turtle shell ; And long the story will repeat Of the blind boy's adventurous feat, And how he was preserved. * Unwrials 0f a f row in 1814. THE BROWNIE'S CELL. (Suggested by a beautiful ruin upon one of the islands of Loch Lomond, a place chosen for the retreat of a solitary individual from whom this habitation acquired its name.] To barren heath and quaking fen, Or depth of labyrinthine glen ; Or into trackless forest set With trees, whose lofty umbrage met ; World-wearied men withdrew of yore, ( Penance their trust, and prayer their store ;) And in the wilderness were bound To such apartments as they found ; Or with a new ambition raised ; That God might suitably be praised. High lodged the warrior, like a bird of prey ; Or where broad waters round him lay ; But this wild ruin is no ghost Of his devices buried, lost ! Within this little lonely isle There stood a consecrated pile ; Where tapers burned, and mass was sung, For them whose timid spirits clung To mortal succour, though the tomb Had fixed, for ever fixed, their doom ! Upon those servants of another world When maddening power her bolts had hurled, Their habitation shook ; it fell, And perished save one narrow cell ; Whither, at length, a wretch retired : Who neither grovelled nor aspired : He, struggling in the net of pride, The future scorned, the past defied ; * It is recorded in Dampier's Voyages, that a boy, the son of a captain of a man-of-war, seated himself in a turtle shell, and floated in it from the shore to his father's ship, which lay at anchor at the distance of half a mile. In defe- rence to the opinion of a friend, I have substi- tuted such a shell for the less elegant vessel in which my blind voyager did actually intrust himself to the dangerous current of Loch Leven, as was related to me by an eye-witness. MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 157 Still tempering from the unguilty forge Of vain conceit, an iron scourge ! Proud remnant was he of a fearless race, Who stood and flourished face to face With their perennial hills ; but crime Hastening the stern decrees of time, Brought low a power, which from its home Burst when repose grew wearisome ; And taking impulse from the sword, And mocking its own plighted word, Had found, in ravage widely dealt Its warfare's bourne, its travel's belt ! All, all were dispossessed, save him whose smile Shot lightning through this lonely isle ! No right had he but what he made To this small spot, his leafy shade ; But the ground lay within that ring To which he only dared to cling ; Renouncing here, as worse than dead, The craven few who bowed the head Beneath the change, who heard a claim How loud ! yet lived in peace with shame. From year to year this shaggy mortal went (So seemed it) down a strange descent ; Till they, who saw his outward frame, Fixed on him an unhallowed name ; Him free from all malicious taint, And guiding, like the Patmos saint, A pen unwearied to indite, In his lone isle, the dreams of night ; Impassioned dreams, that strove to span The faded glories of his clan ! Suns that through blood their western har- bour sought, And stars that in their courses fought, Towers rent, winds combating with woods Lands deluged by unbridled floods, And beast and bird that from the spell Of sleep took import terrible, These types mysterious (if the show Of battle and the routed foe Had failed) would furnish an array Of matter for the dawning day ! How disappeared he ? ask the newt and Inheritors of his abode ; [toad, The otter crouching undisturbed, In her dank cleft ; but be thou curbed, O froward fancy ! 'mid a scene Of aspect winning and serene ; For those offensive creatures shun The inquisition of the sun ! And in this region flowers delight, And all is lovely to the sight. Spring finds not here a melancholy breast, ; When she applies her annual test : To dead and living ; when her breath Quickens, as now, the withered heath ;- Nor flaunting summer when he throws His soul into the briar-rose ; Or calls the lily from her sleep ; Prolonged beneath the bordering deep : Nor autumn, when the viewless wren Is warbling near the Brownie's den. Wild relique ! beauteous as the chosen spot In Nysa's isle, the embellished grot ; Whither by care of Libyan Jove (High servant of paternal love), Young Bacchus was conveyed to lie Safe from his step-dame Rhea's eye ; Where bud, and bloom, and fruitage, glowed, Close crowding round the infant god, All colours, and the liveliest s f reak A foil to his celestial cheek ! COMPOSED AT CORRA LINN. IN SIGHT OF WALLACE'S TOWER. "How Wallace fought for Scotland, left th<- name Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower, All over his dear country ; left the deeds Of Wallace, like a family of ghosts, To people the steep rocks and river banks, Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul Of independence and stern liberty." MS. LORD of the vale ! astounding flood ! The dullest leaf in this thick wood Quakes conscious of thy power ; The caves reply with hollow moan ; And vibrates to its central stone, Yon time-cemented tower ! And yet how fair the rural scene ! For thou, O Clyde, hast ever been Beneficent as strong ; Pleased in refreshing dews to steep The little trembling flowers that peep Thy shelving rocks among. Hence all who love their country, love To look on thee delight to rove Where they thy voice can hear ; And, to the patriot warrior's shade, Lord o f the vale ! to heroes laid In dust, that voice is dear ! Along thy banks, at dead of night Sweeps visibly the Wallace wight ; 158 MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. Or stands in warlike vest, Aloft, beneath the moon's pale beam, A champion worthy of the stream, Yon gray tower's living crest ! But clouds and envious darkness hide A form not doubtfully descried : Theii transient mission o'er. Oh, say to what blind region flee These shapes of awful phantasy? To what untrodden shore ? Less than divine command they spurn ; But this we from the mountains learn, And this the valleys show, That never will they deign to hold Communion where the heart is cold To human weal and woe. The man of abject soul in vain Shall walk the Marathonian plain ; Or thrid the shadowy gloom. That still invests the guardian pass, Where stood, sublime, Leonidas, Devoted to the tomb. Nor deem that it can aught avail For such to glide with oar or sail Beneath the piny wood, Where Tell once drew, by Uri's lake, His vengeful shafts prepared to slake Their thirst in tyrant's blood. EFFUSION, IN THE PLEASURE-GROUND ON THE BANKS OF THE BRAN, NEAR DUNKELD. " The waterfall, by a loud roaring, warned us when we must expect it. We were first, how- ever, conducted into a small apartment, where the gardener desired us to look at the picture of Ossian, which, while he was telling the history of the young artist who executed the work, disappeared, parting in the middle flying asunder as by the touch of magic and lo ! we are at the entrance of a splendid apart- ment, which was almost dizzy and alive with waterfalls, that tumbled in all directions ; the great cascade, opposite the window, which faced us, being reflected in innumerable mirrors upon the ceiling and against the walls." Extract from the Journal of my Fellow- Traveller. WHAT he who 'mid :he kindred throng Of heroes that inspired his song, Doth yet frequent the hill of storms, The stars dim-twinkling through their forms 1 What ! Ossian here a painted thrall, Mute fixture on a stuccoed wall ; To serve, an unsuspected screen For show that must not yet be seen : And, when the moment comes, to part And vanish by mysterious art ; Head, harp, and body, split asunder, . For ingress to a world of wonder ; A gay saloon, with waters dancing Upon the sight wherever glancing ; One loud cascade in front, and lo ! A thousand like it, white as snow Streams on the walls, and torrents foam As active round the hollow dome, Illusive cataracts ! of their terrors Not stript, nor voiceless in the mirrors, That catch the pageant from the flood Thundering adown a rocky wood ! Strange scene, fantastic and uneasy As ever made a maniac dizzy, When disenchanted from the mood That loves on sullen thoughts to brood ! O nature, in thy changeful visions, Through all thy most abrupt transitions, Smooth, graceful, tender, or sublime, Ever averse to pantomime, Thee neither do they know nor us Thy servants, who can trifle thus ; Else surely had the sober powers Of rock that frowns, and stream that roari Exalted by congenial sway Of spirits, and the undying lay, And names that moulder not away, Awakened some redeeming thought More worthy of this favoured spot ; Recalled some feeling to set free The bard from such indignity ! The effigies of a valiant wight* I once beheld, a Templar knight ; Not prostrate, not like those that rest On tombs, with palms together pressed, But sculptured out of living stone, And standing upright and alone, Both hands with rival energy Employed in setting his sword free From its dull sheath stern sentinel Intent to guard St. Robert's cell ; As if with memory of the affray | Far distant, when, as legends say, The monks of Fountains thronged to force From its dear home the hermit's corse, * On the banks of ihe river Nid, near Knares- ) borough- MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND. 159 That in their keeping it might lie, To crown their abbey's sanctity. So had they rushed into the grot Of sense despised, a world forgot, And torn him from his loved retreat, Where altar-stone and rock-hewn seat Still hint that quiet best is found, Even by the living, under ground ; But a bold knight, the selfish aim Defeating, put the monks to shame, There where you see his image stand Bare to the sky, with threatening brand Which lingering Nid is proud to show Reflected in the pool below. Thus, like the men of earliest days, Our sires set forth their grateful praise ; Uncouth the workmanship, and rude ! But, nursed in mountain solitude, Might some aspiring artist dare To seize whate'er, through misty air, A ghost, by glimpses, may present Of imitable lineament, And give the phantom such array As less should scorn the abandoned clay ; Then let him hew, with patient stroke, An Ossian out of mural rock, And leave the figurative man Upon thy margin, roaring Bran ! Fixed, liked the Templar of the steep, An everlasting watch to keep ; With local sanctities in trust ; More precious than a hermit's dust ; And virtues through the mass infused, Which old idolatry abused. What though the granite would deny All fervour to the sightless eye ; And touch from rising suns in vain Solicit a Memnonian strain ; Yet, in some fit of anger sharp, The wind might force thedeep-groovedharp To utter melancholy moans Not unconnected with the tones Of soul-sick flesh and weary bones ; While grove and river notes would lend, Less deeply sad, with these to blend ! Vain pleasures of luxurious life, For ever with yourselves at strife ; Through town and country both deranged By affectations interchanged, And all the perishable gauds That heaven-deserted man applauds ; When will your hapless patrons learn To watch and ponder to discern The freshness, the eternal youth, Of admiration sprung from truth ; i From beauty infinitely growing Upon a mind with love o'erflowing ; To sound the depths of every art That seeks its wisdom through the heart ? Thus (where the intrusive pile, ill-graced With baubles of theatric taste, O'erlooks the torrent breathing showers On motley bands of alien flowers, In stiff confusion set or sown, Till nature cannot find her own, Or keep a remnant of the sod Which Caledonian heroes trod) I mused ; and, thirsting for redress, Recoiled into the wilderness. 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 ! Oh, that some minstrel's harp were neat, 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 meandei ings ; Nor have these eyes by gref ner hills Been soothed, in all my wanderings . And, through herdepths, Saint Mary's Lake Is visibly delighted ; For not a feature of those hills Is in the mirror slighted. A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, Save where that pearly whiteness Is round the rising sun diffused, A tender hazy brightness ; Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes All profitless dejection ; Though not unwilling here to admit A pensive recollection. Where was it that the famous flower Of Yarrow vale lay bleeding ? His bed perchance was yon smooth mound On which the herd is feeding : And haply from this crystal pool, Now peaceful as the morning, The water-wraith ascended thrice And gave his doleful warning. Delicious is the lay that sings The haunts of happy lovers. 160 POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. 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 ho y ; The grace of forest charms decayed, And pastoral melancholy. That region left, the vale unfolds Rich groves of lofty stature, With Yarrow winding through the pomp Of cultivated nature ; And, rising from those lofty groves, Behold a ruin hoary ! The shattered front of Newark's towers, Renowned in Border story. Fair scenes for chi dhood'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. J. see but not by sight alone, Loved Yarrow, have I won thee ! A ray of fancy still survives Her sunshine plays upon thee ! i'hy ever youthful waters keep A course of lively pleasun And gladsome notes my li^s can breathe According to the measure. The vapours linger round the heights, They melt and soon must vanish ; One hour is theirs, no 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 heightened joy, And cheer my mind in sorrow. on 0f 10Ias. I rf. ADVERTISEMENT. BY persons resident in the country and at- tached to rural objects, many places will be found unnamed or of unknown names, where little incidents must have occurred, or feelings been experienced, which will have given to such place^ a private and peculiar interest. From a wish to give some sort of record to such incidents, or renew the gratification of such feelings, names have been given to places by the author and some of his friends, and the following poems written in consequence. IT was an April morning : fresh and clear The rivulet, delighting in its strength, Ran with a young man's speed ; and yet the voice Of waters which the winter had supplied Was softened down into a vernal tone. The spirit of enjoyment and desire, And hopes and wishes, from all living things Went circling, like a multitude of sounds. The budding groves appeared as if in haste To spur the steps of June ; as if their shades Of various green were hindrances that stood POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. 161 Between them and their object : yet, mean- while, There was such deep contentment in the air, That every naked ash and tardy tree Yet leafless, seemed as though the counte- nance With which it looked on this delightful day Were native to the summer. Up the brook I roamed in the confusion of my heart, Alive to all things and forgetting all. At length I to a sudden turning came In this continuous glen, where down a rock The stream, so ardent in its course before, .Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all Which I till then had heard, appeared the voice [lamb, Of common pleasure : beast and bird, the The shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush Vied with this waterfall, and made a song Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth Or like some natural produce of the air, That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here ; But 'twas the foliage of the rocks, the birch, The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn, With hanging islands of resplendent furze : And on a summit, distant a short space, By any who should look beyond the dell, A single mountain cottage might be seen. I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said, " Our thoughts at least are ours ; and this wild nook, My Emma, I will dedicate to thee." Soon did the spot become my other home, My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode. And, of the shepherds who have seen me there, To whom I sometimes in our idle talk Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps, Years after we are gone and in our graves, When they have cause to speak of this wild place, Way call it by the name of Emma's Dell. 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 fire-side, With such a strong devotion, that your heart Is slow towards the sympathies of them Who look upon the hills with tenderness, And make dear friendships with the streams and groves. Yet we, who are transgressors in this kind, Dwelling retired in our simplicity Among the woods and fields, we love you well, Joanna ! and I guess, since you have been So distant from us now for two long years, That you will gladly listen to discourse However trivial, if you thence are taught That they, with whom you once were happy, talk Familiarly of you and of old times. While I was seated, now some ten days past, Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop 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, [maid > "How fares Joanna; that wild-hearted And when will she return to us?" he paused ; And, after short exchange of village news. He with grave looks demanded, for what cause, Reviving obsolete idolatry, I, like a Runic priest, in characters Of formidable size had chiselled out Some uncouth name upon the native rock, Above the Rotha, by the forest side. Now fay 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. 162 POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. When I had gazed perhaps two minutes space, Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud. [sleep, The rock, like something starting from a 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, [tone : And Fairfield answered with a mountain Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky Carried the lady's voice, old Skiddaw blew [" c i ou ds His speaking trumpet ; back out "of the Of Glaramara southward came the voice : And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head. Now whether (said I to our cordial friend, Who in the hey-day of astonishment Smiled in my face) this were in simple truth A work accomplished by the brotherhood 9f ancient mountains, ormyearwas 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 iair 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 fire-side, Have called the lovely rock, Joanna's Rock."* THERE is an eminence, of these our hills The last that parleys with the setting sun. We can behold it from our orchard-seat ; And when at evening we pursue our walk Along the public way, this cliff, so high Above us, and so distant in its height, | Is visible ; and often seems to send Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts. The meteors make of it a favourite haunt . The star of Jove, so beautiful and large In the mid heavens, is never half so fair As when he shines above it. Tis in truth The loneliest place we have among the clouds. [loved And she who dwells with me, whom I have With such communion, that no place on Can ever be a solitude to me, (.earth Hath to this lonely summit given my name. A NARROW girdle of rough stones and crags, A rude and natural causeway, interposed Between the water and a winding slope Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy. And there, myself and two beloved friends, One calm September morning, ere the mist Had altogether yielded to the sun, Sauntered on this retired and difficult way. Ill suits the road with one in haste, but we Played with our time ; and, as we strolled It was our occupation to observe [along, Such objects as the waves had tossed ashore, Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough, Each on the other heaped, along the line Of the dry wreck. And, in our vacant mood, Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard, That skimmed the surface of the dtad calm lake, Suddenly halting now a lifeless stand ! And starting off again with freak as sudden ; In all its sportive wanderings, all the while, Making report of an invisible breeze That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse, * In Cumberland and Westmoreland are seve- ral inscriptions, upon the native rock, which, from the wasting of time, and the rudeness of the workmanship, have been mistaken for Runic. They are, without doubt, Roman The Rotha, mentioned in this poem, is the river which, flowing through the lakes of Gras- mere and Rydal, 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 of caverns, which in the language of the country are called dungeons. Most of the mountains here men- tioned immediately surround the vale of Gras- mere : of the others, some are at a considerable distance, but they belong to the same cluster. POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. 163 Its playmate, rather say its moving soul. And often, trifling with a privilege Alike indulged to all, we paused, one now, And now the other, to point out, per- chance To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too Either to be divided from the place [fair On which it grew, or to be left alone To its own beauty. Many such there are, Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall tern, So stately, of the Queen Osmunda named ; Plant lovelier in its own retired abode On Grasmere's beach, than naiad by the side Of Grecian brook, or lady of the mere, Sole-sitting by the shores ot old romance, So fared we that bright morning : from Ihe fields, [mirth Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy Of reapers, men and women, boys and girls. Delighted much to listen to those sounds, And feeding thus our fancies, we advanced Along the indented shore ; when suddenly, Through a thin veil of glittering haze was seen Before us, on a point of jutting land, The tall and upright figure of a man Attired in peasant's garb, who stood alone, Angling beside the margin of the lake. Improvident and reckless, we exclaimed, The man must be, who thus can lose a day [hire Of the mid-harvest, when the labourer's Is ample, and some little might be stored Wherewith to cheer him in the winter time. Thus talking of that peasant, we ap- proached Close to the spot where with his rod and line [head He stood alone ; whereat he turned his To greet us and we saw a man worn down By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks [lean And wasted limbs, his legs so long and Thai for my single self \ looked at them, Forgetful of the body they sustained. Too weak to labour in the harvest field, The man was using his best skill to gain A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake That knew not of his wants. I will not say What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how The happy idleness of that sweet morn, With all its lovely images, was changed To serious musing and to self-reproach. Nor did we fail to see within ourselves What need there is t be reserved in speech, And temper all our thoughts with charity. Therefore, unwilling to forget that day, My friend, myself, and she who then received The same admonishment, have called thf place By a memorial name, uncouth indeed As e'er by mariner was given to bay Or foreland, on a new-discovered coast ; And Point Rash Judgment is the name It bears. TO M. H. OUR walk was far among the ancient trees', There was no road, nor any woodman's path ; But the thick umbrage, checking the wild growth Of weed and sapling, along soft green turf Beneath the branches, of itself had made A track, that brought us to a slip of lawn. And a small bed of water in the woods. All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink On its firm margin, even as from a well, Or some stone-basin which the herdsman's hand I did sun, Had shaped for their refreshment ; nor Or wind from any quarter, ever come, But as a blessing, to this calm recess, This glade of water and this one green field. The spot was made by nature for herself, The travellers' know it not, and 'twill remain Unknown to them : but it is beautiful ; And if a man should plant his cottage near Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees, And blend its waters with his daily meal, He would so love it, that in his death hour Its image would survive among his thoughts; And therefore, my sweet Mary, this still nook, [y u - With all its beeches, we have named from 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, 164 POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES. Pathway, and lane, and public road, were clogged [hill With frequent showers of snow. Upon a At a short distance from my cottage stands A stately fir-grove, whither 1 was wont To hasten, for I found beneath the roof Of that perennial shade, a cloistral place Of refuge, with an unmcumbered floor. Here, in safe covert, on the shallow snow, And, sometimes, on a speck of visible earth, [loth The redbreast near me hopped ; nor was I 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, \ few sheep, stragglers from some moun- tain-flock, Would watch my motions with suspicious stare, From the remotest outskirts of the grove, Some nook where they had made their final stand, Huddling together from two fears the fear Of me and of the storm. Full many an hour Here did I lose. But in. this grove the trees ( thriven Nad been so thickly planted, and had 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, J ceased the shelter to frequent, and prized, Less than I wished to prize, that calm recess. The snows dissolved, and genial spring returned [haunts To clothe the fields with verdure. Other Meanwhile were mine ; till, one bright April day, By chance retiring from the glare of noon To this forsaken covert, there I found A noary pathway traced between the trees, And winding on with such an easy line Along a natural opening, that 1 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 [o'er With which the sailor measures o'er and His short domain upon the vessel's deck, While she is travelling through the dreary sea. When thou hadst quitted Esthwaite's pleasant shore, And taken thy first leave of those green hills [youth. And rocks that were the play-ground of thy 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 [become Was with thee ; and even so didst thou A silent poet ; from the solitude [heart Of the vast sea didst bring a watchful 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, [stems And one green island, gleam between the INSCRIPTIONS. 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 mid- night watch Art pacing thoughtfully the vessel's deck In some far region, here, while o'er my head, At every impulse of the moving breeze, The fir-grove murmurs with a sea-like sound, Alone 1 tread this path ; for aught 1 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. (N THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON, THE SEAT OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART., LEICESTERSHIRE. THE embowering rose, the acacia, and the pine, Will not unwillingly their place resign ; If but the cedar thrive that near them stands, Planted by Beaumont's and by Words- worth's hands. One wooed the silent art with studious pains, These groves have heard the other's pen- sive strains ; Devoted thus, their spirits did unite By interchange of knowledge and delight. May nature's kindliest powers sustain the And love protect it from all injury ! [tree, And when its potent branches, wide out- thrown, Darken the brow of this memorial stone, Here may some painter sit in future days, Some future poet meditate his lays , Not mindless of that distant age renowned When inspiration hovered o'er this ground, The haunt of him who sang how spear and shield In civil conflict met on Bosworth field; And of that famous youth, full soon removed From earth, perhaps by Shakspeare's self approved, Fletcher's asscciatejonson's friend beloved. IN A GARDEN OF THE SAME, OFT is the medal faithful to its trust When temples, columns, towers are laid in dust ; And 'tis a common ordinance of fate That things obscure and small outlive the great : Hence, when yon mansion and the flowery trim Of this fair garden, and its alleys dim, And all its stately trees are passed away. This little niche, unconscious of decay, Perchance may still survive. And be it known That it was scooped within the living stone, Not by the sluggish and ungrateful pains Of labourer plodding for his daily gains ; But by an industry that wrought in love, With help from female hands, that proudly strove [and bowers To aid the work, what time these walks Were shaped to cheer dark winter's lonely hours. WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART., AND IN HIS NAME, FOR AN URN, PLACED BY HIM AT THE TERMINATION OF A NEWLY-PLANTED AVENUE, IN THE SAME GROUNDS. YE lime-trees, ranged before this hallowed urn, ("return ; Shoot forth with lively .power at spring's O 166 INSCRIPTIONS. And be not slow a stately growth to rear Of pillars, branching off from year to year, Till they have learned to frame a darksome aisle ; That may recall to mind that awful pile Where Reynolds, 'mid our country's noblest dead, In the last sanctity of fame is laid. There, though by right the excelling painter sleep [keep, Where death and glory a joint Sabbath Yet not the less his spirit would hold dear Self-hidden praise, and friendship's private teat : Hence, on my patrimonial grounds, have I Raised this frail tribute to his memory, From youth a zealous follower of the art That he professed, attached to him in heart: Admiring, loving, and with grief and pride Feeling what England lost when Reynolds died. FOR A SEAT IN THE GROVES OF COLEORTON. BENEATH yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound, [ground, Rugged and high, of Charnwood's forest Stand yet, but, stranger ! hidden from thy view, The ivied ruins of forlorn Grace Dieu ; Erst a religious house, which day and night With hymns resounded, and the chanted rite : And when those rites had ceased, the spot gave birth To honourable men of various worth : There, on the margin of a streamlet wild, Did Francis Beaumont sport, an eager child; There, under shadow of the neighbouring rocks, [flocks ; Sang youthful tales of shepherds and their Unconscious prelude to heroic themes, Heart-breaking tears, and melancholy dreams Of slighted love.and scorn, and jealous rage, With which his genius shook the buskined stage. Communities are lost, and empires die, And things of holy use unhallowed lie ; They perish ; but the intellect can raise, From airy words alone, a pile that ne'er decays. WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL UPON A STONE IN THE WALL OF THE HOUSE (AN OUT-HOUSE) ON THE ISLAND AT GRASMERE. RUDE is this edifice, and thou hast seen Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained Proportions more harmonious, and ap- proached To somewhat of a closer fellowship With the ideal grace. Yet, as it is, Do take it in good part : alas ! the poor Vitruvius of our village had no help From the great city; never, on the leaves Of red morocco folio saw displayed The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts Of beauties yet unborn, the rustic box, Snug cot, with coach-house, shed, and hermitage. Thou see'st a homely pile, yet to these walls The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here [the wind. The new-dropped lamb finds shelter from And hither does one poet sometimes row His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled With plenteous store of heath and withered fern, (A lading which he with his sickle cuts Among the mountains)and beneath this roof He makes his summer couch, and here at noon [the sheep, Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unshorn, Panting beneath the burthen of their wool, Lie round him, even as if they were a part Of his own household ; nor, while from his bed [lake He through that door-place looks toward the And to the stirring breezes, does he want Creations lovely as the work of sleep Fair sights and visions of romantic joy ! WRITTEN WITH A SLATE-PENCIL ON A STONE, ON THE SIDE OF THE MOUN- TAIN OF BLACK COMB. STAY, bold adventurer; rest a while thy limbs (mains On this commodious seat ! for much re- Of hard ascent before thou reach the top Of this huge eminence, from blackness named, And, to far-travelled storms of sea and land, A favourite spot of tournament and war ! But thee may no such boisterous visitants Molest ; may gentle breezes fan thy brow ; And neither cloud conceal, nor misty air Bedim, the grand terraqueous spectacle, From centre to circumference, unveiled ! INSCRIPTIONS. 167 Know, if thou grudge not toprolong thyrest, That on the summit whither thou art bound, A geographic labourer pitched his tent, With books supplied and instruments of art, To measure heigh tand distance, lonely task, Week after week pursued ! To him was given Full many a glimpse (but sparingly bestowed On timid man) of nature's processes Upon the exalted hills. He made report That once, while there he plied his studious work Within that canvas dwelling, suddenly The many-coloured map before his eyes Became invisible for all around Had darkness fallen unthreatened, un- proclaimed As if the golden day itself had been Extinguished in a moment ; total gloom, In which he sat alone, with unclosed eyes, Upon the blinded mountain's silent top ! WRITTEN WITH A SLATE-PENCIL UPON A STONE, THE LARGEST OF A HEAP LYING NEAR A DESERTED QUARRY, UPON ONE OF THE ISLANDS AT RYDAL. I Entire forgiveness ! But if thou art one On fire with thy impatience to become An inmate of these mountains, if, dis- turbed By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn Out of the quiet rock the elements Of thy trim mansion destined soon to blaze In snow-white splendour, think again, and, taught By old Sir William and his quarry, leave Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose; There let the vernal slow-worm sun himself, And let the redbreast hop from stone to stone. INSCRIPTIONS SUPPOSED TO BE FOUND IN AND NEAR A HERMIT'S CELL. HOPES what are they? Beads of morning Strung on slender blades of grass ; Or a spider's web adorning In a strait and treacherous pass. What are fears but voices airy ? Whispering harm where harm is not ; And deluding the unwary Till the fatal bolt is shot ! STRANGER ! this hillock of mis-shapen stones Is not a ruin of the ancient time, [cairn Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the Of some old British chief : (is nothing more Than the rude embryo of a little dome Or pleasure-house, once destined to be built Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle. But, as it chanced, Sir William having learned [might wade, That from the shore a full-grown man And make himself a freeman of this spot At any hour he chose, the knight forthwith Desisted, and the quarry and the mound Are monuments of his unfinished task. The block on which these lines are traced, perhaps, Was once selected as the corner-stone Of the intended pile, which would have been , Some quaint odd plaything of elaborate ; skill, So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush, And other little builders who dwell here, Had wondered at the work. But blame him not, For old Sir William was a gentle knight Bred in this vale, to which he appertained With all his ancestry. Then peace to him, And for the outrage which he had devised What is glory? in the socket See how dying tapers fare ! What is pride? a whizzing rocket That would emulate a star. What is friendship? do not trust her, Nor the vows which she has made ; Diamonds dart their brightest lustre From a palsy-shaken head. What is truth ? a staff rejected ; Duty? an unwelcome clog ; Joy? a moon by fits reflected In a swamp or watery bog ; Bright, as if through ether steering, To the traveller's eye it shone : He hath hailed it re-appearing And as quickly it is gone ; Gone, as if for ever hidden ; Or mis-shapen to the sight, And by sullen weeds forbidden To resume its native light. What is youth ? a dancing billow, (Winds behind, and rocks before !) Age? a drooping, tottering willow On a flat and lazy shore. 168 INSCRIPTIONS. What is peace? when pain is over, And love ceases to rebel, Let the last faint sigh discover That precedes the passing knell ! INSCRIBED UPON A ROCK. PAUSE, traveller ! whosoe'er thou be Whom chance may lead to this retreat Where silence yields reluctantly- Even to the fleecy straggler's bleat ; Give voice to what my hand shall trace, And fear not lest an idle sound Of words unsuited to the place Disturb its solitude profound. I saw this rock, while vernal air Blew softly o'er the russet heath, Uphold a monument as fair As church or abbey furnisheth. Unsullied did it meet the day, Like marble white, like ether pure ; As if beneath some hero lay, Honoured with costliest sepulture. My fancy kindled as I gazed; And, ever as the sun shone forth, The flattered structure glistened, blazed, And seemed the proudest thing on earth. But frost had reared the gorgeous pile Unsound as those which fortune builds; To undermine with secret guile, Sapped by the very beam that gilds. And, while I gazed, with sudden shock Fell the whole fabric to the ground ; And naked left this dripping rock, With shapeless ruin spread around ! HAST thou seen, with flash incessant, Bubbles gliding under ice, Bodied forth and evanescent, No one knows by what device ? Such are thoughts ! A wind-swept meadow Mimicking a troubled sea, Such is life; and death a shadow From the rock eternity ! NEAR THE SPRING OF THE HERMITAGE. TROUBLED long with warring notions, Long impatient of thy rod, I resign my soul's emotions Unto thee, mysterious God I What avails the kindly shelter Yielded by this craggy rent, If my spirit toss and welter On the waves of discontent ? Parching summer hath no warrant To consume this crystal well; Rains that make each nil a torrent, Neither sully it nor swell. Thus, dishonouring not her station, Would my life present to thee, Gracious God, the pure oblation, Of divine tranquillity! NOT seldom, clad in radiant vest, Deceitfully goes forth the morn ; Not seldom evening in the west Sinks smilingly forsworn. The smoothest seas will sometimes prove, To the confiding bark, untrue; And, if she trust the stars above, They can be treacherous too. The umbrageous oak, in pomp outspread, Full oft, when storms the welkin rend, Draws lightning down upon the head It promised to defend. But thou art true, incarnate Lord, Who didst vouchsafe for man to die; Thy smile is sure, thy plighted word No change can falsify! I bent before thy gracious throne, And asked for peace on suppliant knee; And peace was given, nor peace alone, But faith sublimed to ecstasy ! FOR THE SPOT WHERE THE HERMITAGE STOOD ON ST. HERBERT'S ISLAND, DERWENT WATER. STRANGER ! this shapeless heap of stones and earth Is the last relic of St. Herbert's cell. Here stood his threshold; here was soread the roof That sheltered him, a self-secluded man, After long exercise in social cares And offices humane, intent to adore The Deity, with undistracted mind, And meditate on everlasting things, " In utter solitude. But he had left A fellow-labourer, whom the good man loved [upraised As his own soul. And, when with eyt> SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY. 169 To heaven he knelt before the crucifix, While o'er the lake the cataract of Lodore Pealed to his orisons, and when he paced Along the beach of this small isle and thought Of his companion, he would pray that both (Now that their earthly duties were ful- filled) Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain So prayed he : as our chronicles report, Though here the hermit numbered his last day, Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved friend, Those holy men both died in the same hour. wnttefs cbttaitfr to COMPOSED BY THK SEA-SIDE, NEAR CALAIS, AUGUST, 1802. FAIR star of evening, splendour of the west, [brink Star of my country! on the horizon's Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink [rest, On England's bosom : yet well pleased to Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest Conspicuous to the nations. Thou, I think, [shouldst wink, Shouldst be my country's emblem ; and Bright star ! with laughter on her banners, drest [spot In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky 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 neartfelt sighs, Among men who do not love her, linger here. CALAIS, AUGUST, 1802. Is it a reed that's shaken by the wind, Or what is it that ye go forth to see? Lords, lawyers, statesmen, squires of low degree, [and blind, Men known, and men unknown, sick, lame, Post forward all, like creatures of one kind, [the knee With first-fruit offerings crowd to bend In France, before the new-born majesty. 'Tis even 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 : [flown, When truth, when sense, when liberty were What hardship had it been to wait an hour ? [prone ! Shame on you, feeble heads, to slavery TO A FRIEND. COMPOSED NEAR CALAIS, ON THE ROAD LEADING TO ARDRES, AUGUST 7, 1802. JONES ! while from Calais southward you and I [way Urged our accordant steps, this public Streamed with the pomp of a too-credulous day,* [liberty: When faith was pledged to new-born A homeless sound of joy was in the sky ; The antiquated earth, as one might say, Beat like the heart of man: songs, gar- lands, play, Banners, and happy faces, far and nigh ! And now, sole register that these things were, Two solitary greetings have I heard, " Good morrow, citizen!" a hollow word, As if a dead man spake it ! Yet despair Touches me not, though pensive as a bird Whose vernal coverts winter hath laid bare. 1801. I GRIEVED for Bonaparte, with a vain And an unthinking grief! for, who aspires To genuine greatness but from just desires, And knowledge such as he could never gain? [train 'Tis not in battles that from youth we The governor who must be wise and good, And temper with the sternness of the brain Thoughts motherly, and meek as woman- hood, [knees : Wisdom doth live with children round her * I4th July, 1790. [The day on which tht unfortunate Louis XVI. took the oath of fidelity to the new constitution.] 170 SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERT?. Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk [walk Man holds with week-day man in the hourly Of the mind's business : these are the degrees [ the stalk By which true sway doth mount ; this is True power doth grow on ; and her rights are these. CALAIS, AUGUST 15, 1802. FESTIVALS have I seen that were not names: This is young Bonaparte's natal day, And his is henceforth an established sway, Consul for life. With worship France proclaims [games. Her approbation, and with pomps and Heaven grant that other cities may be gay ! Calais is not : and I have bent my way To the sea-coast, noting that each man frames His business as he likes. Far other show My youth here witnessed, in a prouder time ; The senselessness of joy was then sublime ! Happy is he, who, caring not for pope, Consul, or king, can sound himself to know The destiny of man, and live in hope. ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC. ONCE did she hold the gorgeous East in fee ; [worth And was the safeguard of the West : the 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 : [the shade Ivlen are we, and must grieve when even Of that which once was great, is passed away. THE KING OF SWEDEN. THE voice of song from distant lands shall call [youth To that great king ; shall hail the crowned Who, taking counsel of unbending truth, By one example hath set forth to all How they with dignity may stand ; or fall ; If fall they must. Now, whither doth it tend? And what to him and his shall be the end ? That thought is one which neither can appal Nor cheer him : for the illustrious Swede hath done [above The thing which ought to "be : he stands All consequences ; work he hath begun Of fortitude, and piety, and love, Which all his glorious ancestors approve The heroes bless him, him their rightful son. 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 [and skies : Powers that will work for thee, air, earth, 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. SEPTEMBER I, 1802. Among the capricious acts of tyranny that dis- graced these times, was the chasing of all negroes from France by decree of the govern- ment : we had a fellow-passenger who was one of the expelled, DRIVEN from the soil of France, a female came From Calais with us, brilliant in array, A negro woman like a lady gay. Yet downcast as a woman fearing blame ; Meek, destitute, as seemed, of hope or aim She sate, from notice turning not away, But on all proffered intercourse did lay A weight of languid speech, or at the same Was silent, motionless in eyes and face. Meanwhile those eyes retained their tropic- fire, Which, burning independent of the mind, Joined with the lustre of her rich attire To mock the outcast O ye heavens be kind! And feel, thou earth, for this afflicted race ! SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY. 171 COMPOSED IN THE VALLEY, NEAR DOVER, ON THE DAY OF LANDING. HERE, on our native soil we breathe once more. [that sound The cock that crows, the smoke that curls, Of bells, those boys who in yon meadow- ground [the roar In white-sleeved shirts are playing, and Of the waves breaking on the chalky shore, All, all are English. Oft have I looked round [found With joy in Kent's green vales ; but never Myself so satisfied in heart before. Europe is yet in bonds ; but let that pass, Thought for another moment. Thou art free, My country ! and 'tis joy enough and pride For one hour's perfect bliss, to tread the grass Of England once again, and hear and see, With such a dear companion at my side. SEPTEMBER, 1802. INLAND, within a hollow vale, I stood ; And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear, [how near ! The coast of France, the coast of France Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood. I shrunk, for verily the barrier flood Was like a lake, or river bright and fair, A span of waters ; yet what power is there ! What mightiness for evil and for good ! Even so doth God protect us if we be Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and waters roll, Strength to the brave, and power, and deity, Yet in themselves are nothing ! One decree Spake laws to them, and said that by the soul Only the nations shall be great and free ! THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGA- TION 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 v/ere thy chosen music, liberty ! There came a tyrant, and with holy glee Thou fought'st against him ; but hast vainly striven. [driven, Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft ; Then cleave, oh, cleave to that which still is left ; [it be For, high-souled maid, what sorrow would That mountain floods should thunder as before, And ocean bellow from his rocky shore, And neither awful voice be heard by thee ! WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER, 1802. 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, [brook Or groom ! We must run glittering like a In the open sunshine, or we are unblest : The wealthiest man among us is the best ; No grandeur now in nature or in book Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry ; and these we adore ; Plain living and high thinking are no more , The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone ; our peace, our fearful innocence And pure religion breathing household laws LONDON, 1802. MILTON ! thou 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. GREAT men have been among us ; hands that penned [none : And tongues that uttered wisdom, better The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington, Young Vane, and others who called Milton friend. These moralists could act and comprehend : They knew how genuine glory was put on ; Taught us how rightfully a nation shoos 172 SONNETS DEDICATED TO LTJiERTY. In splendour : what strength was, that would not bend ['tis strange, But in magnanimous meekness. France, Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then. Perpetual emptiness ! unceasing change ! No single volume paramount, no code, No master spirit, no determined road ; But equally a want of books and men ! IT is not to be thought of that the flood Of British freedom, which, to the open sea Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity Hath flowed, "with pomp of waters tm- withstood," Roused though it be full often to a mood Which spurns the check of salutary bands, That this most famous stream in bogs and sands Should perish ; and to evil and to good Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung Armoury of the invincible knights of old : We must be free or die, who speak the tongue [morals hold rhat Shakspeare spake : the faith and Which Milton held. In everything we are sprung Of earths first blood, have titles manifold. WHEN I have borne in memory what has tamed [depart Great nations, how ennobling thoughts When men change swords for ledgers, and desert [unnamed The student's bower for gold, some fears 1 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 yrize thee ; we who find In thee a bulwark for the cause of men ; And F 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 ? OCTOBER, 1803. ONE might believe that natural miseries Had blasted France, and made of it a land Unfit for men , and that in one great band Her sons were bursting forth, to dwell at ease. But 'tis a chosen soil, where sun and breeze Shed gentle favours ; rural works are there And ordinary business without care ; Spot ric K in all things that can soothe and please ! [dearth How piteous then that there should be such Of knowledge ; that whole myriads should unite [despite : To work against themselves such fell Should come in frensy and in drunken mirth, Impatient to put out the only light Of liberty that yet remains on earth ! THERE is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear [and wall, Than his who breathes, by roof, and floor, Pent in, a tyrant's solitary thrall ; 'Tis his who walks about in the open air One of a nation who, henceforth, must wear Their fetters in their souls. For who could be, Who, even the best, in such condition, free From self-reproach, reproach which he must share With human nature ? Never be it ours To see the sun how brightly it will shine, And know that noble feelings, manly powers, [and pine, Instead of gathering strength, must droop And earth with all her pleasant fruits and flowers Fade, and participate in man's decline OCTOBER, 1803. THESE times touch moneyed worldlings with dismay : [air Even rich men, brave by nature, taint the With words of apprehension and despair : While tens of thousands, thinking on the affray, Men unto whom sufficient for the day And minds not stinted or unfilled are given, Sound, healthy children of the Go* 1 , of heaven, Are cheerful as the rising sun in May. What do we gather hence but firmei faith That every gift of noble origin [breath ? Is breathed upon by hope's perpetual That virtue and the faculties within Are vital, and that riches are akin To fear, to change, to cowardice and death ! ENGLAND ! the time is come when thou shouldst wean Thy heart from its emasculating food ; 8ONNETR DEDICATED TO LIBERTY.' 173 The truth should now be better understood ; Old things have been unsettled ; we have seen [been Fair seedtime, better harvest might have But for thy trespasses ; and at this day, If for Greece, Egypt, India, Africa, Aught good were destined, thou wouldst step between. England ! all nations in this charge agree . But worse, more ignorant in love and hate, Far, far more abject is thine enemy : Therefore the wise pray for thee, though the freight Of thy offences be a heavy weight : Oh, grief ! that earth's best '"-opes rest all with thee ! OCTOBER, 1803. WHEN, looking on the present face of things, I see one man, of men the meanest too ! Raised up to sway the world, to do, undo, With mighty nations for his underlings, The great events with which old story rings Seem vain and hollow , I find nothing great; Nothing is left which I can venerate ; So that almost a doubt within me springs Of Providence, such emptiness at length Seems at the heart of all things. But, great God! I measure back the steps which I have trod; And tremble, seeing whence proceeds the strength [sublime Of such poor instruments, with thoughts I tremble at the sorrow of the time. TO THE MEN OF KENT. OCTOBER, 1803. VANGUARD of liberty, ye men of Kent, Ye children of a soil that doth advance Her haughty brow against the coast of France, Now is the time to prove your hardiment! To France be words of invitation sent ! They from their fields can see the coun- tenance [lance, Of your fierce war, may ken the glittering 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 ; [breath ; No parleying now ! In Britain is one We all are with you now from shore to shore : Ye men of Kent, 'tis victory or death 1 ANTICIPATION. OCTOBER, 1803. SHOUT, for a mighty victory is won ! On British ground the invaders are laid low: The breath of Heaven has drifted them like snow, And left them lying in the silent sun, Never to rise again ! the work is done. Come forth, ye old men, now in peaceful show, And greet your sons ! drums beat and trum- pets blow ! Make merry, wives ! ye little children, stun Your grandames' ears with pleasure of your noise ! [must be | Clap, infants, clap your hands ! Divine j That triumph, when the very worst, the pain, [slain, And even the prospect of our brethren Had something in it which the heart enjoys : In glory will they sleep and endless sanctity NOVEMBER, 1806. ANOTHER year ! another deadly blow ! Another mighty empire overthrown ! And we are left, or shall be left, alone ; The last that dare to struggle with the foe. 'Tis well ! from this day forward we shall know That in ourselves our safety must be sought ; That by our own right hands it must be wrought, [low. That we must stand unpropped, or be laic! O dastard whom such foretaste doth no I 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. ODE. WHO rises on the banks of Seine, And binds her temples with the civic wreath ? What joy to read the promise of her mien ! How sweet to rest her wide-spread wings beneath ! But they are ever playing, And twinkling in the light, And if a breeze be straying, That breeze she will invite ; And stands on tiptoe, conscious she is fair, And calls a look of love into her face, 174 SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY. And spreads her arms as if the general air Alone could satisfy her wide embrace. Melt, principalities, before her melt ! Her love ye hailed her wrath have felt ; But she through many a change of form hath gone, [creature, And stands amidst you now, an armed Whose panoply is not a thing put on, But the live scales of a portentous nature; That, having wrought its way from birth to birth, [to the earth ! Stalks round abhorred by Heaven, a terror I marked the breathings of her dragon crest ; My soul, a sorrowful interpreter, In many a midnight vision bowed Before the ominous aspect of her spear ; Whether the mighty beam, in scorn upheld, Threatened her foes, or, pompously at rest, Seemed to bisect her orbed shield, As stretches a blue bar of solid cloud Across the setting sun, and through the fiery west. So did she daunt the earth, and God defy! And, wheresoe'ershespread her sovereignty, Pollution tainted all that was most pure. Have we not known and live we not to tell- That Justice seemed to hear her final knell ? Vakli buried deeper in her own deep breast Herstores, and sighed to find them insecure! And Hope was maddened by the drops that fell [lived rest : From shades, her chosen place of short- Shame followed shame and woe supplan- ted woe Is this the only change that time can show? How long shall vengeance sleep ? Ye patient heavens, how long ? Infirm ejaculation ! from the tongue Of nations wanting virtue to be strong Up to the measure of accorded might, And daring not to feel the majesty of right. Weak spirits are there who would ask, Upon the pressure of a painful thing, The lion's sinews, or the eagle's wing ; Or let their wishes loose, in forest glade, Among the lurking powers Of herbs and lowly flowers, Or seek, from saints above, miraculous aid; That man may be accomplished for a task Which his own nature hath enjoined and why? If, when that interference hath relieved him, He must sink down to languish In worse than former helplessness and lie Till the caves roar, and, imbecility Again engendering anguish, The same weak wish returns, that had before deceived him. But Thou, Supreme Disposer ! mayst not speed The course of things, and change the creed, Which hath been held aloft before men's sight Since the first framing of societies, Whether, as bards have told in ancient song, Built up by soft seducing harmonies ; Or prest together by the appetite, And by the power, of wrong ! ON A CELEBRATED EVENT IN ANCIENT HISTORY. A ROMAN master stands on Grecian ground, [games And to the concourse of the Isthmian He, by his herald's voice, aloud proclaims The liberty of Greece ! the words rebound Until all voices in one voice are drowned ; Glad acclamation by which air was rent ! And birds, high flying in the element, Dropped to the earth, astonished at the sound ! A melancholy echo of that noise Doth sometimes hang on musing fancy's ear : [dear ; Ah ! that a conqueror s word should be so Ah ! that a boon could shed such rapturous joys! A gift of that which is not to be given By all the blended powers of earth and heaven. UPON THE SAME EVENT. WHEN, far and wide, swift as the beams of morn ! The tidings passed of servitude repealed, And of that joy which shook the Isthmian field, The rough ^tolians smiled with bitter scorn. I " 'Tis known," cried they, "that he, who would adorn i His envied temples with the Isthmian crown, Must either win, through effort of his own, k The prize, or be content to see it worn SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY. 175 By more deserving brows. Yet so ye prop, Sons of the brave who fought at Marathon! Your feeble spirits. Greece her head hath bowed, As if the wreath of liberty thereon Would fix itself as smoothly as a cloud, Which, at Jove's will, descends on Pelion's top." 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 : [thee How toilsome, nay, how dire it was, by 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, [seat, Which, out of thy young heart's oracular First roused thee. Oh, true yoke-fellow of Time With unabating effort, see, the palm Is won, and by all nations shall be worn ! The bloody writing is for ever torn, And thou henceforth shall have a good man's calm, A great man's happiness; thy zeal shall find Repose at length, firm friend of human kind! CLOUDS, lingering yet, ex tend in solid bars Through the gray west ; and lo ! these waters, steeled By breezeless air to smoothest polish, yield A vivid repetition of the stars ; Jove Venus and the ruddy crest of Mars, Amid his fellows beauteously revealed At happy distance from earth's groaning field, Where ruthless mortals wage incessant wars. Is it a mirror ? or the nether sphere Opening to view the abyss in which it feeds Its own calm fires ? But list ! a voice is near ; [the reeds, Great Pan himself low-whispering through " Be thankful, thou ; for if unholy deeds Ravage the world, tranquillity is here !" A PROPHECY. FEBRUARY, 1807. HIGH deeds, O Germans, are to come from you ! [found, Thus in your books the record shall be " A watchword was pronounced, a potent sound, [dew ARMINIUS ! all the people quaked like Stirred by the breeze they rose a nation, true, True to herself the mighty Germany, She of the Danube and the Northern sea, She rose, and off at once the yoke she threw. [trance; All power was given her in the dreadful Those new-born kings she withered like a flame." [shame Woe to them all ! but heaviest woe and To that Bavarian who did first advance His banner in accursed league with France, First open traitor to a sacred name ! Go back to antique ages, if thine eyes The genuine mien and character would trace Of the rash spirit that still holds her place, Prompting the world's audacious vanities ! See, at her call, the Tower of Babel rise ; The Pyramid extend its monstrous base, For some aspirant of our short-lived race, Anxious an airy name to immortalize. There, too, ere wiles and politic dispute Gave specious colouring to aim and act, See the first mighty hunter leave the brute To chase mankind, with men in armies packed For his field-pastime, high and absolute, While, to dislodge his game, cities are sacked ! COMPOSED WHILE THE AUTHOR WAS ENGAGED IN WRITING A TRACT OCCASIONED BY THE CONVENTION OF CINTRA, 1808. NOT 'mid the world's vain objects ! that enslave [vaunted skill The free-born soul, that world whose In selfish interest perverts the will, Whose factions lead astray the wise and brave ; Not there! but in dark wood and rocky cave, And hollow vale which foaming torrents fill With omnipresent murmur as they rave Down their steep beds, that never shall be still : Here, mighty nature ! in this school sublime I weigh the hopes and fears of suffering Spain : For her consult the auguries of time, 176 SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY. And through the human heart explore my way, [may, And look and listen gathering, whence I Triumph, and thoughts no bondage can restrain. COMPOSED AT THE SAME TIME AND ON THE SAME OCCASION. I DROPPED my pen : and listened to the wind That sang of trees up-torn and vessels tost ; A midnight harmony, and wholly lost To the general sense of men by chains con- fined Of business, care, or pleasure, or resigned To timely sleep. Thought I, the impas- sioned strain, Which, without aid of numbers, I sustain, Like acceptation from the world will find. Yet some with apprehensive ear shall drink A dirge devoutly breathed o'er sorrows past, And to the attendant promise will give heed The prophecy, like that of this wild blast, Which, while it makes the heart with sad- ness shrink, [ceed. Tells also of bright calms that shall suc- OF mortal parents is the hero born By whom the undaunted Tyrolese are led ? Or is it Tell's great spirit, from the dead Returned to animate an age forlorn ? He aomes like Phoebus through the gates of morn When dreary darkness is discomfited : Yet mark his modest state ! upon his head, That simple crest, a heron's plume is worn. O liberty ! they stagger at the shock ; The murderers are aghast ; they strive to flee, [rock And half their host is buried : rock on Descends : beneath this godlike warrior, see ! Hills, torrents, woods, embodied to bemock The tyrant, and confound his cruelty. ADVANCE come forth from thy Tyrolean ground, [tamed, Dear liberty ! stern nymph of soul un- Sweet nymph, oh, rightly of the mountains named [to mound Through the long chain of Alps from mound And o'er the eternal snows, like echo, bound, Like echo, when the hunter-train at dawn Have roused her from her sleep : and forest-lawn, [resound Cliffs, woods, and caves her viewless steps And babble of her pastime ! On, dread power ! With such invisible motion speed thy flight, Through hanging clouds, from craggy height to height, [herdsman's bower, Through the green vales and through the That all the Alps may gladden in thy might, Here, there, and in all places at one hour. FEELINGS OF THE TYROLESE. THE land we from our fathers had in trust, And to our children will transmit, or die : This is our maxim, this our piety ; And God and nature say that it is just. That which we would perform in arms we must ! We read the dictate in the infant's eye ; In the wife's smile ; and in the placid sky ; And, at our feet, amid the silent dust Of them that were before us. Sing aloud Old songs, the precious music of the heart ! Give, herds and flocks, your voices to the wind ! While we go forth, a self-devoted crowd, With weapons in the fearless hand, to assert Our virtue and to vindicate mankind. ALAS ! what boots the long, laborious quest Of moral prudence, sought through good and ill ; Or pains abstruse to elevate the will, And lead us on to that transcendent rest Where every passion shall the sway attest Of reason, seated on her sovereign hill ; What is it, but a vain and curious skill, If sapient Germany must lie deprest, Beneath the brutal sword? Her haughty schools [ sa X. Shall blush ; and may not we with sorrow A few strong instincts anda few plain rules, Among the herdsmen of the Alps, have wrought More for mankind at this unhappy day Than all the pride of intellect and thought? AND is it among rude untutored dales. There, and there only, that the heart i? true? And, rising to repel or to subdue, Is it by rocks and woods that man prevails? SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY 177 Ah, no! though nature's dread protection j HAIL, Zaragoza ! If with unwet eye fails, I We can approach, thy sorrow to behold. There is a bulwark in the soul. This knew j Yet is the heart not pitiless nor cold ; Iberian burghers when the sword they drew Such spectacle demands not teai or sigh. In Zaragoza, naked to the gales j These desolate remains are trophies high Of fiercely-breathingwar. Thetruth was felt Of more than martial courage in the breast By Palafox, and many a brave compeer, Like him of noble birth and noble mind Of peaceful civic virtue . they atttest j Thy matchless worth to all posterity. By ladies, meek-eyed women without fear ; : Blood flowed before thy sight without re- And wanderers of the street, to whom is ! morse ; [heaved dealt The bread which without industry they find. O'ER the wide earth, on mountain and on plain, Dwells in the affections and the soul of man A godhead, like the universal Pan, But more exalted, with a brighter train. And shall his bounty be dispensed in vain, Showered equally on city and on field, And neither hope nor steadfast promise yield In these usurping times of fear and pain ? Such doom awaits us. Nay, forbid it Heaven ! [laws We know the arduous strife, the eternal To which the triumph of all good is given, High sacrifice, and labour without pause, Even to the death : else wherefore should the eye Of man converse with immortality ? ON THE FINAL SUBMISS'ON OF THE TYROLESE. IT was a moral end for which they fought ; Else how, when mighty thrones were put to shame, [an aim, Could they, poor shepherds, have preserved A resolution, or enlivening thought? Nor hath that moral good been vainly sought ; For in their magnanimity and fame Powers have they left, an impulse and a claim [bought. Which neither can be overturned nor Sleep, warriors, sleep ! among your hills repose ! We know that ye, beneath the stern control Of awful pmdence, keep the unvanquished soul. And, when, impatient of her guilt and woes, Europe breaks forth ; then, shepherds ! shall ye rise For perfect triumph o'er your enemies. Disease consumed thy vitals ; war up- The ground beneath thee with volcanic force ; Dread trials ! yet encounteredand sustained Till not a wreck of help or hope remained, And law was from necessity received. SAY, what is honour? Tis the finest sense Of justice which the human mind can frame, Intent each lurking frailty to disclaim, And guard the way of life from all offence Suffered or done. When lawless violence A kingdom doth assault, and in the scale Of perilous war her weightiest armies fail, Honour is hopeful elevation whence Glory, and triumph. Yet with politic skill Endangered states may yield to terms un- just, Stoop their proud heads, but not unto the dust, A foe's most favourite purpose to fulfil : Happy occasions oft by self-mistrust Are forfeited ; but infamy doth kill. THE martial courage of a day is vain, An empty noise of death the battle's roar, If vital hope be wanting to restore, Or fortitude be wanting to sustain, Armies or kingdoms. We have heard a strain [bore Of triumph, how the labouring Danube A weight of hostile corses : drenched with gore Were the wide fields, the hamlets heaped with slain. Yet see, the mighty tumult overpast, Austria a daughter of her throne hath sold ! And her Tyrolean champion we behold Murdered like one ashore by shipwreck cast, [bold, Murdered without relief. Oh ! blind as To think that such assurance can stand fast! 178 SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERT*. BRAVE Schill! by death delivered, take thy flight . [rest From Prussia's timid region. Go, and With heroes 'mid the islands of the blest, Or in the fields of empyrean light. A meteor wert thou in a darksome night ; Yet shall thy name conspicuous and sub- lime, Stand in the spacious firmament of time, Fixed as a star : such glory is thy right. Alas ! it may not be : for earthly fame Ts fortune's frail dependent ; yet there lives A judge, who, as man claims by merit, gives ; To whose all-pondering mind a noble aim, Faithfully kept, is as a noble deed : In whose pure sight all virtue doth succeed. CALL not the royal Swede unfortunate, Who never did to fortune bend the knee ; Who slighted fear, rejected steadfastly Temptation ; and whose kingly name and state Have " perished by his choice, and not his fate !" Hence lives he, to his inner self endeared ; And hence, wherever virtue is revered, He sits a more exalted potentate, Throned in the hearts of men. Should Heaven ordain That this great servant of a righteous cause Must still have sad or vexing thoughts to endure, Yet may a sympathising spirit pause, Admonished by these truths, and quench all pain In thankful joy and gratulation. pure. LOOK now on that adventurer who hath paid His vows to fortune ; who, in cruel slight Of virtuous hope, of liberty, and right, Hath followed wheresoe'er a way was made By the blind goddess ; ruthless, undis- mayed ; And so hath gained at length a prospe- rous height Round which the elements of worldly might Beneath his haughty feet, like clouds are laid ! (-force ! Oh, joyless power that stands by lawless Curses are Ais dire portion, scorn and bate, Internal darkness and unquiet breath ; And, if old judgments keep their sacred course, [cipitate Him from that height shall Heaven pre- By violent and ignominious death. Is there a power that can sustain and cheer The captive chieftain, by a tyrant's doom, Forced to descend alive into his tomb, A dungeon dark ! where he must waste the year, [dear ; And lie cut off from all his heart holds What time his injured country is a stage Whereon deliberate valour and the rage Of righteous vengeance side by side appear, Filling from morn to night the heroic scene With deeds of hope and everlasting praise : Say can he think of this with mind serene And silent fetters ? Yes, if visions bright Shine on his soul, reflected from the days When he himself was tried in open light. 1810. AH ! where is Palafox? Nor tongue nor pen Reports of him, his dwelling or his grave ! Does yet the unheard-of vessel ride the wave? Or is she swallowed up, remote from ken Of pitying human nature? Once again Methinks that we shall hail thee, champion brave, Redeemed to baffle that imperial slave, And through all Europe cheer desponding men [might With new-born hope. Unbounded is the Of martyrdom, and fortitude, and right. Hark, how thy country triumphs ! Smil- ingly [gleams, The Eternal looks upon her sword that Like his own lightning, over mountains, high, [streams. On rampart, and the banks of all her IN due observance of an ancient rite, The rude Biscayans, when their children lie Dead in the sinless time of infancy, Attire the peaceful corse in vestments white ; And, in like sign of cloudless triumph bright, SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY. 179 They bind the unoffending creature's brows With happy garlands of the pure white rose ; This done, a festal company unite In choral song ; and, while the uplifted cross Of Jesus goes before, the child is borne Uncovered to his grave. Her piteous loss The lonesome mother cannot choose but mourn ; Yet soon by Christian faith is grief subdued, And joy attends upon her fortitude. FEELINGS OF A NOBLE BISCAYAN AT ONE OF THESE FUNERALS. 1810. YET, yet, Biscayans ! we must meet, our foes With firmer soul, yet labour to regain Our ancient freedom ; else 'twere worse than vain To gather round the bier these festal shows. A garland fashioned of the pure white rose Becomes not one whose father is a slave : Oh ! bear the infant covered to his grave ! These venerable mountains now inclose A people sunk in apathy and fear. If this endure, farewell, for us, all good ! The awful light of heavenly innocence Will fail to illuminate the infant's bier ; And guilt and shame, from which is no defence, Descend on all that issues from our blood. THE OAK OF GUERNICA. The ancient oak of Guernica, says Laborde in his account of Biscay, is the most venerable natural monument. Ferdinand and Isabella, in the year 1476, after hearing mass in the Church of Santa Maria de la Antigua, re- paired to this tree, under which they swore to the Biscayans to maintain their fueros (privi- leges). What other interest belongs to it in the minds of this people will appear from the following SUPPOSED ADDRESS TO THE SAME. l8lO. OAK of Guernica ! Tree of holier power Than that which in Dodona did enshrine (So faith too fondly deemed) a voice divine, Heard from the depths of its aerial bower, How canst thou flourish at this blighting hour ? [to thee, What hope, what joy can sunshine bring Or the soft breezes from the Atlantic sea. The dews of morn, or April's tender shower? Stroke merciful and welcome would that be Which should extend thy branches on the ground, If never more within their shady round Those lofty-minded law-givers shall meet, Peasant and lord, in their appointed seat, Guardians of Biscay's ancient liberty. INDIGNATION OF A HIGH-MINDED SPANIARD. l8lO. WE can endure that he should waste our lands, [flame Despoil our temples, and by sword and Return us to the dust from which we came ; Such food a tyrant's appetite demands : And we can brook the thought that by his hands Spain may be overpowered, and he possess, For his delight, a solemn wilderness, Where all the brave lie dead. But when of bands, Which he willbreakforus, hedares to speak, Of benefits, and of a future day When our enlightened minds shall bless his sway, [weak ; Then, the strained heart of fortitude proves Our groans, our blushes, our pale cheeks declare [strength to bear. That he has power to inflict what we lack AVAUNT all specious pliancy of mind In men of low degree, all smooth pretence 1 I better like a blunt indifference And self-respecting slowness, disinclined To win me at first sight : and be there joined [reserve, Patience and temperance with this high Honour that knows the path and will not swerve ; Affections, which, if put to proof, are kind ; And piety towards God. Such men of old Were England's native growth ; and, throughout Spain, Forests of such do at this day remain ; Then for that country let our hopes be bold; For matched with these shall policy prove vain, [gold- Her arts, her strength, her iron, and her 1 8 10. O'ERWEENING statesmen have full long relied On fleets and armies, and external wealth : 180 SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY. But from within proceeds a nation's health ; Which shall not fail, though poor men cleave with pride To the paternal floor ; or turn aside, In the thronged city, from the walks of gain, As being all unworthy to detain A soul by contemplation sanctified. There are who cannot languish in this strife, Spaniards of every rank, by whom the good Of such high course was felt and under- stood ; fa life, Who to their country's cause have bound Erewhile by solemn consecration given To labour, and to prayer, to nature, and to heaven.* In one who lived unknown a shepherd's life Redoubted Viriatus breathes again ; And Mina, nourished in the studious shade, With that great leader* vies, who, sick of strife And bloodshed, longed in quiet to be laid In some green island of the western main. THE FRENCH AND THE SPANISH GUERILLAS. HUNGER, and sultry heat, and nipping blast [by night From bleak hill-top, and length of march Through heavy swamp, or over snow-clad height, [past, These hardships ill sustained, these dangers The roving Spanish bands are reached at last, [flight Charged, and dispersed like foam ; but as a Of scattered quails by signs to reunite, So these, and, heard of once again, are chased With combinations of long-practised art And newly-kindled hope ; but they are fled, Gone are they, viewless as the buried dead ; Where now ? Their sword is at the foe- j man's heart ! [thwart, | And thus from year to year his walk they j And hang- like dreams around his guilty | bed. 1811. THE power of armies is a visible thing, Formal, and circumscribed in time and space ; [trace But who the limits of that power shall Which a brave people into light can bring Or hide, at will, for freedom combating, By just revenge inflamed? No fo3t may chase, No eye can follow to a fatal place That power, that spirit, whether on the wing [wind Like the strong wind, or sleeping like the Within its awful caves. From year to year Springs this indigenous produce far and near ; No craft this subtle element can bind, Rising like water from the soil, to find In every nook a lip that it may cheer. SPANISH GUERILLAS. l8ll. THEY seek, are sought ; to daily battle led, Shrink nol, though far outnumbered by their foes : For they have learnt to open and to close The ridges of grim war ; and at their head Are captains such as erst their country bred Or fostered, self-supported chiefs, like those Whom hard/ Rome was fearful to oppose, Whose desperate snock the Carthaginian fled. * See Labprde's character of the Spanish peo- ple : from him the sentiment of these last two lines is taken. 1811. HERE pause : the poet claims at least this praise, That virtuous liberty hath been the scope Of his pure song which did not shrink from hope In the worst moment of these evil days ; Fromhope, the paramount^a^that Heaven lays, [heart. For its own honour, on man's suffering 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 [spilt, For whose dire ends tears flow, and blood is And justice labours in extremity, Forget thy weakness, upon which is built, O wretched man, the throne of tyranny ! THE FRENCH ARMY IN RUSSIA. 1812-13. HUMANITY, delighting to behold A fond reflection of her own decay, Sertorius. SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY. 181 Hath painted winter like a traveller old, Propped on a staff and, through the sullen day, In hooded mantle, limping o'er the plain, As though his weakness svere disturbed by pain : Or, if a juster fancy should allow An undisputed symbol of command, The chosen sceptre is a withered bough, Infirmly grasped within a palsied hand. These emblems suit the helpless and forlorn, But mighty winter the device shall scorn. For he it was dread winter ! who beset, Flinging round van and rear his ghastly net, That host, when from the regions of the pole Theyshrunk, insane ambition's barren goal, That host, as huge and strong as e'er defied Their God, and placed their trust in human pride ! As fathers persecute rebellious sons, He smote the blossoms of their warrior youth ; He called on frost's inexorable tooth Life to consume in manhood's firmest hold ; Nor spared the reverend blood that feebly runs ; For why, unless for liberty enrolled And sacred home, ah ! why should hoary age be bold ? Fleet the Tartar's reinless steed, But fleeter far the pinions of the wind, Which from Siberian caves the monarch freed, [kind. And sent him forth, with squadrons of his And bade the snow their ample backs be- stride, And to the battle ride. No pitying voice commands a halt, No courage can repel the dire assault ; Distracted, spiritless, benumbed, and blind, Whole legions sink and, in one instant, find [descry, Burial and death : look for them and When morn returns, beneath the clear blue sky, A soundless waste, a trackless vacancy ! And loud and long of winter's triumph sing! Sing ye, with blossoms crowned, and fruits, and flowers, [showers, Of winter's breath surcharged with sleety And the dire flapping of his hoary wing ! Knit the blithe dance upon the soft green grass ; [your gain ; With feet, hands, eyes, looks, lips, report Whisper it to the billows of the main, And to the aerial zephyrs as they pass, That old decrepit winter He hath slain, That host, which rendered all your bounties vain ! ' By Moscow self-devoted to a blaze 1 Of dreadful sacrifice ; by Russian blood Lavished in fight with desperate hardi- hood ; The unfeeling elements no claim shall raise To rob our human nature of just praise For what she did and suffered. Pledges Of a deliverance absolute and pure [sure She gave, if faith might tread the beaten ways [High Of Providence. But now did the Most Exalt His still small voice ; to quell that host Gathered His Power, a manifest Ally ; He whose heaped waves confounded the proud boast [Frost, Of Pharaoh, said to Famine, Snow, and Finish the strife by deadliest victory ! ON THE SAME OCCASION. YE storms, resound the praises of your king ! And ye mild seasons in a sunny clime, Midway on some high hill, while father Time Looks on delighted meet in festal ring, THE GERMANS ON THE HEIGHTS OF HOCKHEIM. ABRUPTLY paused the strife; the fkld throughout Resting upon his arms each warrior stood, Checked in the very act and deed of blood, With breath suspended, like a listening scout. O silence ! thou wert mother of a shout, That through the texture of yon azure dome Cleaves its glad way, a cry of harvest-home Uttered to Heaven in ecstasy devout ! The barrier Rhine hath flashed, through battle-smoke, [view, On men who gaze heart-smitten by the As if all Germany had felt the shock ! Fly wretched Gauls ! ere they the charge renew [the yoke) Who have seen (themselves delivered from The unconquerable stream his course pursue.* * The event is thus recorded in the journals of 182 SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY. NOVEMBER, 1813. Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright, [flow Our aged sovereign sits; to the ebb and Of states and kingdoms, to their joy or woe, Insensible- he sits deprived of sight, And lamentably wrapt in twofold night, Whom no weak hopes deceived; whose mind ensued, Through perilous war, with regal fortitude, Peace that should claim respect from law- less might. [divine Dread King of kings, vouchsafe a ray To his forlorn condition! let thy grace Upon his inner soul in mercy shine; Permit his heart to kindle, and embrace (Though were it only for a moment's space) Tie triumphs of this hour; for they are THINE ! ON THE DISINTERMENT OF THE REMAINS OF THE DUKE D'ENGHIEN. DEAR reliques ! from a pit of vilest mould Uprisen to lodge among ancestral kings ; And to inflict shame's salutary stings On the remorseless hearts of men grown old In a blind worship; men perversely bold Even to this hour ; yet at this hour they quake ; [sake, And some their monstrous idol shall for- If, to the living, truth was ever told By aught surrendered from the hollow grave : [brave ! O murdered prince! meek, loyal, pious, The power of retribution once was given ; But 'tis a rueful thought that willow- bands So often tie the thunder-wielding hands Of justice, sent to earth from highest heaven ! the day : " When the Austrians took Hockheim, in one part of the engagement they got to the brow of the hill, whence they had their first view of the Rhine. They instantly halted not a gun was fired not a voice heard : they stood gazing on the river, with those feelings which the events of the lait fifteen years at once called up. Prince Schwartzenberg rode up to know the cause of this sudden stop : they then gave three cheers, rushed after the enemy, and drove them into the water." OCCASIONED BY THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. (The last six lines are intended for an Inscription.} FEBRUARY, 1816. INTREPID sons of Albion! not by you Is life despised ; ah, no, the spacious earth Ne'er saw a race who held, by right of birth, So many objects to which love is due. Ye slight not life to God and nature true ; But death, becoming death, is dearer far, When duty bids you bleed in open war: Hence hath your prowess quelled that impious crew. Heroes! for instant sacrifice prepared. Yet filled with ardour, and on triumph bent, 'Mid direst shocks of mortal accident, To you who fell, and you whom slaughter spared, [event, To guard the fallen, and consummate the Your country rears this sacred monument ! FEBRUARY, 1816. OH! for a kindling touch of that pure flame Which taught thv. offering of song to rise From thy lone bower, beneath Italian skies, Great Filicaia ! With celestial aim It rose thy saintly rapture to proclaim, Then, when the imperial city stood re- leased [East, From bondage threatened by the embattled And Christendom respired ; from guilt and shame Redeemed, from miserable fear set free By one day's feat, one mighty victory. Chant the deliverer's praise in every tongue! [waxed dim, The cross shall spread, the crescent hath He conquering, as in earth and heaven was sung, [Goo BY HIM. HE CONQUERING THROUGH GOD, AND OCCASIONED BY THE SAME BATTLE. FEBRUARY, 1816. THE bard, whose soul is meek as dawning day, [severe; Yet trained to judgments righteously Fervid, yet conversant with holy fear, As recognizing one Almighty sway : He whose experienced eye can pierce the SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY. 183 Of past events, to whom, in vision clear, The aspiring heads of future things appear, Like mountain-tops whose mists have rolled away: Assoiled from all incumbrance of our time,* He only, if such breathe, in strains devout Shall comprehend this victory sublime; And worthily rehearse the hideous rout, Which the blest angels, from their peaceful clime Beholding, welcomed with a choral shout. EMPERORS and kings, how oft have temples rung [scorn ! With impious thanksgiving, the Almighty's How oft above their altars have been hung Trophies that led the good and wise to mourn Triumphant wrong, battle of battle born, And sorrow that to fruitless sorrow clung! Now, from Heaven-sanctioned victory, peace is sprung; In this firm hour salvation lifts her horn. Glory to arms! but conscious that the nerve Of popular reason, long mistrusted, freed Your thrones, from duty, princes ! fear to swerve ; [creed Be just, be grateful ; nor, the oppressor's Reviving, heavier chastisement deserve Than ever forced unpitied hearts to bleed. ODE. COMPOSED IN JANUARY, 1816. " Carmina possumus Donare, et pretium dicere muneri. Non incisa nptis marmora publicis, Per quse spiritus et vita redit bonis Post mortem ducibus clarius indicant Laudes, quam Pierides ; neque Si chartae sileant quod bene feceris, Mercedem tulens " HOR. Car. 8, Lib. 4. WHEN the soft hand of sleep had closed the latch On the tired household of corporeal sense, And Fancy, keeping unreluctant watch, Was free her choicest favours to dispense ; I saw, in wondrous perspective displayed, A landscape more august than happiest skill Of pencil ever clothed with light and shade; An intermingled pomp of vale and hill, City, and naval stream, suburban grove, And stately forest where the wild deer rove ; * " From all this world's encumbrance did him- self aSSOll." Sl'ENSBR. Nor wanted lurking hamlet, dusky towns, And scattered rural farms of aspect bright, And, here and there, between the pastoral downs, The azure sea upswelled upon the sight. Fair prospect, such as Britain only shows ! But not a living creature could be seen Through its wide circuit, hushed in deep repose, Yea, even to sadness, quiet and serene ! Amid this solitude of earth and sky, Through portal clear as loop-hole in a storm Opening before the sun's triumphant eye, Issued, to suddeo "iew, a radiant form! Earthward it glided with a swift descent: Saint George himself this visitant may be; And ere a thought could ask on what intent He sought the regions of humanity, A thrilling voice was heard, that vivified City and field and flood, aloud it cried, ' ' Though from my celestial home, Like a champion armed I come ; On my helm the dragon crest, And the red cross on my breast ; I, the guardian of this land, Speak not now of toilsome duty Well obeyed was that command, Hence bright days of festive beauty ; Haste, virgins, haste ! the flowers which summer gave Have perished in the field ; [yield But the green thickets plenteously shall Fit garlands for the brave, That will be welcome, if by you entwined ! Haste, virgins, haste ; and you, ye matrons grave, Go forth with rival youthfulness of mind, And gather what ye find Of hardy laurel and wild holly boughs, To deck your stern defenders' modest brows ! Such simple gifts prepare, Though they have gained a worthier meed ; And in due time shall share Those palms and amaranthine wreaths Unto their martyred countrymen decreed, In realms where everlasting freshness breathes!" And lo! with crimson banners proudly streaming, And upright weapons innocently gleaming, Along the surface of a spacious plain Advance in order the redoubted bands, And there receive green chaplets from the Of a fair female train, [hands 184 SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY. Maids and matrons dight In robes of dazzling white, While from the crowd bursts forth a rapturous noise By the cloud-capt hills retorted, And a throng of rosy boys In loose fashion tell their joys, And gray-haired sires, on staffs supported, Ixjok round and by their smiling seem to say, Thus strives a grateful country to display The mighty debt which nothing can repay! Anon before my sight a palace rose, Built of all precious substances, so pure And exquisite, that sleep alone bestows Ability like splendour to endure; Entered, with streaming thousands, through the gate, [of state, I saw the banquet spread beneath a dome A. lofty dome, that dared to emulate The heaven of sable night With starry lustre ; and had power to throw Solemn effulgence, clear as solar light, Upon a princely company below, While the vault rang with choral harmony, Like some nymph-haunted grot beneath the roaring sea. No sooner ceased that peal, than on the Of exultation hung a dirge, [verge Breathed from a soft and lonely instrument, That kindled recollection? Of agonized affections ; And, though some tears the strain attended, The mournful passion ended In peace of spirit, and sublime content ! But garlands wither, festal shows depart, Like dreams themselves ; and sweetest Albeit of effect profound, [sound, It was and it is gone ! Victorious England ! bid the silent art Reflect, in glowing hues that shall not fade, These high achievements, even as she arrayed With second life the deed of Marathon, Upon Athenian walls : So may she labour for thy civic halls ; And be the guardian spaces Of consecrated places, As nobly graced by sculpture's patient toil; And let imperishable structures grow Fixed in the depths of this courageous soil; Expressive signals of a glorious strife, And competent to shed a spark divine Into the torpid breast of daily life ; [shine, Records on which the morning sun may As changeful ages flow. With gratulation thoroughly benign ! And ye, Pierian sisters, sprung from Jove And sage Mnemosyne, full long debarred From your first mansions, exiled all too long From many a hallowed stream and grove, Dear native regions where ye wont to rove, Chanting for patriot heroes the reward Of never-dying song ! Now, (for, though truth descending from above The Olympian summit hath destroyed for aye Your kindred deities, ye live and move And exercise unblamed a generous sway) Now, on the margin of some spotless foun- tain, Or top serene of unmolested mountain, Strike audibly the noblest of your lyres, And for a moment meet my soul's desires ! That I, or some more favoured bard, may hear What ye, celestial maids ! have often sung Of Britain's acts, may catch it with rapt ear, And give the treasure to our British tongue ! So shall the characters of that proud page Support their mighty theme from age to age; And, in the desert places of the earth, When they to future empires have given birth, So shall the people gather and believe The bold report, transferred to every clime; And the whole world, not envious but ad- And to the like aspiring, [miring, Own that the progeny of this fair isle Had power as lofty actions to achieve As were performed in man's heroic prime ; Nor wanted, when their fortitude had held Its even tenor, and the foe was quelled, A corresponding virtue to beguile The hostile purpose of wide-wasting time ; That not in vain they laboured to secure, For their great deeds, perpetual memory, And fame as largely spread as land and sea. By works of spirit high and passion pure. THANKSGIVING ODE. JANUARY 18, 1816. ADVERTISEMENT. WHOLLY unworthy of touching upon the mo- mentous subject here treated would that poet be, before whose eyes the present distresses under which this kingdom labours could interpose a veil sufficiently thick to hide, or even to obscure, the splendour of this great moral triumph. If THANKSGIVING ODE. 185 the author has given way to exultation, un- checked by these distresses, it might be suffici- ent to protect him from a charge of insensibility, should he state his own belief that the sufferings will be transitory. On the wisdom of a very large majority of the British nation rested that generosity which poured out the treasures of this country for the deliverance of Europe : and in the same national wisdom, presiding in time of peace over an energy not inferior to that which has been displayed in war, they confide, who encourage a firm hope, that the cup of our wealth will be gradually replenished. There will, doubtless, be no few ready to indulge in regrets and repinings : and to feed a morbid satisfaction, by aggravating these burthens in imagination, in order that calamity so confi- dently prophesied, as it has not taken the shape which their sagacity allotted to it, may appear as grievous as possible under another. But the body of the nation will not quarrel with the gain, because it might have been purchased at a less price : and, acknowledging in these suffer- ings, which they feel to have been in a great de- gree unavoidable, a consecration of their noble efforts, they will vigorously apply themselves to remedy the evil. Nor is it at the expense of rational patriotism or in disregard of sound philosophy, that the author hath given vent to feelings tending to encourage a martial spirit in the bosoms of his countrymen, at a time when there is a general outcry against the prevalence of these disposi- tions. The British army, both by its skill and valour in the field, and by the discipline which has rendered it much less formidable than the armies ->f other powers to the inhabitants of the several countries where its operations were car- ried on, has performed services that will not allow the language of gratitude and admiration to be suppressed or restrained (whatever be the temper of the public mind) through a scrupu- lous dread lest the tribute due to the past should prove an injurious incentive for the future. Every man deserving the name of Briton adds his voice to the chorus which extols the exploits of his countrymen, with a consciousness, at times overpowering the effort, that they tran- scend all praise. But this particular sentiment, thus irresistibly excited, is not sufficient. The nation would err grievously, if she suffered the abuse which other states have made of military power, to prevent her from perceiving that no people ever was, or can be, independent, free, or secure, much less great, in any sane applica- tion of the word, without martial propensities and an assiduous cultivation of military virtues. Nor let it be overlooked, that the benefits deriv- able from these source? are placed within the reach of Great Britain, under conditions pecu- liarly favourable. The same insular position which, by rendering territorial incorporation im- possible, utterly precludes the desire of conquest Under tne most seductive shape it can assume, enables her to rely, for her defence against foreign foes, chiefly upon a species of armed force from which her own liberties have nothing to fear. Such are the privileges of her situa- tion ; and, by permitting, they invite her to give way to the courageous instincts of human nature, and to strengthen and to refine them by cul- ture. But some have more than insinuated that a design exists to subvert the civil charac- ter of the English people by unconstitutional applications and unnecessary increase of military power. The advisers and abettors of such a design, were it possible that it should exist, would be guilty of the most heinous crime, which, upon this planet, can be committed. The author, trusting that this apprehension arises from the delusive influences of an honourable jealousy, hopes that the martial equalities he venerates will be fostered by adhering to those good old usages which experience has sanctioned: and by availing ourselves of new means of in- disputable promise : particularly by applying, in its utmost possible extent, that system of tuition whose master-spring is a habit of gradually en- lightened subordination ; by imparting know- ledge, civil, moral, and religious, in such measure that the mind, among all classes of the commu- nity, may love, admire, and be prepared and accomplished to defend that country under whose protection its faculties have been unfolded, and its riches acquired ; by just dealing towards al 1 orders of the state, so that no members of it being trampled upon, courage may everywhere continue to rest immovably upon its ancient English foundation, personal self-respect ; by adequate rewards, and permanent honours, con. ferred upon the deserving ; by encouraging ath- letic exercises and manly sports among the peasantry of the country ; and by especial care to provide and support institutions, in which, during a time of peace, a reasonable proportion of the youth of the country may be instructed in military science. The author has only to add, that he shoulr feel little satisfaction in giving to the world these limited attempts to celebrate the virtues of hi> country, if he did not encourage a hope that a subject, which it has fallen within his province to treat only in the mass, will by other poets be illustrated in that detail which its importance calls for, and which will allow opportunities tc give the merited applause to PERSONS as well as to THINGS. This Ode was published along with other pieces, now interspersed through this Volume. ODE. THE MORNING OF THE DAY APPOINTED FOR A GENERAL THANKSGIVING. JANUARY 18, 1816. HAIL, orient conqueror of gloomy night I Thou that canst shed the bliss of gratitude On hearts howe'er insensible or rude ; Whether thy orient visitations smite The haughty towers where monarchs dwell ; Or thou, impartial sun, with presence bright IS* THANKSGIVING ODE. Cheer'st the low threshold of the peasant's cell ! Not unrejoiced I see thee climb the sky In naked splendour, clear from mist or haze, Or cloud approaching to divert the rays, Which even in deepest winter testify Thy power and majesty, Dazzling the vision that presumes to gaze. Well does thine aspect usher in this day ; As aptly suits therewith that modest pace Submitted to the chains [dains That bind thee to the path which God or- That tnou shall trace, [away ! Till, with the heavens and earth, thou pass Nor less, the stillness of these frosty plains, Their utter stillness, and the silent grace Of yon ethereal summits white with snow, ^Whose tranquil pomp, and spotless purity, Report of storms gone by To us who tread below) Do with the service of this day accord. Divinest object, which the uplifted eye Of mortal man is suffered to behold ; Thou, who upon yon snow-clad heights hast poured [vale, Meek splendour, nor forget "st the humble Thou who dost warm earth's universal mould, And for thy bounty wert not unadored By pious men of old ; [hail ! Once more, heart-cheering sun, I bid thee Bright be thy course to-day, let not this promise fail ! 'Mid the deep quiet of this morning hour, All nature seems to hear me while I speak, By feelings urged, that do not vainly seek Apt language, ready as the tuneful notes That stream in blithe succession from the Of birds in leafy bower, [throats Warbling a farewell to a vernal shower. There is a radiant but a short-lived flame, That burns for poets in the dawning east ; And oft my soul hath kindled at the same, When the captivity of sleep had ceased ; But he who fixed immovably the frame Of the round world, and built, by laws as A solid refuge for distress, [strong, The towers of righteousness ; He knows that from a holier altar came The quickening spark of this day's sacrifice ; Knows that the source is nobler whence doth rise The current of this matin song ; That deeper far it lies Than aught dependent on the fickle skies. Have we not conquered ? By the venge ful sword? Ah, no, by dint of magnanimity; That curbed the baser passions, and left free A loyal band to follow their liege lord, Clear-sighted honour and his staid com- peers, Along a track of most unnatural years, In execution of heroic deeds ; Whose memory, spotless as the crystal beads Of morning dew upon the untrodden meads, Shall live enrolled above the starry spheres Who to the murmurs of an earthly string, Of Britain's acts would sing, He with enraptured voice will tell Of one whose spirit no reverse could quell ; Of one that "mid the failing never failed : Who paints how Britain struggled and pre- vailed Shall represent her labouring with an eye Of circumspect humanity ; Shall show her clothed with strength All martial duties to fulfil ; [and skill, Firm as a rock in stationary fight : In motion rapid as the lightning's gleam ; Fierce as a flood-gate bursting in the night To rouse the wicked from their giddy dream Woe, woe to all that face her in the field ! Appalled she may not be, and cannot yield. And thus is missed the sole true glory That can belong to human story ! At which they only shall arrive [dive. Who through the abyss of weakness The very humblest are too proud of heart : And one brief day is rightly set apart To Him who lifteth up and layeth low ; For that Almighty God to whom we owe, Say not that we have vanquished but that we survive. How dreadful the dominion of the im- pure ! Why should the song be tardy to proclaim That less than power unbounded could not tame That soul of evil which, from hell let loose, [abuse. Had filled the astonished world with such As boundless patience only could endure ? Wide-wasted regions cities wrapt in flame [eye Who sees, and feels, may lift a streaming To heaven, who never saw may heave a sigh ; But the foundation of our nature shakes, And with an infinite pain the spirit aches, THANKSGIVING ODE. 187 When desolated countries, towns on fire, Are but the avowed attire Of warfare waged with desperate mind Against the life of virtue in mankind ; Assaulting without ruth The citadels of truth ; While the whole forest of civility Is doomed to perish, to the last fair tree ! A crouching purpose a distracted will Opposed ti hopes that battened upon scorn, And to desires whose ever-waxing horn Not all ihe light of earthly power could fill ; Opposed to dark, deep plots of patient And to celerities of lawless force [skill, Which, spurning God, had flung away remorse [redress? What could they gain but shadows of So bad proceeded propagating worse ; And discipline was passion's dire excess. Widens the fatal web, its lines extend,* And deadlier poisons in the chalice blend When will your trials teach you to be wise? Oh, prostrate lands, consult your agonies ! No more the guilt is banished, And, with the guilt, the shame is fled ; And, with the guilt and shame, the woe hath vanished, Shaking the dust and ashes from her head ! No more these lingerings of distress Sully the limpid stream of thankfulness. What robe can gratitude employ So seemly as the radiant vest of joy ? What steps so suitable as those that move In prompt obedience to spontaneous mea- Of glory and felicity and love, [sures Surrendering the whole heart to sacred pleasures ? Land of our fathers ! precious unto me Since the first joys of thinking infancy ; When of thy gallant chivalry I read, And hugged the volume on my sleepless bed! O England ! dearer far than life is dear, If I forget thy prowess, never more Be thy ungrateful son allowed to hear Thy green leaves rustle, or thy torrents roar ! But how can he be faithless to the past, Whose soul, intolerant of base decline, Saw in thy virtue a celestial sign, * " A discipline the rule whereof is passion." LOKU BROOK. That bade him hope, and to his hope cleave fast ! [length The nations strove with puissance ; at Wide Europe heaved, impatient to be cast, With all her living strength, With all her armed powers, Upon the offensive shores. The trumpet blew a universal blast ! But thou art foremost in the field ; theve stand : Receive the triumph destined to thy hand ! All states have glorified themselves : their claims Are weighed by Providence, in balance even ; [names, And now, in preference to the mightiest To thee the exterminating sword is given. Dread mark of approbation, justly gained ! Exalted office, worthily sustained ! Imagination, ne'er before content, But aye ascending, restless in her pride, From all that man's performance could present, Stoops to that closing deed magnificent, And with the embrace is satisfied. Fly, ministers of fame, Whate'er your means, whatever help ye claim, [delight ! Bear through the world these tidings o/ Hours, days, and months, have borne them, in the sight [shower, Of mortals, travelling faster than the That landward stretches from the sea, The morning's splendours to devour ; But this appearance scattered ecstasy, And heart-sick Europe blessed the healing power. The shock is given the adversaries bleed Lo, justice triumphs! Earth is freed! Such glad assurance suddenly went forth It pierced the caverns of the sluggish north It found no barrier on the ridge Of Andes frozen gulfs became its bridge The vast Pacific gladdens with the freight Upon the lakes of Asia 'tis bestowed The Arabian desert shapes a willing road, Across her burning breast, For this refreshing incense from the west ! Where snakes and lions breed, Where towns and cities thick as stars appear, Wherever fruits are gathered, and where et The upturned soil receives the hopeful seed 18S THANKSGIVING ODfi. While the sun rules, and cross the shades of night The unwearied arrow hath pursued its flight ! [heed, The eyes of good men thankfully give And in its sparkling progress read How virtue triumphs, from her bondage freed ! Tyrants exult to hear of kingdoms won, And slaves are pleased to learn that mighty feats are done ; [traded borders Even the proud realm, from whose dis- This messenger of good was launched in air, [disorders, France, conquered France, amid her wild Feels, and hereafter shall the truth declare, That she too te^ks not reason to rejoice, And utter England's name with sadly- plausive voice. Preserve, O Lord ! within our hearts The memory of thy favour, That else insensibly departs, And loses its sweet savour ! Lodge it within us ! as the power of light Lives inexhaustibly in precious gems, Fixed on the front of eastern diadems, So shine our thankfulness for ever br'ght ! What offering, what transcendent monu- Shall our sincerity to thee present? [ment Not work of hands ; but trophies that may reach To highest heaven the labour of the soul ; That builds, as thy unerring precepts teach, Upon the inward victories of each, Her hope of lasting glory for the whole. Yet might it well become that city now, Into whose breast the tides of grandeur flow, To whom all persecuted men retreat ; If a new temple lift her votive brow Upon the shore of silver Thames to greet The peaceful guest advancing from afar. Bright be the distant fabric, as a star Fresh risen and beautiful within ! there meet Dependence infinite, proportion just ; A pile that grace approves, that time can trust With his most sacred wealth, heroic dust ! But if the valiant of this land In reverential modesty demand, That all observance, due to them, be paid Where their serene progenitors are laid ; Kings, warriors, high-souled poets, saint- like sages, [ages ; England's illustrious sons of long, long Be it not unordained that solemn rites. Within the circuit of those Gothic walls, Shall be performed at pregnant intervals ; Commemoration holy, that unites The living c;enerations with the dead ; By the deep soul-moving sense Of religious eloquence, By visual pomp, and by the tie Of sweet and threatening harmony ; Soft notes, awful as the omen Of destructive tempests coming, And escaping from that sadness Into elevated gladness ; While the white-robed choir at- tendant, Under mouldering banners pen- dant, Provoke all potent symphonies to raise Songs of victory and praise, For them who bravely stood unhurt, 01 bled [graves With medicable wounds, or found thair Upon the battle-field, or under ocean's waves ; Or were conducted home in single state, And long procession there to lie, Where their sons' sons, and all posterity, Unheard by 'hem, their deeds shall cele brate ! Nor will the God of peace and love Such martial service disapprove. He guides the pestilence the cloud Of locusts travels on his breath ; The region that in hope was ploughed His drought consumes, his mildew taints with death ; He springs the hushed volcano's mine ; He puts the earthquake on her still design, Darkens the sun, hath bade the forest sink, And, drinking towns and cities, still can drink [Thine ! Cities and towns 'tis Thou the work is The fierce tornado sleeps within thy courts He hears the word he flies And navies perish in their ports ; For thou art angry with thine enemies ! For these, and for our errors And sins, that point their terrors, We bow our heads before Thee, and wr laud And magnify thy name, Almighty God ! But thy most dreaded instrument In working out a pure intent, Is man arrayed for mutual slaughter, THANKSGIVING ODE. 189 Yea, Carnage is thy daughter ! IPOU cloth'st the wicked in their dazzling mail, And by thy just permission they prevail ; Thine arm from peril guards the coasts Of them who in thy laws delight : Thy presence turns the scale of doubtful fight, Tremendous God of battles, Lord of Hosts ! To THEE TO THEE On this appointed day shall thanks ascend, That Thou hast brought our warfare to an end, And that we need no second victory ! Ha ! what a ghastly 'ight for man to see ; And to the heavenly saints in peace who dwell, For a brief moment, terrible ; ut to thy sovereign penetration, fair, Before whom all things are, that were, All judgments that have been, or e'er shall be ; Links in the chain of thy tranquillity ! Along the bosom of this favoured nation, Breathe thou, this day, a vital undulation ! Let all who do this land inherit Be conscious of thy moving spirit ! Oh, 'tis a goodly ordinance, the sight, Though sprung from bleeding war, is one of pure delight ; Bless thou the hour, or ere the hour arrive, When a whole people "hall kneel down in prayer, And, at one moment, in one rapture, strive With lip and heart to tell their gratitude For thy protecting care, [Lord Their solemn joy praising the Eternal For tyranny subdued, And for the sway of equity renewed, For liberty confirmed, and peace restored ! But hark the summons ! down the placid lake Floats the soft cadence of the church-tower bells ; [wake Bright shines the sun, as if his beams might The tender insects sleeping in their cells Bright shines the sun and not a breeze to shake The drops that tip the melting icicles. Oh, enter now His temple gate ! Inviting words perchance already flung, (As the crowd press devoutly down the aisle Of some old minster's venerable pile) From voices into zealous passion stung, While the tubed engine feels the inspiring blast, [cast And has begun its clouds of sound to Towards the empyreal heaven, As if the fretted roof were riven. Us, humbler ceremonies now await; But in the bosom, with devout respect, The banner of our joy we will erect, And strength of love our souls shall elevate: For to a few collected in his name, Their heavenly Father will incline an ear Gracious to service hallowed by its aim ; Awake ! the majesty of God revere ! Go and with foreheads meekly bowed Present your prayers go and rejoice aloud The Holy One will hear! And what 'mid silence deep, with faith sincere, Ye, in your low and undisturbed estate, Shall simply feel and purely meditate Of warnings from the unprecedented might, [closed; Which, in our time, the impious have dis- And of more arduous duties thence im- posed Upon the future advocates of right ; Of mysteries revealed, And judgments unrepealed, Of earthly revolution, And final retribution, To his omniscience will appear An offering not unworthy to find place, On this high DAY of THANKS, before the Throne of Grace ! 190 Umonafe of a foxtr an % Continent. 1820. DEDICATION. DEAR fellow-travellers ! think not that the muse The life, the truth, the beauty : she conhdes Presents to notice these memorial lays, Hoping the general eye thereon will gaze, As on a mirror that gives back the hues Of living nature : no though free to choose The greenest bowers, the most inviting ways, The fairest landscapes and the brightest days, Her skill she tried with less ambitious views. For you she wrought ; ye only can supply In that enjoyment which with you abides, Trusts to your love and vivid memory ; Thus far contented, that for you her verse Shall lack not power the " meltinp soul to pierce," W WORDSWORTH Rydal Mount, January^ 1822 FISH-WOMEN ON LANDING AT CALAIS. Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen; But, if the Nereid sisters and their queen, Above whose heads the tide so long hath rolled, The dames resemble whom we here behold, How terrible beneath the opening waves To sink, and meet them in their fretted caves, Withered, grotesque immeasurably old, Andshrill and fierce in accent! Fearitnot; For they earth's fairest daughters do excel ; Pure undecaying beauty is their lot; Their voices into liquid music swell, Thrilling each pearly cleft and sparry grot [nymphs dwell ! The undisturbed abodes where sea- BRUGES.* BRUGES I saw attired with golden light (Streamed from the west) as with a robe of power : [hour, Tis passed away ; and now the sunless That slowly introducing peaceful night liest suits with fallen grandeur, to my sight Offers the beauty, the magnificence, f\nd sober graces, left her for defence * This is not the first poetical tribute which in out times has been paid to this beautiful city. Mr Southey, in the " Poet's Pilgrimage," speaks Against the injuries of time, the spite Of fortune, and the desolating storms Of future war. Advance not spare tc hide O gentle power of darkness ! these mild hues; Obscure not yet these silent avenues Of stateliest architecture, where the forms Of nun-like females, with soft motion glide of it in lines which I cannot deny myself the pleasure of connecting with my own : " Time hath not wronged her, nor hath ruin sought Rudely her splendid structures to destroy, Save in those recent days, with evil fraught, When mutability, in drunken joy Triumphant, and from all restraint released. Let loose her fierce and many-headed beast. " But for the scars in that unhappy rage Inflicted, firm she stands and undecayed ; Like our first sires, a beautiful old age Is hers in venerable years arrayed ; And yet, to her, benignant stars may bring, What fate denies to man, a second spring " When I may read of tilts in days of old, And tourneys graced by chieftains of renown, Fair dames, grave citizens, and warriors bold, If fancy would portray some stately town, Which for such pomp fit theatre should be, Fair Bruges, I shall then remember thee." In this city are many vestiges of the splendour of the Burgundian dukedom ; and the lonjj black mantle universally worn by the females is pro- bably a remnant of the old Spanish connexion, which, if I do not much deceive myseif, is trace- TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 191 BRUGES. THE spirit of antiquity enshrined [song, In sumptuous buildings, vocal in sweet In picture, speaking with heroic tongue, And with devout solemnities entwined Strikes to the seat of grace within the mind: (along; Hence forms that glide with swan-like ease Hence motions, even amid the vulgar throng, To an harmonious decency confined; As if the streets were consecrated ground, The city one vast temple dedicate To mutual respect in thought and deed ; To leisure, to forbearances sedate ; To social cares from jarring passions freed ; A nobler peace than that in deserts found ! AFTER VISITING THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. A WINGED goddess, clothed in vesture wrought [bold Of rainbow colours; one whose port was Whose overburthened hand could scarcely hold [brought, The glittering crowns and garlands which it Hovered in air above the far-famed spot. She vanished leaving prospect blank and cold ble in the grave deportment of its inhabitants. Bruges is comparatively little disturbed by that curious contest, or rather conflict, of Flemish with French propensities in matters of taste, so conspicuous through other parts of Flanders. The hotel to which we drove at Ghent furnished an odd instance. In the passages were paint- ings and statues, after the antique, of Hebe and Apollo ; and in the garden a little pond, about a yard and a half in diameter, with a weeping willow bending over it, and under the shade of that tree, in the centre of the pond, a wooden painted statue of a Dutch or Flemish boor, look- ing ineffably tender upon his mistress, and em- bracing her. A living duck, tethered at the feet of the statues, alternately tormented a miserable eel and "tself with endeavours to escape from its bonds and prison. Had we chanced to espy the hostess of the hotel in this quaint rural retreat, the exhibition would have been complete. She was a true Flemish figure, in the dress of the days of Holbein, her symbol of office a weighty bunch of keys, pendent from her portly waist. In Brussels, the modern taste in costume, archi- tecture, etc., has got the mastery ; in Ghent there is a struggle ; but in Bruges old images are still paramount, and an air of monastic life among the quiet goings-on of a thinly-peopled city is inexpressibly soothing ; a pensive grace seems to be cast over all, even the very children. Extract from journal. Of wind-swept corn that wide around us rolled In dreary billows, wood, and meagre cot, And monuments that soon must disappear Yet a dread local recompense we found ; While glory seemed betrayed, while patriot zeal [feel Sank in our hearts, we felt as men should With such vast hoards of hidden carnage near, [ground ! And horror breathing from the silent SCENERY BETWEEN NAMUR AND LIEGE. WHAT lovelier home could gentle fancy choose? [and plains, Is this the stream, whose cities, heights, War's favourite playground, are with crimson stains Familiar, as the morn with pearly dews ? The morn, that now, along the silver Meuse, [swains Spreading her peaceful ensigns, calls the To tend their silent boats and ringing wains, [bestrews Or strip the bough whose mellow fruit The ripening corn beneath it. As mine eyes Turn from the fortified and threatening hill, How sweet the prospect of yon watery glade, [shade, With its gray rocks clustering in pensive That, shaped like old monastic turrets, rise From the smooth meadow ground, serene and still ! AIX-LA-CHAPELLE. WAS it to disenchant, and to undo, That we approached the seat of Charle- maine ? [strain To sweep from many an old romantic That faith which no devotion may renew ! Why does this puny church present lo view Its feeble columns? and that scanty chair! This sword that one of our weak times might wear; Objects of false pretence, or meanly true ! If from a traveller's fortune I might claim A palpable memorial of that day, Then would I seek the Pyrenean breach Which Roland clove with huge two-handed sway, And to the enormous labour left his name, Where unremitting frosts the rocky crescent bleach.* * Let a wall of rocks be imagined from three to six hundred feet in height, and rising be 192 TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. IN THE CATHEDRAL AT COLOGNE. OH, for the help of angels to complete This temple angels governed by a plan Thus gloriously pursued by daring man, Studious that He might not disdain the seat [heat Who dwells in heaven ! But that inspiring Hath failed ; and now, ye powers ! whose gorgeous wings And splendid aspect yon emblazon ings ^ut faintly picture, 'twere an office meet For you, on these unfinished shafts to try The midnight virtues of your harmony : This vast design might tempt you to repeat Strains that call forth upon empyreal ground Immortal fabrics rising to the sound Of penetrating harps and voices sweet 1 IN A CARRIAGE, UPON THE BANKS OF THE RHINE. this dance of objects sadness steals O'er the defrauded heart while sweeping As in a fit of Thespian jollity, [by, Beneath her vine-leaf crown the green earth reels: Backward, in rapid evanescence, wheels The venerable pageantry of time, Each beetling rampart and each tower sublime, And what the dell unwillingly reveals Of lurking cloistral arch, through trees espied [repine ? Near the bright river's edge. Yet why Pedestrian liberty shall yet be mine To muse, to creep, to halt at will, to gaze : Freedom which youth with copious hand supplied, May in fit measure bless my later days. Loud its threatenings let them not Drown the music of a song, Breathed thy mercy to implore, Where these troubled waters roar ! Saviour, in Thy image, seen Bleeding on that precious rood ; If, while through the meadows green Gently wound the peaceful flood, We forgot Thee, do not Thou Disregard Thy suppliants now ! Hither, like yon ancient tower Watching o'er the river's bed, Fling the shadow of Thy power, Else we sleep among the dead ; I Thou who trod'st the billowy sea, j Shield us in our jeopardy ! Guide our bark among the waves ; Through the rocks our passage smooth ; Where the whirlpool frets and raves Let Thy love its anger soothe : All our hope is placed in Thee ; Miserere Domine ! * HYMN, FOR THE BOATMEN AS THEY APPROACH THE RAPIDS, UNDER THE CASTLE OF HEIDELBERG. JESU! bless our slender boat, By the current swept along; tween France and Spain, so as physically to separate the two kingdoms let us fancy this wall curved like a crescent, with its convexity towards France. Lastly, let us suppose, that in the very middle of the wall a breach of three hundred feet wide has been beaten down by the famous Roland, and we may have a good idea of what the mountaineers call the ' Breche de Roland. Raymond's Pyrenees. THE SOURCE OF THE DANUBE. NOT, like his great compeers, indignantly! Doth Danube spring to life ! The wan- dering stream [gleam (Who loves the cross, yet to the crescent's Unfolds a willing breast) with infant glee Slips from his prison walls : and fancy, free To follow in his track of silver light, Reaches, with one brief moment's rapid flight, The vast encincture of that gloomy sea * See the beautiful song in Mr. Coleridge's tragedy of " Remorse." t Before this quarter of the Black Forest was inhabited, the source of the Danube might have suggested some of those sublime images which Armstrong has so finely described ; at present, the contrast is most striking. The spring ap- pears in a capacious stone basin upon the fronl of a ducal palace, with a pleasure-ground oppo- site ; then, passing under the pavement, takes the form of a little, clear, bright, black, vigorous rill, barely wide enough to tempt the agility of a child five years old to leap over it, and enter- ing the garden, it joins, after a course of a few hundred yards, a stream much more considera- ble than itself. The copiousness of the spring at Donischingen must have procured for it the honour of being na 1 'ed the source of the Danube- TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 193 Whose waves the Orpriean lyre forbad to meet U ars In conflict ; whose ro'\gh winds forgot their To waft the heroic progeny of Greece, When the first ship sailed for the golden Argo, exalted for that daring feat [fleece, To bear in heaven a shape distinct with stars. MEMORIAL NEAR THE OUTLET OF THE LAKE OF THUN. DEM ANDENKEN MEINES FREUNDES ALOYS REDING MDCCCXVIII. Aloys Reding, it will be remembered, was cap- tain-general of the Swiss forces, which, with a courage and perseverance worthy of the cause, opposed the flagitious and too success- ful attempt of Bonaparte to subjugate their country. AROUND a wild and woody hill A gravelled path-vay treading, We reached a votive stone that bears The name of Aloys Reding. Well judged the friend who placed it there For silence and protection, And haply with a finer care Of dutiful affection. The sun regards it from the west, Sinking in summer glory; And, while he sinks, affords a type Of that pathetic story. And oft he tempts the patriot Swiss Amid the grove to linger ; Till all is dim, save this bright stone Touched by his golden finger. COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE CATHOLIC CANTONS OF SWITZERLAND. DOOMED as we are our native dust To wet with many a bitter shower, It ill befits us to disdain The altar, to deride the fane, Where patient sufferers bend, in trust To win a happier hour. I love, where spreads the village lawn, Upon some kne-worn cell to gaze ; Hail to the firm unmoving cross, Aloft, where pines their branches toss . ; And to the chapel far withdrawn, That lurks by lonely ways ! Where'er we roam along the brink Of Rhine or by the sweeping Po, Through Alpine vale, or champain wide Whate'er we look on, at our side Be Charity, to bid us think, And feel, if we would know ON APPROACHING THE STAUR-BACH LAUTERBRUNNEN.* TRACKS let me follow far from human kind Which these illusive greetings may not reach ; Where only nature tunes her voice to teach Careless pursuits, and raptures unconfined. No mermaid warbles (to allay the wind That drives some vessel toward a dangerous beach) More thrilling melodies 1 no caverned witch, Chanting a love-spell, ever intertwined N tes shrill and wild with art more musical! Alas ! that from the lips of abject want And idleness in tatters mendicant The strain should flow enjoyment to en. thral, And with regret and useless pity haunt This boid, this pure, this sky-born waterfalls * " The Staub-bach" is a narrow stream, which, after a long course on rue heights, comes to the sharp edge of a somewhat overhanging preci- pice, overleaps it with a bound, and, after a fall of 930 feet, forms again a rivulet. The vocal powers of these musical beggars may seem to be exaggerated ; but this wilj and savage air was utterly unlike any sounds I had ever heard ; the n tes reached me from a distance, and on what occasion they were sung I could not guess, only they seemed to belong, in some way or other, to the waterfall ; and reminded me of religious services chanted to streams and fountains in pagan times. Mr. Southey has thus accurately characterized the peculiarity of this music: "While we were at the waterfall, some half score peasants, chiefly women and girls, assem- bled just out of reach of the spring, and set up, I surely, the wildest chorus that ever was hearc i by human ears, a song net cf articulate sounds. , but in which the voice was used as a mere instru- ment of music, more flexible than any which art could produce, sweet, powerful, and thril- ling beyond description." See notes to A Tale of Faragiiav." 194 TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. THE FALL OF THE AAR. HANDEC. /ROM the fierce aspect of this river throwing His giant body o'er the steep rock's brink, Back in astonishment and fear we shrink : But gradually a calmer look bestowing, Flowers we espy beside the torrent growing; Flowers that peep forth from many a cleft and chink, And, Irom the whirlwind of his anger drink Hues ever fresh, in rocky fortress blowing : They suck, from breath that threatening to destroy Is more benignant than the dewy eve, Beauty, and life, and motions as of joy: Nor doubt but He to whom yon pine-trees nod Their heads in sign of worship, nature's God, These humbler adorations will receive. SCENE ON THE LAKE OF BRIENTZ. "WHAT know we of the blest above But that they sing and that they love?" Vet. if they ever did inspire A mortal hymn, or shaped the choir, Now, where those harvest damsels float Homeward in their rugged boat, (While all the ruffling winds are fled, Each slumbering on some mountain's head), Now, surely, hath that gracious aid Been felt, lhat influence is displayed. Pupils of Heaven, in order stand The rustic maidens, every hand Upon a sister's shoulder laid, To chant, as glides the boat along, A simple, but a touching, song ; To chant, as angels do above. The melodies of peace in love ! ENGELBERG, THE HILL OF ANGELS. FOR gentlest uses, oft-times nature takes The work of lancy from her willing hands ; And such a beautiful creation makes As renders needless spells and magic wands, And for the boldest tale belief commands. When first mine eyes beheld that famous hill The sacred Engelberg;* celestial bands, With intermingling motions soft and still, * The convent whose site was pointed out, ac- cording to tradition, in this manner, is seated at its ba=e. The architecture of the building is unimp.cssive, but the situation is worthy of ^he honour which the imagination of the moun- taineers has conferred upon it. Hung round its top, on wings that changed their hues at will. [were Clouds do not name those visitants ; they The very angels whose authentic lays, Sung from that heavenly ground in middle air, [raise Made known the spot where piety should A holy structure to the Almighty's praise. Resplendent apparition ! if in vain My ears did listen, 'twas enough to gaze ; And watch the slow departure of the train. Whose skirts the glowing mountain thirsted to detain ! OUR LADY OF THE SNOW. MEEK Virgin mother, more benign Than fairest star upon the height Of thy own mountain t set to keep Lone vigils through the hours of sleep, What eye can look upon thy shrine Untroubled at the sight? These crowded offerings as they hang In sign of misery relieved, Even these, without intent of theirs, Report of comfortless despairs, Of many a deep and cureless pang And confidence deceived. To thee, in this aerial cleft, As to a common centre, tend All sufferings that no longer rest On mortal succour, all distrest That pine of human hope bereft, Nor wish for earthly friend. And hence, O Virgin mother mild ! Though plenteous flowers around thee blow Not only from the dreary strife Of winter, but the storms of life, Thee have thy votaries aptly styled Our Lady of the Snow. Even for the man who stops not here, But down the irriguous valley hies, Thy very name, O lady ! flings, O'er blooming fields and gushing springs, A holy shadow soft and dear Of chastening sympathies ! Nor falls that intermingling shade To summer gladsomeness unkind ; It chastens only to requite With gleams of fresher, purer light ; While, o'er the flower-enamelled glada, More sweetly breathes the wind. t Mount Righi TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 195 But on ! a tempting downward way, A verdant path before us lies ; Clear shines the glorious sun above ; Then give free course to joy and love, Deeming the evil of the day Sufficient for the wise. EFFUSION IN PRESENCE OF THE PAINTED TOWER OF TELL, AT ALTORE. This tower is said to stand upon the spot where grew the linden-tree against which his son was placed, when the father's archery was put to proof under circumstances so famous in Swiss history. WHAT though the Italian pencil wrought not here, Nor such fine skill as did the meed bestow On Marathonian valour, yet the tear Springs forth in presence ofthisgaudyshow, While narrow cares their limits overflow. Thrice happy, burghers, peasants, warriors old, [nfants in arms, and ye, that as ye go Home-ward or school-ward, ape what ye behold ; [bold ! Heroes before your time, in frolic fancy But when that calm spectatress from on high Looks down the bright and solitary moon, Who never gazes but to beautify ; And snow-fed torrents, which the blaze of noon Roused into fury, murmur a soft tune That fosters peace, and gentleness recalls ; Then might the passing monk receive a boon [walls, Of saintly pleasure from these pictured While, on the warlike groups, the mellow- ing lustre falls. How blest the souls who when their trials come Yield not to terror or despondency, But face like that sweet boy their mortal doom, Whose head the ruddy apple tops, while he Expectant stands beneath the linden tree, Not quaking like the timid forest game : He smiles the hesitating shaft to free, Assured that Heaven its justice will pro- claim, [aim. And to his father give its own unerring THE TOWN OF SCHWYTZ. BY antique fancy trimmed though lowly, bred To dignity in thee , O Schwytz ! are seen The genuine features of the golden mean ; Equality by prudence governed, Or jealous nature ruling in her stead ; And, therefore, art thou blest with peace, serene [green As th; t of the sweet fields and meadows In unambitious compass round thee spread, Majestic Berne, high on her guardian steep, Holding a central station of command, Might well be styled this noble body's head ; Thou, lodged 'mid mountainous entrench- ments deep, Its heart ; and ever may the heroic land Thy name, O Schwytz, in happy freedom keep !* ON HEARING THE " RANZ DES VACKES ' ON THE TOP OF THE PASS OF ST. GOTHARD. I LISTEN but no faculty of mine Avails those modulations to detect, Which, heard in foreign lands, the Swiss affect With tenderes; passion, leaving him to pine (So fame reports) and die ; his sweet- breathed kine (decked Remembering, and green Alpine pastures With vernal flowers. Yet may we not reject The tale as fabulous. Here while I recline Mindful how others love this simple strain, Even here, upon this glorious mountair named Of God himself from dread pre-eminence- Aspiring thoughts, by memory reclaimed, Yield to the music's touching influence, And joys of distant home my heart enchain. THE CHURCH OF SAN SALVADOR, SEEN FROM THE LAKE OF LUGANO. This church was almost destroyed by lightning a few years ago, but the altar and the image of the patron saint were untouched The mount, upon the summit of which the church is built, stands amid the intricacies of the * Nearly 500 years (says Ebel, speaking of the French invasion) had elapsed, when, for the first time, foreign soldiers were seen upon the fron- tiers of this smail canton, to impose upon it the laws of .he r groveinors. 196 TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. Lake of Lugano : and is, from a hundred points of view, its principal ornament, rising to the height of 2000 feet, and, on one side, nearly perpendicular. The ascent is toilsome; but the traveller who performs it will be amply rewarded Splendid fertility, rich woods, and dazzling waters, seclusion and confinement of view contrasted with sea-like extent of plain fading into the sky ; and this again, in an op- posite quarter, with an horizon of the loftiest and boldest Alps unite in composing a pros- pect more diversified by magnificence, beauty, and sublimity, than perhaps any othei point in Europe of so inconsiderable an elevation commands. THOU sacred pile ! whose turrets rise From yon steep mountain's loftiest stage, Guarded by lone San Salvador ; Sink (if thou must) as heretofore, To sulphurous bolts a sacrifice, But ne'er to human rage ! On Horeb's top, on Sinai, deigned To rest the universal lord : Why leap the fountains from their cells Where everlasting bounty dwells? That, while the creature is sustained, His God may be adored. Cliffs, fountains, rivers, seasons, times, Let all remind the soul of heaven ; Our slack devotion needs them all And faith, so oft of sense the thrall, While she, by aid of nature, climbs, May hope to be forgiven. Glory, and patriotic love, And all the pomps of this frail "spot Which men call earth," have yearned to Associate with the simply meek, [seek, Religion in the sainted grove, And in the hallowed grot. Thither, in times of adverse shocks, Of fainting hopes and backward wills, Did mighty Tell repair of old A hero cast in nature's mould, Deliverer of the steadfast rocks And of the ancient hills ! He, too, of battle-martyrs chief ! Who, to recall his daunted peers, For victory shaped an open space, By gathering with a wide embrace, Into his single heart, a sheaf Of fatal Austrian spears.* * Arnold Winkelreid, at the battle of Sem- pach, broke an Austrian phalanx in this manner. FORT FUENTES. "Tiie ruins of Fort Fuentes form the crest ol a rocky eminence that rises from the plain at the head of the Lake of Como, commanding views up the Valteline, and toward the town of Chiavenna. The prospect in the latter di- rection is characterized by melancholy sub- limity We rejoiced at being favoured with a distinct view of those Alpine heights ; not, as we had expected from the breaking up of the storm, steeped in celestial glory, yet in com- munion with clouds floating or stationary- scatterings from heaven. The ruin is interest- ing, both in mass and detail. An inscription upon elaborately-sculptured marble lying or. the ground, records that the fort had been erected by Count Fuentes in the year 1600, during the reign of Philip the Third ; and the chapel, about twenty years after, by one of his descendants. Marble pillars of gateways are yet standing, and a considerable part of the chapel walls : a smooth green turf has taken the place of the pavement, and we could see no trace of altar or image ; but every- where something to remind one of former splendour, and of devastation and tumult. In our ascent we had passed abundance of wild vines intermingled with bushes : near the ruins were some, ill tended, but growing will- ingly ; and rock, turf, and fragments of the pile, are alike covered or adorned with a va- riety of flowers, among which the rose-coloured pink was growing in great beauty. While de- scending, we discovered on the ground, apart from the path, and at a considerable distance from the ruined chapel, a statue of a child in pure white marble, uninjured by the explo- sion that had driven it so far down the hill. ' How little,' we exclaimed, ' are these thing? valued here ! Could we but transport this pretty image to our own garden !' Yet it seemed it would have been a pity any one should remove it from its couch in the wilderness, which may be its own for hundreds of years." Extract from Journal. DREAD hour ! when upheaved by war's sulphurous blast, [stone This sweet-visaged cherub of Parian So far from the holy inclosure was cast, To couch in this thicket of brambles alone ; To rest where the lizard may bask in the palm [or speck ; Of his half-open hand pure from blemish And the green, gilded snake, without troubling the calm [his neck. Of the beautiful countenance, twine round The event is one of the most famous in the an- nals of Swiss heroism : and pictures and print:: of it are frequent throughout the country. TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 197 Where haply (kind service to piety due !) When winter the grove of its mantle be- reaves, [breast) may strew Some bird (like our own honoured red- The desolate slumberer with moss and with leaves. Fuentes once harboured the good and the brave, [unknown ; Nor to her was the dance of soft pleasure Her banners for festal enjoyment did wave While the thrill of her fifes through the mountains was blown : Now gads the wild vine o'er the pathless ascent [sway, Oh, silence of nature, how deep is thy When the whirlwind of human destruction is spent, [passed away ! Our tumults appeased, and our strifes THE ITALIAN ITINERANT, AND THE SWISS GOATHERD. Now that the farewell tear is dried, Heaven prosper thee, be hope thy guide ! Hope be thy guide, adventurous boy ; The wages of thy travel, joy ! Whether for London bound to trill Thy mountain notes with simple skill ; Or on thy head to poise a show Of images in seemly row ; The graceful form of milk-white steed, Or bird that soared with Ganymede ; Or through our hamlets thou wilt bear The sightless Milton, with his hair Around his placid temples curled ; And Shakspeare at his side a freight, If clay could think and mind were weight, For him who bore the world ! Hope be thy guide, adventurous boy ; The wages of thy travel, joy ! But thou, perhaps, (alert and free Though serving sage philosophy) Wilt ramble over hill and dale, A vendor of the well-wrought scale Whose sentient tube instructs to time A purpose to a fickle clime ; Whether thou choose this useful part, Or minister to finer art, Though robbed of many a cherished dream, And crossed by many a shattered scheme, What stirring wonders wilt thou see In the proud isle of liberty ! Vet will the wanderer sometimes pine With thoughts which no delights can chase, Recal a sister's last embrace, His mother's neck entwine ; Nor shall forget the maiden coy [boy ! That would have loved the bright-haired My song, encouraged by the grace That beams from his ingenuous face, For this adventurer scruples not To prophesy a golden lot ; Due recompence, and safe return To Como's steeps his happy bourne ! Where he, aloft in garden glade, Shall tend, with his own dark-eyed maid, The towering maize, and prop the twig i That ill supports the luscious fig ; j Or feed his eye in paths sun-proof ! With purple of the trellis-roof. That through the jealous leaves escapes From Cadenabbia's pendant grapes. Oh, might he tempt that goatherd-child To share his wanderings ! him whose look Even yet my heart can scarcely brook, So touchingly he smiled, As with a rapture caught from heaven, For unasked alms in pity given. WJTH nodding plumes, and lightly drest Like foresters in leaf-green vest, The Helvetian mountaineers, on ground For Tell's dread archery renowned, Before the target stood to claim The guerdon of the steadiest aim. Loud was the rifle-gun's report, A startling thunder quick and short ! But, flying through the heights around, Echo prolonged a tell-tale sound Of hearts and hands alike ' ' prepared The treasures they enjoy to guard ?" And, if there be a favoured hour When heroes are allowed to quit The tomb, and on the clouds to sit With tutelary power, On their descendants shedding grace, This was the hour, and that the place. But truth inspired the bards of old When of an iron age they told, Which to unequal laws gave birth, That drove Astraea from the earth. A gentle boy (perchance with blood As noble as the best endued, But seemingly a thing despised, Even by the sun and air unprized ; For not a tinge or flowery streak Appeared upon his tender cheek' 198 'TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. Heart-deaf to those rebounding notes, Of pleasure, by his silent goats. Sate far apart in forest shed, Pale, ragged, bare his feet and head, Mute as the snow upon the hill, And. as the saint he prays to, still. Ah, what avails heroic deed ? What liberty ? if no defence B won for feeble innocence Father of all ! though wilful manhood read His punishment in soul-distress, [ness ! Grant to the morn of life its natural blessed- THE LAST SUPPER, BY LEONARDO DA VINCI. IN THE REFECTORY OF THE CONVENT OF MARIA DELLA GRAZIA, MILAN. THOUGH searching damps and many an envious flaw [grace, Have marred this work,* the calm ethereal The love deep-seated in the Saviour's face, The mercy, goodness, have not failed to awe The elements ; as they do melt and thaw The heart of the beholder and erase (At least for one rapt moment) every trace Of disobedience to the primal law. 1'he annunciation of the dreadful truth Made to the twelve, survives: lip, fore- head, cheek, And hand reposing on the board in ruth Of what it utters. t while the unguilty seek Unquestionable meanings, still bespeak \ labour worthy of eternal youth ! THE ECLIPSE OF THE SUN, 1820. HIGH on her speculative tower Stood science waiting for the hour When sol was destined to endure Thai darkening of his radiant face Which superstition strove to chase, Erewhile, with rites impure. * This picture of the Last Supper has not only been grievously injured by time, but parts are said to have been painted over again. These ' niceties may be left to connoisseurs. I speak of j it as I felt. The copy exhibited in London some I years ago, and the engraving by Mqrghen, are [ both admirable : but in the original is a power j which neither of those works has attained, or sven approached. t "The hand Sang- with the voice, and this the armament." -MlLTON. Afloat beneath Italian skies, Through regions fair as Paradise We gaily passed, till nature wrough' A silent and unlooked-for change, That checked the desultory range Of joy and sprightly thought. Where'er was dipped the toiling oar, The waves danced round us as before, As lightly, though of altered hue; Mid recent coolness, such as falls At noon-tide from umbrageous walls That screen the morning dew. No vapour stretched its wings; no cloud Cast far or near a murky shroud; The sky an azure field displayed; Twas sunlight sheathed and gently charmed, Of all its sparkling rays disarmed, And as in slumber laid: Or something night and day between, Like moonshine, but the hue was green; Still moonshine, without shadow, spread On jutting rock, and curved shore. Where gazed the peasant from his door And on the 'nountain's head. It tinged the Julian steeps it lay, Lugano ! on thy ample bay; The solemnizing veil was drawn O'er villas, terraces, and towers, To Albogasio's olive bowers Porlezza's verdant lawn. But fancy, with the speed of fire, Hath fled to Milan's loftiest spire, And there alights 'mid that aerial host Of figures human and divine,! White as the snows of Apennine Indurated by frost. + The statues ranged round the spire and along the roof of the cathedral of Milan, have been found fault with by persons whose exclu- sive taste is unfortunate for themselves. It is true that the same expense and labour, judi- ciously directed to purposes more strictly archi- tectural, might have much heightened the gene- ral effect of the building: for, seen from the ground, the statues appear diminutive. But the coup tf&il, from the best point of view, which is half way up the spire, must strike an unpreju- diced person with admiration : and surely the selection and arrangement of the figures is ex- quisitely fitted to support the religion of the country in the imaginations and feelings of the spectator. It was with great pleasure that I saw, during the two ascents which we made, several children, of different ages, tripping up TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. Awe-stricken she beholds the array That guards the temple night and day; Angels she sees that might from heaven have flown, And virgin saints who not in vain Have striven by purity to gain The beatific crown; Sees long-drawn files, concentric rings Each narrowing above each; the wings The uplifted palms, the silent marble lips, The starry zone of sovereign height,* All steeped in this portentous light ! All suffering dim eclipse ! Thus after man had fallen, (if aught These perishable spheres have wrought May with that issue be compared) Throngs of celestial visages, Darkening like water in the breeze, A holy sadness shared. Lo ! while I speak, the labouring sun His glad deliverance has begun : The cypress waves its sombre plume More cheerily ; and town and tower, The vineyard and the olive bower, Their lustre re-assume ! ye, who guard and grace my home While in far-distant lands we roam, Was such a vision given to you ? Or, while we looked with favoured eyes, Did sullen mist hide lake and skies And mountains from your view? 1 ask in vain and know far less If sickness, sorrow, or distress Have spared my dwelling to this hour : Sad blindness, but ordained to prove Our faith in Heaven's unfailing love And all-controlling power. THE THREE COTTAGE GIRLS. How blest the maid whose heart yet free From love's uneasy sovereignty, and down the slender spire, and pausing to look around them, with feelings much more animated thai! could have been derived from these, or the finest works of art if placed within easy reach. Remember also that you have the Alps on one side, and on the other the Apennines, with the Plain of Lombardy between ! * Above the highest circle of figures is a zone of metallic stars. Beats with a fancy running high Her simple cares to magnify . Whom labour, never urged to toil, Hath cherished on a healthful soil, Who knows not pomp, who heeds not Whose heaviest sin it is to look [pelf , Askance upon her pretty self Reflected in some crystal brook; Whom grief hath spared who sheds no But in sweet pity ; and can hear [tear Another's praise from envy clear. Such, (but, O lavish nature ! why That dark unfathomable eye, Where lurks a spirit that replies To stillest mood of softest skies, Yet hints at peace to be o erthrown, Another's first, and then her own ?) Such, haply, yon Italian maid, Our lady's laggard votaress, Halting beneath the chestnut shade To accomplish there her loveliness : Nice aid maternal fingers lend ; A sister serves with slacker hand ; Then, glittering lake a star, she joins the festal band. How blest (if truth may entertain Coy fancy with a bolder strain) The Helvetian girl who daily braves, In her light skiff, the tossing waves, And quits the bosom of the deep Only to climb the rugged steep ? Say whence that modulated shout ? From wood-nymph of Diana's throng ? Or does the greeting to a rout Of giddy bacchanals belong ? Jubilant outcry ! rock and glade Resounded but the voice obeyed The breath of an Helvetian maid. Her beauty dazzles the thick wood ; Her courage animates the flood ; Her step the elastic green-sward meets Returning unreluctant sweets ; The mountains (as ye heard) rejoice Aloud, saluted by her voice ! Blithe paragon of Alpine grace. Be as thou art for through thy veins The blood of heroes runs its race ! And nobly wilt thou brook the chains That, for the virtuous, life prepares ; The fetters which the matron wears ; The patriot mother's weight of anxioui cares ! " Sweet Highland girl ! a very shower t Of beauty was thy earthly dower," t See Address to a Highland Girl, p. 147. 200 TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. When thou didst pass before my eyes, Gay vision under sullen skies, While hope and love around thee played, Near the rough Falls of Inversnaid ! Time cannot thin thy flowing hair, Nor take one ray of light from thee ; For in my fancy thou dost share The gift of immortality; And there shall bloom, with thee allied, The votaress by Lugano's side ; And that intrepid nymph, on Uri's steep, descried ! THE COLUMN, INTENDED BY BONA- PARTE FOR A TRIUMPHAL EDIFICE IN MILAN, NOW LYING BY THE WAY-SIDE IN THE SIMPLON PASS. AMBITION, following down this far-famed slope Her pioneer, the snow-dissolving sun, While clarions prate of kingdoms to be won, Perchance in future ages here may stop ; Taught to mistrust her flattering horoscope By admonition from this prostrate stone ; Memento uninscribed of pride o'erthrown, Vanity's hieroglyphic ; a choice trope In fortune's rhetoric. Daughter of the rock, Rest where thy course was stayed by power divine ! [thine, The soul transported sees, from hint of Crimes which the great Avenger's hand provoke, [guined heath ; Hears combats whistling o'er the ensan- What groans ! what shrieks ! what quietness in death ! STANZAS COMPOSED IN THE SIMPLON PASS. VALLOMBROSA! I longed in thy shadiest wood [floor, To slumber, reclined on the moss-covered To listen to Anio's precipitous flood, When the stillness of evening hath deepened its roar ; [to muse To range through the temples of Passtum, In Pompeii, preserved by her burial in earth : [their hues ; On pictures to gaze, where they drank in And murmur sweet songs on the ground of their birth ! The beauty of Florence, the grandeur of Rome, [regret ? Could I leave them unseen, and not yield to With a hope (and no more) for a season t6 come, [debt? Which ne'er may discharge the magnificent Thou fortunate region ! whose greatness inurned, Awoke to new life from its ashes and dust ; Twice-glorified-fields ! if in sadness I turned From your infinite marvels, the sadness was just. Now, risen ere the light-footed chamois retires [guarded with snow, From dew-sprinkled grass to heights Toward the mists that hang over the land of my sires, From the climate of myrtles contented I go. My thoughts become bright like yon edging of pines, How black was its hue in the region of air ! But, touched from behind by the sun, it now shines [silver hair. With threads that seem part of his own Though the burthen of toil with dear friends we divide, [fanned Though by the same zephyr our temples are As we rest in the cool orange-bower side by side, [withstand : A yearning survives which few hearts shall Each step hath its value while homeward we move ; [appears ! Oh, joy, when the girdle of England What moment in life is so conscious of love, So rich in the tenderest sweetness of tears ? ECHO UPON THE GEMMI. WHAT beast of chase hath broken from the cover? Stern Gemmi listens to as full a cry, As multitudinous a harmony, As e'er did ring the heights of Latmos over, When, from the soft couch of her sleeping lover, [tain-dew Up-starting, Cynthia skimmed the moun- In keen pursuit and gave, where'er she flew, Impetuous motion to the stars above her. A solitary wolf-dog, ranging on Through the bleak concave, wakes this wondrous chime Of aery voices locked in unison, Faint far off near deep solemn and sublime ! So, from the body of one guilty deed, A thousand ghostly fears, and haunting thoughts, proceed 1 TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 201 PROCESSIONS. SUGGESTED ON A SABBATH Even such, this day, came wafted on the MORNING IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNY. , breeze . f , . , , blast that shook A product of that awful mountain seem, Down to the earth the walls of Tericho, i oured f ! rom ,. its vault f [ everlasting snow ; These shout hosannas, -these the startling ' ot virgm-lilies marshalled in bright row, trumpets blow ! swans descending with the stealthy tide, A livelier sisterly resemblance show Than the fair forms that in long order glide, Bear to the glacier band those shapes aloft descried ! And thus, in order, 'mid the sacred grove Fed in the Libyan waste by gushing wells, The priests and damsels of Ammonian Jove Provoked responses with shrill canticles ; While, in a ship begirt with silver bells, ni!^ Und l he al , tar j^e the horned god, j Qf that licentious craving in the min'd Old Cham, the solar deity, who dwells j To act the Go d among external things, Aloft, yet in a tilting vessel rode, ; Trembling, I look upon the secret springs When universal sea the mountains over- flowed . To bind, on apt suggestion, or unbind ; And marvel not that antique faith inclined To crowd the world with metamorphosis, Vouchsafed in pity or in wrath assigned : Why speak of Roman pomps? the haughty Such insolent temptations wouldst thou claims I mi ss, [dark abyss ! Of chiefs triumphant after ruthless wars ; Avoid these si S hts nor brood ' er fable ' s The feast of Neptune and the cereal games, With images, and crowns, and empty cars ; * This procession is a part of the sacramental The dancing Salii on the shields of Mars ( service performed once a month. In the valley I of Engelberg we had the good fortune to be I present at the grand festival of the virgin but the procession on that day, though consisting of upwards of 1000 persons, assembled from all the Smiting with fury ; and the deeper dread Scattered on all sides by the hideous jars 3f Corybantian cymbals, while the head Of Cybele was seen, sublimely turreted ! At length a spirit more subdued and soft Appeared to govern Christian pageantries : The cross, in calm processions, borne aloft Moved to the chant of sober litanies branches of the sequestered valley, was much less striking (notwithstanding the sublimity of the surrounding scenery) r it wanted both the simplicity of the other, and the accompaniment of the glacier columns, whose sisterly resemblance to the ming figures gave it a most beautiful and solemn peculiarity. TOUR ON THE CONTINENT ELEGIAC STANZAS. TTie lamented youth whose untimely death gave occasion to these elegiac verses, was Frederick William Goddard, from Boston in North America. He was in his twentieth year, and had resided for some time with a clergyman in the neighbourhood of Geneva for the comple- tion of his education. Accompanied by a fellow-pupil, a native of Scotland, he had just set out on a Swiss tour when it was his misfor- tune to fall in with a friend of mine who was hastening to join our party. The travellers, after spending a day together on the road from Berne and at Soleure, took leave of each other at night, the young man having intended to proceed directly to Zurich. But early in the mon : ng my friend found his new ac- quaintances, who were informed of the ob- ject of his journey, and the friends he was in pursuit of, equipped to accompany him. We met at Lucerne the succeeding evening, and Mr. G. and his fellow-student became in consequence our travelling companions for a couple of days. We ascended the Righi to- gether ; and, after contemplating the sunrise from that noble mountain, we separated at an hour and on a spot well suited to the parting of those who were to meet no more. Our party descended through the valley of our Lady of the Snow, and our late companions, to Art. We had hoped to meet in a few weeks at Geneva ; but on the third succeeding day (on the 2ist of August) Mr. Goddard perished, being overset in a boat while crossing the lake of Zurich His companion saved himself by swimming, and was hospitably received in the mansion of a Swiss gentleman (Mr Keller) situated on the eastern coast of the lake. The corpse of poor G was cast ashore on the estate of the said gentleman, who generously per- formed all the rites of hospitality which could be rendered to the dead as well as to the living. He caused the handsome mural monument to be erected in the church at Kiisnacht, which re- cords the premature fate of the young Ameri- can, and on the shores too of the lake the tra- veller may read an inscription pointing out the spot where the body wasdeposited by thcwaves. LULLED by the sound of pastoral bells, Rude nature's pilgrims did we go, From the dread summit of the Queen* Of mountains through a deep ravine, Where, in her holy chapel, dwells ' Our Lady of the Snow. ' The sky was blue, the air was mild ; Free were the streams and green the bowers : As if, to rough assaults unknown, The genial spot had ever shown A countenance that sweetly smiled The face of summer-hours. rflouat Righi Regina Montium. And we were gay, our hearts at ease ; With pleasure dancing through the franif We journeyed ; all we knew of care Our path that straggled here and there, ; Of trouble but the fluttering breeze, j Of winter but a name. If foresight could have rent the veil Of three short days but hush no more j Calm is the grave, and calmer none i Than that to which thy cares are gone, | Thou victim of the stormy gale, Asleep on Zurich's shore ! O Goddard ! what art thou ? a name A sunbeam followed by a shade ! No more, for aught that time supplies, The great, the experienced, and the wise Too much from this frail earth we claim, And therefore are betrayed. We met, while festive mirth ran wild, Where, from a deep lake's mighty urn, Forth slips, like an enfranchised slave, A sea-green river, proud to lave, With current swift and undefiled, The towers of old Lucerne. We parted upon solemn ground Far lifted towards the unfading sky ; But all our thoughts were then of earth That gives to common pleasures birth ; And nothing in our hearts we found That prompted even a sigh. Fetch, sympathising powers of air, Fetch, ye that post o'er seas and lands, Herbs moistened by Virginian dew, A most untimely sod to strew, That lacks the ornamental care Of kindred human hands ! Beloved by every gentle muse He left his Transatlantic home : Europe, a realized romance. Had opened on his eager glance ; What present bliss ! what golden views 1 What stores for years to come ' Though lodged within no vigorous frame, His soul her daily task renewed, Blithe as the lark on sun-gilt wings High poised or as the wren that sings In shady places to proclaim Her modest gratitude. Not vain is sadly-uttered praise ; The words of truth's memorial vow TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 203 Are sweet as morning fragrance shed From flowers 'mid Goldau's* ruins bred ; As evening's fondly-lingering rays, On Righi's silent brow. Lamented youth ! to thy cold clay Fit obsequies the stranger paid ; And piety shall guard that stone Which hath not left the spot unknown Where the wild waves resigned their prey, And that which marks thy bed. And, when thy mother weeps for thee, Lost youth ! a solitary mother ; This tribute from a casual friend A not unwelcome aid may lend, To feed the tender luxury, The rising pang to smother. SKY-PROSPECT. FROM THE PLAIN OF FRANCE. Lo ! in the burning west, the craggy nape Of a proud Ararat ! and, thereupon, The ark, her melancholy voyage done ! Yon rampant cloud mimics a lion's shape ; There combats a huge crocodile agape A golden spear to swallow ! and that brown And massy grove, so near yon blazing town, Stirs and recedes destruction to escape ! Yet all is harmless as the Elysian shades Where spirits dwell in undisturbed repose, Silently disappears, or quickly fades ; Meek nature's evening comment on the shows That for oblivion take their daily birth, From all the fuming vanities of earth ! ON BEING STRANDED NEAR THE HAR- BOUR OF BOULOGNE.! WHY cast ye back upon the Gallic shore, Ye furious waves ! a patriotic son * One of the villages desolated by the fall of part of the mountain Rossberg. t Near the town of Boulogne, and overhanging the beach, are the remains of a tower which bears the name of Caligula, who here terminated his western expedition, of which these sea-shells were the boasted spoils And at no great dis- tance from these ruins, Bonaparte, standing upon a mound of earth, harangued his "army of England," reminded them of the exploits of Caesar, and pointed towards the white cliffs upon which their standards ivere to float. He re- commended also a subscription to be raised among the soldiery to erect on that ground, in oaemory of the foundation of the " Legion of Of England who in hope her coast had won, [o'er? His project crowned, his pleasant travel Well let him pace this noted beach once more, That gave the Roman his triumphal shells; That saw the Corsican his cap and bells Haughtily shake, a dreaming conqueror ! Enough ; my country's cliffs I can behold, And proudly think, beside the murmuring sea, Of checked ambition, tyranny controlled, And folly cursed with endless memory : These local recollections ne'er can cloy . Such ground I from my very heart enjoy ! AFTER LANDING. THE VALLEY OF DOVER. NOV. 1820. WHERE be the noisy followers of the game Which faction breeds t the turmoil where ? that past [man's blast, Through Europe, echoing from the news Andfilledour hearts with grief for England's shame. I aim Peace greets us ; rambling on without an We mark majestic herds of cattle free To ruminatej couched on the grassy lea. And hear far-off the mellow horn proclaim The season's harmless pastime. Ruder sound Stirs not ; enrapt I gaze with strange delight, While consciousnesses, not to be disowned, Here only serve a feeling to invite That lifts the spirit to a calmer height, And makes the rural stillness more pro- found. DESULTORY STANZAS, UPON RECEIVING THE PRECEDING SHEETS FROM THE PRESS. Is then the final page before me spread, Nor further outlet left to mind or heart ? Presumptuous book ! too forward to be read How can I give thee licence to depart ? One tribute more ; unbidden teelings start Forth from their coverts slighted objects rise My spirit is the scene of such wild art Honour," a column which was not completed at the time we were there. ._ t This is a most grateful sight for an English- man returning to his native land. Everywhere one misses, in the cultivated grounds abroad, the animating and soothing accompaniment of ani- mals ranging and selecting their own food at wtll 204 TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. As on Parnassus rules, when lightning flies, Visibly leading on the thunder's harmonies. AH that I saw returns upon my view, All that I heard comes back upon my ear, All that I felt this moment doth renew ; And where the foot with no unmanly fear Recoiled and wings alone could travel there I move at ease, and meet contending themes That press upon me, crossing the career Of recollections vivid as the dreams Of midnight, cities plains forests and mighty streams. Where mortal never breathed I dare to sit Among the interior Alps, gigantic crew, Who triumphed o'er diluvian power ! and yet What are they but a wreck and residue, Whose only business is to perish ? true To which sad course, these wrinkled sons of time Labour their proper greatness to subdue ; Speaking of death alone, beneath a clime Where life and rapture flow in plenitude sublime. Fancy hath flung for me an airy bridge Across thy long deep valley, furious Rhone ! Arch that here rests upon the granite ridge Of Monte Rosa there on frailer stone Of secondary birth the Jungfrau's cone ; And, from that arch, down-looking on the vale The aspect I behold of every zone ; A sea of foliage tossing with the gale, Blithe autumn's purp?e crown, and winter's icy mail ! Fa 'as St. Maurice, from yon eastern forks,* Down the main avenue my sight can range : And all its branchy vales, and all that lurks Within them, church, and town, and huts and grange, For my enjoyment meet in vision strange ; Snows torrents ; to the region's utmost bound, Life, death, in amicable interchange But list ! the avalanche the hush profound That follows, yet more awful than that awful sound ! * Les Fourches, the point at which the two chains of mountains part, that inclose the Va- IftlS; which terminates at St. Maurice. ! Is not the chamois suited to his place? j The eagle worthy of her ancestry ? Let empires fall ; but ne'er shall ye dis- grace Your noble birthright, ye that occupy Your council-seats beneath the open sky, On Sarnen's Mount, f there judge if fit and right, In simple democratic majesty : Soft breezes fanning your rough brows the might [sight ! And purity of nature spread before your From this appropriate court, renowned Lucerne [cheers Calls me to pace her honoured bridge % that The patriot's heart with pictures rude and stern, An uncouth chronicle of glorious years. Like portraiture, from loftier source, en- dears That work of kindred frame, which spans the lake Just at the point of issue, where it tears The form and motion of a stream to take ; Where it begins to stir, yet voiceless as a snake. Volumes of sound, from the cathedral rolled, This long-roofed vista penetrate but see, t Sarnen, one of the two capitals of the Can- ton of Underwalden ; the spot here alluded to is close to the town, and is called the Landen- berg, from the tyrant of that name, whose cha- teau formerly stood there. On the ist of Janu- ary, 1308, the great day which the confederated heroes had chosen for the deliverance of their country, all the castles of the governors were taken by force or stratagem : and the tyrants themselves conducted, with their creatures, to the frontiers, after having witnessed the destruc- tion of their strongholds. From that time the Landenberg has been the place where the legis- lators of this division of the Canton assemble. The site, which is well described by Ebel, is one of the most beautiful in Switzerland. } The bridges of Lucerne are roofed, and open at the sides, so that the passenger has, at the same time the benefit of shade, and a view of the magnificent country. The pictures are attached to the rafters : those from Scripture history on the cathedral-bridge, amount, accor- ding to my notes to 240. Subjects from the Old Testament face the passenger as he goes towards the cathedral, and those from the New as he re- turns. The pictures on these bridges, as well as those in most other parts of Switzerland, are not to be spoken of as works of art ; but they are instruments admirably answering the purpose for which they were designed. TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 205 One after one, its tablets, that unfold The whole design of Scripture history ; From the first tasting of the fatal tree, Till the bright star appeared in eastern skies, Announcing ONE was born mankind to free ; His acts, his wrongs, his final sacrifice ; Lessons for every heart, a Bible for all eyes. Our pride misleads, our timid likings kill. Long may these homely works devised of old, These simple efforts of Helvetian skill, Aid, with congenial influence, to uphold The state, the country's destiny to mould ; Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold ; Filling the soul with sentiments august The beautiful, the brave, the holy, and the just ! No more ; time halts not in his noiseless march [flood ; Nor turns, nor winds, as doth the liquid Life slips from underneath us, like that arch Of airy workmanship whereon we stood, Earth stretched below, heaven in our neighbourhood. Go forth, my little book ! pursue thy way ; Go forth, and please the gentle and the good ; Nor be a whisper stifled, if it say That treasures, yet untouched, may grace some future lay. TO ENTERPRISE.* KEEP for the young the impassioned smile Shed from thy countenance, as I see thee stand High on a chalky cliff of Britain's Isle, A slender volume grasping in thy hand (Perchance the pages that relate The various turns of Crusoe's fate). Ah ! spare the exulting smile, And drop thy pointing finger bright As the first flash of beacon-light ; But neither veil thy head in shadows dim, Nor turn thy face away From one who, in the evening of his day, To thee would offer no presumptuous hymn ! * This poem having risen out of the " Italian Itinerant." etc., (page 197), it is here annexed. Bold spirit ! who art free to rove Among the starry courts of Jove, And oft in splendour dost appear Embodied to poetic eyes, While traversing this nether sphere, Where mortals call thee Enterprise. Daughter of Hope ! her favourite child Whom she to young Ambition bore, When hunter's arrow first defiled The grove, and stained the turf with gore Thee winged Fancy took, and nursed On broad Euphrates' palmy shore, Or where the mightier waters burst From caves of Indian mountains hoar ! She wrapped thee in a panther's skin ; And thou, whose earliest thoughts held deai Allurements that were edged with fear, (The food that pleased thee best, to win) From rocky fortress in mid air The flame-eyed eagle oft wouldst scare With infant shout, as often sweep, Paired with the ostrich, o'er the plain ; And, tired with sport, wouldst sink asleep Upon the couchant lion's mane ! With rolling years thy strength increased ; And, far beyond thy native East, To thee, by varying titles known, As variously thy power was shown, Did incense-bearing altars rise, Which caught the blaze of sacrifice, From suppliants panting for the skies i What though this ancient earth be trod No more by step of demi-god, Mounting from glorious deed to deed As thou from clime to clime didst lead, Yet still, the bosom beating high, And the hushed farewell of an eye Where no procrastinating gaze A last infirmity betrays, Prove that thy heaven-descended sway Shall ne'er submit to cold decay. By thy divinity impelled, The stripling seeks the tented field ; The aspiring virgin kneels ; and, pale With awe, receives the hallowed veil, A soft and tender heroine Vowed to severer discipline ; Inflamed by thee, the blooming boy Makes of the whistling shrouds a toy, And of the ocean's dismal breast A playground and a couch of rest ; Thou to his dangers dost enchain, 'Mid the blank world of snow and ice, The chamois-chaser, awed in vain By chasm or dizzy precipice ; And hast thou not with triumph seen How soaring mortals glide serene 206 TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. From cloud to cloud, and biave the light IVith bolder than Icarian flight ? Or, in their bells of crystal dive Where winds and waters cease to strive, For no unholy visitings, Among the monsters of the deep, And all the sad and precious things Which there in ghastly silence sleep ; Within our fearless reach are placed The secrets of the burning waste, Egyptian tombs unlock their dead, Nile trembles at his fountain head ; Thou speak'st and lo ! the polar seas Unbosom their last mysteries. But oh ! what transports, what sublime reward, [prepare Won from the world of mind, dost thou For philosophic sage or high-souled bard Who, for thy service trained in lonely woods, [air, Hath fed on pageants floating through the Orcalentured in depth of limpid floods ; Nor grieves though doomed, through silent night, to bear The domination of his glorious themes, Or struggle in the net-work of thy dreams! If there be movements in the patriot's soul, From source still deeper, and of higher worth, [control, Tis thine the quickening impulse to And in due season send the mandate forth ; Thy call an abject nation can restore, When but a single mind resolves to crouch Dread minister of wrath ! Who to their destined punishment dost urge [hardened heart ! The Pharaohs of the earth, the men of Not unassisted by the flattering stars, Thou strew'st temptation o'er the path When they in pomp depart, With trampling horses and refulgent cars Soon to be swallowed by (he briny surge ; Or cast, (or lingering death, on unknown strands : Or stifled under weight ot desert sands An army now, and now a living hill Heaving with convulsive throes. - It quivers and is still ; Or to forget their madness and their woes, Wrapt in a winding-sheet of spotless snows! Back flows the willing current of my song : If to provoke such doom the impious dare. Why should it daunt a blameless prayer ? Bold goddess ! range our youth among ; Nor let thy genuine impulse fail to beat In hearts no longer young ; Still may a veteran few have pride In thoughts whose sternness makes them sweet ; In fixed resolves by reason justified ; That to their object cleave like sleet Whitening a pine-tree's northern side, While fields are naked far and wide. But, if such homage thou disdain As doth with mellowing years agree, One rarely absent from thy train More humble favours may obtain For thy contented votary. She, who incites the frolic lambs In presence of their heedless dams, And to the solitary fawn Vouchsafes her lessons bounteous nymph That wakes the breeze the sparkling lymph Doth hurry to the lawn ; She, who inspires that strain of joyance holy Which the sweet bird, misnamed the melancholy [for me ; Pours forth in shady groves, shall plead And vernal mornings opening bright With views of undefined delight, And cheerful songs, and suns that shine On busy days, with thankful nights, be But thou, O goddess ! in thy favourite isle (Freedom's impregnable redoubt, The wide earth's store-house fenced about With breakers roaring to the gales That stretch a thousand thousand sails) Quicken the slothful, and exalt the vile ! Thy impulse is thy life of fame ; Glad hope would almost cease to be If torn from thy society ; And love, when worthiest of the name, Is proud to walk the earth with thee 1 207 " A verse may catch a wandering soul, that flies Profounder tracts, and by a blest surprise Convert delight into a sacrifice." ADVERTISEMENT. LACKING the month of December, 1820, I ac- companied a much loved and honoured friend in a walk through different parts of his estate, with a view to fix upon the site of a new church which he intended to erect. It was one of the most beautiful mornings of a mild season, our feelings were in harmony with the cherishing influences of the scene ; and, such being our purpose, we were naturally led to look back upon past events with wonder and gratitude, and on the future with hope. Not long afterwards some of the sonnets which will be found towards the close of this series were produced as a private memorial of that morning's occupation. The Catholic question, which was agitated in Parliament about that time, kept my thoughts in the same course, and it struck me that certain points in the ecclesiastical history of the coun- try might advantageously be presented to view in verse. Accordingly I took up the subject, and what I now offer to tne reader was the re- sult. When the work was far advanced, I was agree- ably surprised to find that my friend, Mr. Southey, was engaged, with similar views, in writing a concise history of the Church in Eng- land. If our productions, thus unintentionally coinciding, shall be found to illustrate each other, it will prove a high gratification to me, which I am sure my friend will participate. W. WORDSWORTH Rydal Mount, January 24, 1822. PART I. FROM THE INTRODUCTION OF CHRISTIANITY INTO BRITAIN, TO THE CONSUMMATION OF THE PAPAL DOMINION. INTRODUCTION. I WHO accompanied with faithful pace Cerulean Duddon from his cloud-fed spring, And loved with spirit ruled by his to sing Of mountain-quiet and boon nature's grace ; I, who essayed the nobler stream to trace Of liberty, and smote the plausive string Till the checked torrent, proudly triumphing, Won for herself a lasting resting-place : Now seek upon the heights of time the source * For the convenience of passing from one point of the subject to another without shocks of abruptness, this work has taken the shape of a series of sonnets ; but the reader, it is hoped, will find that the pictures are often so closely connected as to have the effect of a poem in a form of stanza, to which there is no objection but one that bears on the poet only its diffi- culty- Of a Holy River, on whose banks are found Sweet pastoral flowers, and laurels that have crowned [force ; Full oft the unworthy brow of lawless Where, for the delight of him who tracks its course, Immortal amaranth and palms abound. CONJECTURES. IF there be prophets on whose spirits rest Past things, revealed like future, they cap tell What powers, presiding o'er the sacred well Of Christian faith, this savage island blessed With its first bounty. Wandering through the west, Did holy Pault a while in Britain dwell t Stillingfleet adduces many arguments in support of this opinion, but they are unconvin- 208 ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. And call the fountain forth by miracle, And with dread signs the nascent stream invest ? [prison doors Or he, whose bonds dropped off, whose Flew open, by an angel's voice unbarred ? Or some of humbler name, to these wild shores [woe Storm-driven, who, having seen the cup of Pass from their master, sojourned here to guard [flow ? The precious current they had taught to TREPIDATION OF THE DRUIDS. SCREAMS round the arch-druid's brow the seamew* white [ring As Menai's foam ; and towards the mystic Where augurs stand, the future questioning, Slowly the cormorant aims her heavy flight, Portending ruin to each baleful rite, That, in the lapse of ages hath crept o'er Diluvian truths, and patriarchal lore. Haughty the bard ; can these meek doctrines blight His transports? wither his heroic strains? But all shall be fulfilled ; the Julian spear A way first opened : and, with Roman chains, The tidings come of Jesus crucified ; They come they spread the weak, the suffering, hear ; Receive the faith, and in the hope abide. DRUIDICAL EXCOMMUNICATION. MERCY and love have met thee on thy road, Thou wretched outcast, from the gift of fire And food cut off by sacerdotal ire, From every sympathy that man bestowed! Yet shall it claim our reverence, that to God, Ancient of days! that to the eternal Sire These jealous ministers of law aspire, As to the one sole fount whence wisdom flowed, Justice and order. Tremblingly escaped, As if with prescience of the coming storm, cing. The latter part of this sonnet refers to a favourite notion of Catholic writers, that Joseph of Ariraathea and his companions brought Christianity into Britain, and built a rude church at Glastonbury ; alluded to hereafter, in a pas- sage upon the dissolution of monasteries. This water-fowl was, among the Druids, an emblem of those traditions connected with the deluge that made an important part of their mys- teries. The cormorant was a bird of bad omen. That intimation when the stars were shaped, [truth And still, 'mid yon thick woods, the primal Glimmers through many a superstitious form That fills the soul with unavailing ruth. UNCERTAINTY. DARKNESS surrounds us; seeking, we are lost [coves, On Snowdon's wilds, amid Brigantian Or where the solitary shepherd roves Along the plain of Sarum, by the ghost Of time and shadows of tradition, crost; And where the boatman of the Western isles [piles Slackens his course to mark those holy Which yet survive on bleak lona's coast. Nor these, nor monuments of eldest fame Nor Taliesin's unforgotten lays, Nor characters of Greek or Roman fame, To an unquestionable source have led; Enough if eyes that sought the fountain- head, In vain, upon the growing rill may gaze. PERSECUTION. LAMENT ! for Diocletian's fiery sword Works busy as the lightning; but instinct With malice ne'er to deadliest weapon linked, Which God's ethereal storehouses afford: Against the followers of the incarnate Lord It rages; some are smitten in the field Some pierced beneath the ineffectual shield Of sacred home; with pomp are others gored And dreadful respite. Thus was Alban tried, England's first martyr, whom no threats could shake; Self-offered victim, for his friend he died, And for the faith nor shall his name forsake [riset That hill, whore flowery platform seems to By nature decked for holiest sacrifice. t This hill at St. Alban's must have been an object of great interest to the imagination of the venerable Bede, who thus describes it with a delicate feeling delightful to meet with in that rude age, traces of which are frequent in his works : " Variis herbarum floribus depictus im& usquequaque vestitus, in quo nihil repente ar- duum, nihil praeceps, nihil abruptum, quern ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. 209 RECOVERY. rVs, when a storm hath ceased, the birds regain Their cheerfulness, and busily retrim Their nests, or chant a gratulating hymn To the blue ether and bespangled plain; Even so, in many a reconstructed fane, Have the survivors of this storm renewed Their holy rites with vocal gratitude: And solemn ceremonial they ordain To celebrate their great deliverance; Most feelingly instructed 'mid their fear, That persecution, blind with rage extreme, May not the less, through Heaven's mild countenance, [cheer; Even in her own despite, both feed and For all things are less dreadful than they seem. TEMPTATIONS FROM ROMAN REFINE- MENTS. WATCH, and be firm! for soul-subduing vice, Heart-killing luxury, on your steps await. Fair houses, baths, and banquets delicate And temples flashing, b fight as polar ice, Their radiance through the woods, may yet suffice To sap your hardy virtue, and abate Your love of Him upon whose forehead sate The crown of thorns ; whose life-blood flowed, the price [arts Of your redemption. Shun the insidious That Rome provides, less dreading from her frown [gown, Than from her wily praise, her peaceful Language and letters; these, though fondly viewed As humanizing graces, are but parts And instruments of deadliest servitude! DISSENSIONS. THAT heresies should strike (if truth be scanned [deep Presumptuously) their roots both wide and Is natural as dreams to feverish sleep. Lo! Discord at the altar dares to stand Uplifting toward high heaven her fiery brand, lateribus longe lateque deductum in modum equoris natura complanat, dignum videlicet cum pro insita sibi specie venustatis jam olim reddens, qui beati martyris cruore dicaretur." A cherished priestess of the new-baptized! But chastisement shall follow peacedespised. The Pictish cloud daikens ihe enervate land By Rome abandoned , vain are suppliant cries, [farewell, And prayers that would undo her forced For she returns not. Awed by her own knell, She casts the Britons upon strange allies, Soon to become more dreaded enemies Than heartless misery called them to repel. STRUGGLE OF THE BRITONS AGAINST THE BARBARIANS. RISE ! they have risen : of brave Aneurin ask [friends: How they have scourged old foes, perfidious The spirit of Caractacus defends The patriots, animates their glorious task; Amazement runs before the towering casque Of Arthur, bearing through the stormy field The Virgin sculptured on his Christian shield : Stretched in the sunny light of victory bask The hosts that followed Urien as he strod; O'er heaps of slain; from Cambrian wood and moss Druids descend, auxiliars of the Cross; Bards, nursed on blue Plinlimmon's still abode, (swords, Rush on the fight, to harps preferring And everlasting deeds to burning words ! SAXON CONQUEST. NOR wants the cause the panic-striking aid Of hallelujahs* tost from hill to hill For instant victory. But Heaven's high will Permits a second and a darker shade Of pagan light. Afflicted and dismayed, The relics of the sword flee to the moun- tains: [like fountains; O wretched land ! whose tears have flowed Whose arts and honours in the dust are laid, By men yet scarcely conscious of a care For other monuments than those of earth ;t Who, as the fields and woods have given them birth, * Alluding to the victory gained under Ger- manus. See Bede. , . t The last six lines of this sonnet are chiefly from the prose of Daniel ; and here I will state (though to the readers whom this poem will chiefly interest it is unnecessary), that my obll- 210 ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. Will build their savage fortunes only there ; Content, if foss, and barrow, and the girth Of long-drawn rampart, witness what they were. MONASTERY OF OLD BANGOR.* THE oppression of the tumult wrath and scorn The tribulation and the gleaming blades Such is the impetuous spirit that pervades The song of Taliesin;t Ours shall mourn The unarmed host who by their prayers would turn [the store The sword from Bangor's walls, and guard Of aboriginal and Roman lore, [burn And Christian monuments that now must To senseless ashes. Mark! how all things swerve [dream ; From their known course, or vanish like a Another language spreads from coast to coast; Only perchance some melancholy stream And some indignant hills old names pre- serve, [lost ! When laws, and creeds, and people all are gations to other prose writers are frequent ob- ligations which, even if I had not a pleasure in courting, it would have been presumptuous to shun, in treating an historical subject. I must, however, particularise Fuller, to whom I am in- debted in the sonnet upon Wichffe, and in other instances. And upon the Acquittal of the Seven Bishops I have done little more than versify a lively description of that event in the memoirs of the first Lord Lonsdale. * " Ethelforth reached the convent of Bangor ; he perceived the monks, twelve hundred in number, offering prayers for the success of their countrymen : ' If they are praying against us,' he exclaimed, ' they are fighting against us ;' and he ordered them to be first attacked : they were destroyed ; and, appalled by their fate, the courage of Brocmail wavered, and he fled from the field in dismay. Thus abandoned by their leader, his army soon gave way, and Ethelforth ob- tained a decisive conquest. Ancient Bangor itself soon fell into his hands, and was demo- lished ; the noble monastery was levelled to the ground ; its library, which is mentioned as a large one, the collection of ages, the repository of the most precious monuments of the ancient Britons, was consumed ; half-ruined walls, gates, and rubbish, were all that remained of the magnificent edifice." See Turner's valuable his- tory of the Anglo-Saxons. The account Bede gives of this remarkable event, suggests a most striking warning against national and religious prejudices. t Taliesin was present at the battle which P'QCeded this desolation. CASUAL INCITEMENT. A BRIGHT-HAIRED company of youthful slaves, Beautiful strangers, stand within the pale Of a sad market, ranged for public sale, Where Tiber's stream the immortal city laves; Angli by name; and not an angel waves His wing who seemeth lovelier in Heaven's Than they appear to holy Gregory; [eye Who, having learnt that name, salvation craves [sire, For them, and for their land. The earnest His questions urging, feels in slender ties Of chiming sound commandingsympathies; DK-IRIANS he would save them from God's IRE; Subjects of Saxon ^ELLA they shall sing Glad HALLElujahs to the eternal King! GLAD TIDINGS. FOR ever hallowed be this morning fair, Blest be the unconscious shore on which ye tread, And blest the silver cross, which ye, instead Of martial banner, in procession bear; The cross preceding Him who floats in air, The pictured Saviour! By Augustin led, They come and onward travel without dread, Chanting in barbarous ears a tuneful prayer, Sung for themselves, and those whom they would free! [tuous sea Rich conquest waits them: the tempes- Of ignorance, that ran so rough and high, And heeded not the voice of clashing swords, [words, These good men humble by a few bare And calm with fear of God's divinity. PAULINUS.J BUT, to remote Northumbria's royal hall, Where thoughtful Edwin, tutored in the school Of sorrow still maintains a heathen rule, Who comes with functions apostolical? } The person of Paulinus is thus described by Bede, from the memory of an eye-witness : " Longae staturae, paululum incurvus, nigro ca- pillo, facie macilento, naso adunco, pertenui venerabilis simul et terribilis aspectu." ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. 211 Mark him, of shoulders curved, and stature tall. Black hair, and vivid eye, and meagre cheek, His prominent features like an eagle's beak; A man whose aspect doth at once appal, And strike with reverence. The monarch leans Towards the truth this delegate propounds, Repeatedly his own deep mind he sounds With careful hesitation, then convenes A synod of his counsellors; give ear, And what a pensive sage doth utter, hear! CONVERSION. PERSUASION. " MAN'S life is like a sparrow,* mighty king! That, stealing in while by the fire you sit Housed with rejoicing friends, is seen to flit Safe from the storm, in comfort tarrying. Here did it enter there, on hasty wing Flies out, and passes on from cold to cold ; But whence it came we know not, nor behold Whither it goes. Even such that transient thing, The human soul ; not utterly unknown While in the body lodged, her warm abode; But from what world she came, what woe or weal [shown ; On her departure waits, no tongue hath This mystery if the stranger can reveal, His be a welcome cordially bestowed!" * See the original of this speech in Bede. The conversion of Edwin, as related by him is highly interesting and the breaking up of this council accompanied with an event so striking and characteristic, that I am tempted to give it at length, in a translation. " Who, exclaimed the king, when the council was ended, shall first desecrate the altars and the temples ? I, an- swered the chief priest, for who more fit than myself, through the wisdom which the true God hath given me to destroy, for the good example of others, what in foolishness I worshipped? Immediately, casting away vain superstition, he besought the king to grant him, what the laws did not allow to a priest, arms and a courser ; which mounting, and furnished with a sword and lance, he proceeded to destroy the idols. The crowd, seeing this, thought him mad he, however, halted not, but approaching he profaned the temple, casting against it the lance which he had held in his hand, and,exulting in acknowledgment of the true God, he ordered his companions to pull down the temple, with all its inclosures. The place is shown where those idols formerly stood, not far from York, at the source of the river Derwent, and is at this day called Gormund Gaham." PROMPT transformation works the novel lore ; The council closed, the priest in full career Rides forth, an armed man, and hurls a spear To desecrate the fane which heretofore He served in folly. Woden falls and Thor Is overturned ; the mace, in battle heaved (So might they dream) till victory was achieved, Drops, and the god himself is seen no more. Temple and altar sink, to hide their shame Amid oblivious weeds. "OA, come to me, Ye heavy laden/" such the inviting voice Heard near fresh streams, t and thousands, who rejoice In the new rite the pledge of sanctity, Shall, by regenerate life, the promise claim. APOLOGY. NOR scorn the aid which fasicy oft doth lend The soul's eternal interests to promote ; Death, darkness, danger, are our natural lot, And evil spirits may our walk attend For aught the wisest know or comprehend: Then \xtgood spirits free to breathe a note Of elevation ; let their odours float Around these converts ; and their glories blend, Outshining nightly tapers, or the blaze Of the noon-day. Nor doubt that golden cords [raise Of good works, mingling with the visions The soul to purer worlds : and who the line Shall draw, the limits of the power define, That even imperfect faith to man affords ? PRIMITIVE SAXON CLERGY.t How beautiful your presence, how benign, Servants of God ! who not a thought will share t The early propagators of Christianity were accustomed to preach near rivers for the con- venience of baptism. J Having spoken of the zeal, disinterestedness, and temperance of the clergy of those times, Bede thus proceeds : " Unde et in magna erat veneratione tempore illo religioms habitus, itaut ubicunque clericus aliquis, aut monachus ad- veniret, gaudenter ab omnibus tanquam Dei famulus exciperetur. Etiam si in stinere per jens inveniretur, accurrebint, et fle*4 cervice 212 ECCLESIASTICAL SKUTUHEtf. With the vain world, who.outwardly as bare As winter trees, yield no fallacious sign Thatthefirrt sou) is clothed with fruitdivine! Such priest, when service worthy of his care Has called him forth to breathe the common air. Might seem a saintly image from its shrine Descended .-happy are the eyes that meet The apparition ; evil thoughts are stayed At his approach, and low-bowed necks entreat A benediction from his voice or hand ; Whence grace, through which the heart can understand ; And vows.that bind the will.in silence made. OTHER INFLUENCES. AH, when the frame, round which in love we clung, Is chilled by death, does mutual service fail? Is tender pity then of no avail? Are intercessions of the fervent tongue A waste of hope? From this sad source have sprung Rites that console (he spirit, under grief Which ill can brook more rational relief: Hence prayers are shaped amiss, and dirges sung [is smooth For those whose doom is fixed ! The way For power that travels with the human heart Confession ministers, the pang t soothe In him who at the ghost of guilt doth start. Ye holy men, so earnest in your care, Of your own mighty instruments beware ! 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, [to hide The war-worn chieftain quits the world 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 : vel manu signari, vel ore illius se benedici, gau- debant. Verbis quoque horum exhortatoriis di- ligenter auditum praebebant." Lib. iii., cap. 36. 1 .ike ivy, round some ancient elm, they twine In grisly folds and strictures serpentine ; Yet, while they strangle without mercy, bring For recompense their own perennial bower. CONTINUED. METHINKS that to some vacant hermitage My feet would rather turn to some dry nook Scooped out of living rock, and near a brook Hurled down a mountain-cove from stage to stage, Yet tempering, for my sight, its bustling rage In the soft heaven of a translucent pool ; Thence creeping under forest arches cool, Fit haunt of shapes whose glorious equipage Would elevate my dreams. A beechen bowl, A maple dish, my furniture should be ; Crisp, yellow leaves my bed ; the hooting owl [ fowl My night-watch : nor should e'er the crested From thorp or vill his matins sound for me. Tired of the world and all its industry. BUT what if one, through grove or flowery mead, Indulging thus at will the creeping feet Of a voluptuous indolence, should meet Thy hovering shade, O venerable Bede ! The saint, the scholar, from a circle freed Of toil stupendous, in a hallowed seat Of learning, where thou heard 'st the billows beat On a wild coast, rough monitors to feed Perpetual industry. Sublime recluse ! The recreant soul, that dares toshun the debt Imposed on human kind, must first forget Thy diligence, thy unrelaxing use Of a long life ; and, in the hour 01 death, The last dear service of thy passing breath ?* SAXON MONASTERIES, AND LIGHTS AND SHADES OF THE RELIGION. BY such examples moved to unbought pains The people work like congregated bees ; t * He expired dictating the last words of a translation of St. John's Gospel. t See in Turner's History, vol. iii., p. 528, the account of the erection of Ramsey monas- tery. Penances were removable by the perfor mances of acts of charity and benevolence ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. 213 Eager to build the quiet fortresses Where piety, as they believe, obtains From heaven ^.general blessing, timely rains Or needful sunshine ; prosperous enterprise, And peace, and equity. Bold faith ! yet rise The sacredstructures for less doubtful gains. The sensual think with reverence of the palms [grave ; Which the chaste votaries seek, beyond the If penance be redeemable, thence alms Flow to the poor, and freedom to the slave ; And, if full oft the sanctuary save Laves black with guilt, ferocity it calms. MISSIONS AND TRAVELS. NOT sedentary all : there are who roam To scatter seeds of life on barbarous shores; Or quit with zealous step their knee-worn floors To seek the general mart of Christendom ; Whence they, like richly-laden merchants, come To their beloved cells : or shall we say That, like the red-cross knight, they urge their way, To lead in memorable triumph home Truth their immortal Una? Babylon, Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, Nor leaves her speech one word to aid the sigh [are gone That would lament her ; Memphis, Tyre, With all theirarts, but classic lore glides on By these religious saved for all posterity. BEHOLD a pupil of the monkish gown, The pious Alfred, king to justice dear ; Lord ;f the harp and liberating spear ; Mirror of princes ! Indigent renown Might range the starry ether for a crown Equal to his deserts, who, like the year, Pours forth his bounty, like the day doth cheer, [frown. And awes like night with mercy-tempered Ease from this noble miser of his time No moment steals ; pain narrows not his cares.* [gem, Though small his kingdom as a spark or Of Alfred boasts remote Jerusalem, And Christian India, through her wide- spread clime, In sacred converse gifts with Alfred shares HIS DESCENDANTS. CAN aught survive to linger in the veins Of kindred bodies an essential power That may not vanish in one fatal hour, And wholly cast away terrestrial chains ? The race of Alfred covets glorious pains When dangers threaten, dangers ever new ! Black tempests bursting, blackerstill ii.view! But manly sovereignty its hold retains ; The root sincere, the branches bold to strive With the fierce tempest, while, within the round Of their protection, gentle virtues thrive ; As oft, 'mid some green plot of open ground Wide as the oak extends its dewy gloom, The fostered hyacinths spread their purple bloom. INFLUENCE ABUSED. URGED by ambition, who with subtlest skili Changes her means, the i thusiast as a dupe Shall soar, and as a hypocrite can stoop, And turn the instruments of good to ill, Moulding the credulous people to his will. Such Dunstan : from its Benedictine coop Issues '.he master mind, at whose fell swoop The chaste affections tremble to fulfil Their purposes. Behold, pre-signified, The night of spiritual sway ! his thoughts, his dreams, Do in the supernatural world abide : So vaunt a throng of followers, filled with pride In shows of virtue pushed to its extremes, And sorceries of talent misapplied. * Through the whole of his life Alfred was subject to grievous maladies. DANISH CONQUESTS. WOE to the crown that doth the cowl obeylr Dissension checks the arms that would re- strain The incessant rovers of the Northern main I And widely spreads once more a pagan sway 1 But gospel-truth is potent to allay t The violent measures carried on under the influence of Dutistan for strengthening the Benedictine order, were a loading cause of the second series of Danish invasions. See Tur- ner. R 214 ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. Fierceness and rage; and soon the cruel Dane [reign, Feels, through the influence of her gentle His native superstitions melt away. Thus, often, when thick gloom the east o'er- shrouds, [appear The full-orbed moon, slow-climbing, doth Silently to consume the heavy clouds ; How no one can resolve ; but every eye Around her sees, while air is hushed, a clear And widening circuit of ethereal sky CANUTE. A PLEASANT music floats along the mere, From monks in Ely chanting service high, Whileas Canute the king is rowing by : " My oarsmen," quoth the mighty king, " draw near, [hear !" That we the sweet song of the monks may He listens, (all past conquests and all schemes Of future vanishing like empty dreams, ) Heart-touched, and haply not without a tear. The royal minstrel, ere the choir is still, While his free barge skims the smooth flood along, Gives to that rapture an accordant rhyme.* O suffering earth ! be thankful ; sternest clime And rudest age are subject to the thrill Of heaven-descended piety and song. THE NORMAN CONQUEST. THE woman-hearted confessor prepares The evanescence of the Saxon line. Hark ! 'tis the tolling curfew ! the stars shine, [cares But of the lights that cherish household And festive gladness, burns not one that dares To twinkle after that dull stroke of thine, Emblem and instrument, from Thames to Tyne, [snares ! Of force that daunts, and cunning that en- Yet as the terrors of the lordly bell, That quench, from hut to palace, lamps and fires, Touch not the tapers of the sacred quires, Even so a thraldom studious to expel Old laws and ancient customs to derange, Brings to religion no injurious change. Which is still extant. THE COUNCIL OF CLERMONT. "AND shall," the Pontiff asks, "profane ness flow From Nazareth source of Christian piety, From Bethlehem, from the mounts of agony And glorified ascension ? Warriors go, With prayers and blessings we your path will sow ; Like Moses hold our hands erect, till ye Have chased far off by righteous victory These sons of Amalek, or laid them low !" " God willeth it," the whole assembly cry ; Shout which the enraptured multitude as- tounds ! [reply : The Council-roof and Clermont's towers ' ' God willeth it, from hill to hill rebounds, And in awe-stricken countries far and nigh Through ' ' nature's hollow arch, " the voice resounds, t CRUSADES. THE turbaned race are poured in thicken- ing swarms [taine, Along the west ; though driven from Aqui- The crescent glitters on the towers of Spain ; And soft Italia feels renewed alarms ; The scimitar, that yields not to the charms Of ease, the narrow Bosporus will disdain : Nor long (that crossed) would Grecian hills detain [arms. Their tents, and check the current of their Then blame not those who, by the mightiest lever Known to the moral world, imagination, Upheave (so seems it) from her natural station [(was never All Christendom : they sweep along So huge a host !) to tear from the un- believer [vation. The precious tomb, their haven of sal- RICHARD I. REDOUBTED king, of courage leonine, I mark thee, Richard ! urgent to equip Thy warlike person with the staff and scrip ; I watch thee sailing o'er the midland brine ; In conquered Cyprus see thy bride decline t The decision of this council was believed to be instantly known in remote parts of Europe. ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. 215 Her blushing cheek, love-vows upon her lip, [ship, And see love-emblems streaming from thy As thence she holds her way to Palestine. My song (a fearless homager) would attend Thy thundering battle-axe as it cleaves the press Of war. but duty summons her away To tell, how finding in the rash distress Of those enthusiast powers a constant friend, Through giddier heights hath clomb the papal sway. AN INTERDICT. REALMS quake by turns : proud arbitress of grace, [the power The Church, by mandate shadowing forth She arrogates o'er heaven's eternal door, Closes the gates of every sacred place, Straight from the sun and tainted air's em- brace [morn All sacred things are covered : cheerful Grows sad as night no seemly garb is worn, Nor is a face allowed to meet a face With natural smile of greeting. Bells are dumb: Ditches are graves funereal rites denied ; And in the church-yard he must take his bride [come Who dares be wedded ! Fancies thickly Into the pensive heart ill-fortified, And comfortless despairs the soul benumb. PAPAL ABUSES. As with the stream our voyage we pursue, The gross materials of this world present A marvellous study of wild accident ; Uncouth proximities of old and new ; And bold transfigurations, more untrue (As might be deemed) to disciplined intent Than aught the sky's fanti jtic element, When most fantastic, offeis to the view. Saw we not Henry scouiged at Becket's shrine? [crown, Lo ! John self-stripped of his insignia ; Sceptre and mantle, sword and ring, laid down [line At a proud legate's feet ! The spears that Baronial halls, the opprobrious insult feel ; And angry ocean roars a vain appeal. SCENE IN VENICE. BLACK demons hovering o'er his mitred head, To Caesar's successor the pontiff spake : " Ere I absolve thee, stoop ! that on thy neck [tread." Levelled with earth this foot of mine may Then, he who to the altar had been led, He, whose strong arm the orient could not check, He, who had held the soldan at his beck, Stooped, of all glory disinherited, And even the common dignity of man ! Amazement strikes the crowd ; while many turn Their eyes away in sorrow, others burn With scorn, invoking a vindictive ban From outraged nature; but the sense of most In abject sympathy with power is lost. PAPAL DOMINION. UNLESS to Peter's chair the viewless wind Must come and ask permission when to blow, [now What further empire would it have? for A ghostly domination, unconfined As that by dreaming bards to love assigned, Sits there in sober truth to raise the low, Perplex the wise, the strong to overthrow Through earth and Leaven to bind and to unbind ! [ rebuff Resist the thunder quails thee ! crouch Shall be thy recompense ! from land to land The ancient thrones of Christendom are For occupation of a magic wand, [stuff And 'tis the pope that wields it, whether rough [hand ! Or smooth his front, our world is in his PART II. TO THE CLOSE OF THE TROUBLES IN THE REIGN OF CHARLES I. CISTERTIAN MONASTERY. " Here man more purely lives,* less oft dot ft /;//, More promptly rises, -walks with nicer heed, * " Bonum est nos hie esse. auia homo vivit 216 ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. More safely rests, dies happier, is freed Earlier from cleansing fires, and gains withal A brighter crown. ' On yon Cistertian wall That confident assurance may be read ; And, to like shelter, from the world have fled Increasing multitudes. The potent call Doubtless shall cheat full oft the heart's desires ; Yet, while the rugged age on pliant knee Vows to rapt fancy humble fealty, A gentler life spreads round the holy spires ; Where'er they rise, the sylvan waste retires, And aery harvests crown the fertile lea MONKS AND SCHOOLMEN. RECORD we too, with just and faithful pen, That many hooded Cenobites there are, Who in their private cells have yet a care Of public quiet ; unambitious men, Counsellors for the world, of piercing ken ; Whose fervent exhortations from afar Move princes to their duty, peace or war ; And oft-times in the most forbidding den Of solitude, with love of science strong, How patiently the yoke of thought they bear! How subtly glide its finest threads along ! Spirits that crowd the intellectual sphere With mazy boundaries, as the astronomer With orb and cycle girds the starry throng. OTHER BENEFITS. AND not in vain embodied to the sight Religion finds even in the stern retreat Of feudal sway her own appropriate seat ; From the collegiate pomps on Windsor's height, Down to the humble altar, which the knight And his retainers of the embattled hall Seek in domestic oratory small, For prayer in stillness, or the chanted rite ; Then chiefly dear, whose foes are planted round, [place, Who" teach the intrepid guardians of the Hourly exposed todeath, with famine worn, And suffering under many a perilous wound, purius, cadit rarius, surgit velocius, incedit cau- tius, quiescit securius, moritur felicius, purgatur citius, praemiaturcopiosius." Bernard. "This sentence," says Dr. Whitaker, " is usually in scribed on some conspicuous part of the Cister- tian houses." How sad would be their durance, if forlorn Of offices dispensing heavenly grace ! CONTINUED. AND what melodious sounds at times pre- vail ! And, ever and anon, how bright a gleam Pours on the surface of the turbid stream ! What heartfelt fragrance mingles with the gale That swells the bosom of our passing sail ! For where, but on this river's margin, blow Those flowers of chivalry, to bind the brow Of hardihood with wreaths that shall not fail? Fair court of Edward ! wonderof the world I see a matchless blazonry unfurled Of wisdom, magnanimity, and love ; And meekness tempering honourable pride ; The lamb is couching by the lion's side, Anil near the flame-eyed eagle sits the dove. CRUSADERS. NOR can imagination quit the shores Of these bright scenes without a farewell glance [mance Given to those dream-like issues that ro- Of many-coloured life which fortune pours Round the crusaders, till on distant shores Their labours end ; or they return to lie, The vow performed, in cross-legged effigy, Devoutly stretched upon their chancel floors. [chanted Am I deceived? Or is their requiem By voices never mute when heaven unties Her inmost, softest, tenderest harmonies ; Requiem which earth takes up with voice undaunted [and wise, When she would tell how good, and brave, For their high guerdon not in vain have panted ! TRANSUBSTANTIATJON. ENOUGH ! for see, with dim association The tapers burn ; the odorous incense feeds A greedy flame ; the pompous mass pro- ceeds : [cration ; The priest bestows the appointed conse- And, while the Host is raised, its eleva- tion An awe and supernatural horror breeds, And all the people bow their heads like reeds ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. 217 To a soft breeze, in lowly adoration This Valdo brooked not. On the banks of Rhone [thence, He taught, till persecution chased him To adore the Invisible, and Him alone. Nor were his followers loth to seek defence, 'Mid woods and wilds, on Nature's craggy throne, [sense. From rites that trample upon soul and WALDENSES. THESE who gave earliest notice, as the lark [gratulate ; Springs from the ground the morn to Who rather rose the day to antedate, By striking out a solitary spark, When all the world with midnight gloom was dark The harbingers of good whom bitter hate In vain endeavoured to exterminate, Fell obloquy pursues with hideous bark,* But they desist not ; and the sacred fire, Rekindled thus, from dens and savage woods Moves, handed on with never-ceasing care, Through courts, through camps, o'er limi- tary floods ; Nor lacks this sea-girt isle a timely share Of the new flame, not suffered to expire. ARCHBISHOP CHICHLEY TO HENRY V. " WHAT beast in wilderness or cultured field The lively beauty of the leopard shows ? What flower in meadow-ground or garden grows That to the towering lily doth not yield ? Let both meet only on thy royal shield ! * The list of foul names bestowed upon those poor creatures is long and curious ; and, as is, alas ! too natural, most of the opprobrious ap- pellations are drawn from circumstances into which they were forced by their persecutors, who even consolidated their miseries into one reproachful term, calling them Patarenians or Paturins, from^ati, to suffer. " Dwellers with wolves she names them, for the pine And green oak are their covert ; as the gloom Of night oft foils their enemy's design, She calls them riders on the flying broom : Sorcerers, whose frame and aspect have be- come One and the same through practices malign." Go forth, great king, ! claim what thy birth bestows ; Conquer the Gallic lily which thy foes Dare to usurp ; thou hast a sword to wield, [mitred sire And Heaven will crown the right." The Thus spake and lo ! a fleet, for Gaul addrest, [ing seas ; Ploughs her bold course across the wonder- For, sooth to say, ambition, in the breast Of youthful heroes, is no sullen fire, But one that leaps to meet the fanning breeze. WARS OF YORK AND LANCASTER. THUS is the storm abated by the craft Of a shrewd counsellor, eager to protect The Church, whose power hath recently been checked, [the shaft Whose monstrous riches threatened. So Of victory mounts high, and blood is quaffed In fields that rival Cressy and Poictiers Pride to be washed away by bitter tears ; For deep as hell itself, the avenging draught Of civil slaughter ! Yet, while temporal power [truth Is by these shocks exhausted, spiritual Maintains the else endangered gift of life ; Proceeds from infancy to lusty youth ; And, under cover of this woeful strife, Gathers unblighted strength from hour to hour. ONCE more the Church is seized with sudden fear, And at her call is Wicliffe disinhumed ; Yea, his dry bones to ashes are consumed, And flung into the brook that travels near , Forthwith that ancient voice which streams can hear, [the wind, Thus speaks, (that voice which walks upon Though seldom heard by busy human kind,) ' As thou these ashes, little brook ! wilt bear Into the Avon, Avon to the tide Of Severn, Severn to the narrow seas, Into main ocean they, this deed accurst An emblem yields to friends and enemies How the bold teacher's doctrine, sanctified By truth shall spread throughout the world dispersed." 218 ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. CORRUPTIONS OF THE HIGHER CLERGY. "WoE to you, prelates ! rioting in ease And cumbrous wealth 'he shame of your estate ; You on whose progress dazzling trains await Of pompous horses ; whom vain titles please, Who will be served by others on their knees, Yet will yourselves to God no service pay ; Pastors who neither take nor point the way To Heaven ; for either lost in vanities Ye have no skill to teach, or if ye know And speak the word " Alas ! ")f fearful things Tis the most fearful when the people's eye Abuse hath cleared from vain imaginings ; And taught :he general \i*.e to prophesy Qf justice armed, and pride to be laid low. ABUSE OF MONASTIC POWER. AND what is penance with her knotted thong, Mortification with the shirt of hair, Wan cheek, and knees indurated with prayer, Vigils and fastings rigorous as long, If cloistered avarice scruple not to wrong The pious, humble, useful secular, Am! vpb the people of his daily care, Scorning that world whose blindness makes her strong ? Inversion strange ! that unto one who lives For self, and struggles with himself alone, The amplest share of heavenly favour gives; That to a monk allots, in the esteem Of God and man, place higher than to him Who on the good of others builds his own ! MONASTIC VOLUPTUOUSNESS. VET more, round many a convent's blazing fire Unhallowed threads of revelry are spun ; There Venus sits disguised like a nun, While Bacchus, clothed in semblance of a friar, [higher Pours out his choicest beverage high and Sparkling, until it cannot choose but run Over the bowl, whose silver lip hath won An instant kiss of masterful desire To stay the precious waste. In every brain Spreads the dominion of the sprightly juice, Through the wide world, to madding fancy dear, Till the arched roof, with resolute abuse Of its grave echoes, swells a choral strain, Whose votive burt'ien is " Our kingdom's here !" DISSOLUTION OF THE MONASTERIES. THREATS come which no submission may assuage ; No sacrifice avert, no power dispute ; The tapers shall be quenched, the belfries mute, [rage, And, 'mid their choirs unroofed by selfish The warbling wren shall find a leafy cage ; The gadding bramble hang her purple fruit ; And the green lizard and the gilded newt Lead unmolested lives, and die of age.* The owl of evening and the woodland fox For their abode the shrines of Waltham choose : Proud Glastonbury can no more refuse To stoop her head before these desperate shocks [tells, She whose high pomp displaced, as story Arimathean Joseph's wattled cells. THE SAME SUBJECT. THE lovely nun (submissive but more meek Through saintly habit, than from efforl due To unrelenting mandates that pursue With equal wrath the steps of strong and weak) Goes forth unveiling timidly her cheek Suffused with blushes of celestial hue, While through the convent gate to open view Softly she glides, another home to seek. Not Iris, issuing from her cloudy shrine. An apparition more divinely bright ! Not more attractive to the dazzled sight Those watery glories, on the stormy brine Poured forth, while summer suns at distance shine, And the green vales lie hushed in sober light ! * These two lines are adopted from a MS. written about the year 1770, which accidentally fell into my possession. The close of the pre- ceding sonnet on monastic voluptuousness is taken from the same source, as is the verse, "There Venus sits," &c. ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. 219 CONTINUED. YET some noviciates of the cloistral shade, Or chained by vows, with undissembled glee The warrant hail exulting to be free ; Like ships before whose keels, full long embayed In polar ice, propitious winds have made Unlooked-for outlet to an open sea, Their liquid world, for bold discovery, In all her quarters temptingly displayed ! Hope guides the young ; but when the old must pass [find The threshold, whither shall they turn to The hospitality the alms (alas ! Alms may be needed) which that house bestowed ? [mind Can they, in faith and worship, train the To keep this new and questionable road ? As to a visible power, in which did blend All that was mixed and reconciled in thee Of mother's love with maiden purity, Of high with low, celestial with terrene ! YE, too, must fly before a chasing hand, Angels and saints, in every hamlet mourned ! Ah ! if the old idolatry be spurned, Let not your radiant shapes desert the land : Her adoration was not your demand, The fond heart proffered it the servile heart ; And therefore are ye summoned to depart, Michael, and thou, St. George, whose flaming brand The dragon quelled ; and valiant Margaret Whose rival sword a like opponent slew : And rapt Cecilia, seraph-haunted queen Of harmony ; and weeping Magdalene, Who in the penitential desert met Gales sweet as those that over Eden blew ! NOT utterly unworthy to endure Was the supremacy of crafty Rome ; Age after age to the arch of Christendom Ajrial keystone haughtily secure ; Supremacy from Heaven transmitted pure A 3 many hold ; and, therefore, to the tomb Pass, some through fire and by the scaffold some Like saintly Fisher, and unbending More. ! ' ' Lightly for both the bosom's lord did sit | Upon his throne ;" unsoftened, undismayed | By aught that mingled with the tragic scene Of pity or fear ; and M ore's gay genius played With the inonensive sword of native wit, Than the bare axe more luminous and keen. THE VIRGIN. MOTHER ! whose virgin bosom was uncrost With the least shade of thought to sin allied; Woman ! above all women glorified, Our tainted nature's solitary boast ; Purer than foam on central ocean tost ; Brighter than eastern skies at daybreak strewn [moon With fancied roses, than the unblemished Before her wane begins on heaven's blue coast ; Thy image falls to earth. Yet some, I ween, Not unforgiven the suppliant knee might bend, IMAGINATIVE REGRETS. DEEP is the lamentation ! Not alone From sages justly honoured by mankind. But from the ghostly tenants of the wind Demons and spirits, many a doloroun groan Issues for that dominion overthrown : Proud Tiber grieves, and far-off Gangca, blind As his own worshippers ; and Nile, reclined Upon his monstrous urn, the farewell moan Renews. Through every forest, cave, and den, [sorrow past Where frauds were hatched of old, hath Hangs o'er the Arabian prophet's native waste Where once his airy helpers schemed and planned 'Mid phantom lakes bemocking thirsty men, And stalking pillars built of fiery tnd. REFLECTIONS. GRANT, that by this unsparing hurricane Green leaves with yellow mixed are torn away, And goodly fruitage with the mother spray, Twere madness wished we, therefore, to detain, [disdain, With hands stretched forth in mollified 220 ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. The "trumpery" that ascends in bare display, [and gray, Bulls, pardons, relics, cowls, black, white, Unwhirled and flying o'er the ethereal plain [not choice Fast bound for Limbo Lake. And yet But habit rules the unreflecting herd, And airy bonds are hardest to disown ; Hence, with the spiritual sovereignty trans- ferred Unto itself, the crown assumes a voice Of reckless mastery, hitherto unknown. TRANSLATION OF THE BIBLE. BUT to outweigh all harm, the sacred Book, In dusty sequestration wrapt too long, Assumes the accents of our native tongue ; And he who guides the plough, or wields the cr x>k, With understanding spirit now may look Upon her records, listen to her song, And sift her laws much wondering that the wrong, [calmly brook. Which faith has suffered, Heaven could Transcendent boon ! noblest that earthly king Ever bestowed to equalise and bless Under the weight of mortal wretchedness ! But passions spread like plagues, and thou- sands wild With bigotry shall tread the offering Beneath their feet detested and denied. THE POINT AT ISSUE. FOR what contend the wise? for nothing less [of sense ; Than that pure faith dissolve the bonds The soul restored to God by evidence Of things not seen drawn forth from their recess, Root there, and not in forms, her holiness ; That faith which to the patriarchs did dis- pense Sure guidance, ere a ceremonial fence Was needful round men thirsting to trans- gress ; [the Lord That faith, more perfect still, with which Of all, himself a Spirit, in the youth Of Christian aspiration, deigned to fill The temples of their hearts who, with His word Informed, were resolute to do His will, And worship Him in spirit and in truth. EDWARD VI. " SWEET is the holiness of youth" so felt Time-honoured Chaucer when he framed the lay By which the prioress beguiled the way, And many a pilgrim's rugged heart did melt. [dwelt Hadst thou, loved bard ! whose spirit often In the clear land of vision, but foreseen King, child, and seraph, blended in the mien Of pious Edward kneeling as he knelt In meek and simple infancy, what joy For universal Christendom had thrilled Thy heart ! what hopes inspired thy genius, skilled (O great precursor, genuine morning star) The lucid shafts of reason to employ, Piercing the papal darkness from afar ! EDWARD SIGNING THE WARRANT FOR THE EXECUTION OF JOAN OF KENT. THE tears of man in various measure gush From various sources ; gently overflow From blissful transport some from clefts of woe Some with ungovernable impulse rush ; And some, coeval with the earliest blush Of infant passion, scarcely dare to show Their pearly lustre coming but to go ; And some break forth when others' sorrows crush [yet The sympathising heart. Nor these, nor The noblest drops to admiration known, To gratitude, to injuries forgiven, Claim Heaven's regard like waters that have wet The innocent eyes of youthful monarchs, driven To pen the mandates nature doth disown. REVIVAL OF POPERY. MELTS into silent shades the youth, dis- crowned By unrelenting death. O people keen For change, to whom the new looks always green ! [ground They cast, they cast with joy upon the Their gods of wood and stone ; and, at the sound Of counter-proclamation, now are seen, (Proud triumph is it for a sullen queen !) Lifting them up, the worship to confound ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. 221 Of the Most High. Again do they invoke The creature, to the creature glory give ; Again with frankincense the altars smoke Like those the heathen served ; and mass is sung ; And prayer, man's rational prerogative, Runs through blind channels of an un- known tongue. LATIMER AND RIDLEY. How fast the Marian death-list is unrolled ! See Latimer and Ridley* in the might Of faith stand coupled fora common flight ! One (like those prophets whom God sent of old) [told Transfigured, from this kindling hath fore- A torch of inextinguishable light ; The other gains a confidence as bold ; And thus they foil their enemy's despite. The penal instruments, the shows of crime, Are glorified while this once-mitred pair Of saintly friends, the " murtherer's chain partake, Corded, and burning at the social stake :" Earth never witnessed object more sublime In constancy, in fellowship more fair ! CRANMER. OUTSTRETCHING flame-ward his upbraided hand (O God of mercy, may no earthly seat Of judgment such presumptuous doom repeat !) * "M. Latimer very quietly suffered his keeper tr pull off his hose, and his other aray, which to looke unto was very simple ; and being stripped into his shrowd, he seemed as tomely a person to them that were present, as one should lightly see : and whereas in his clothes hee appeared a withered and crooked sillie (weaK) olde man, he now stood bolt up- rignt, as comely a father as one might lightly behold. ... Then they brought a fag- gotte, kindled with fire, and laid the same downe at doctor Ridley's feeto. To whom M. Latimer spake in this manner, ' Bee of good comfort, master Ridley, and play the man : wee shall this day light such a candle by God's grace in England, as I trust shall never bee put out.' " Fox's Ads, etc. Similar alterations in the outward figure and deportment of persons brought to like trial were not uncommon. See note to the above passage in Dr. Wordsworth's Ecclesiastical Biography, for an example in a humble Welsh fisherman. Amid the shuddering throng doth Cranmer stand ; Firm as the stake to which with iron band His frame is tied ; firm from the naked feel To the bare head, the victory complete ; The shrouded body, to the soul's command, Answering with more than Indian fortitude, Through all her nerves with finer sense endued, Till breath departs in blissful aspiration : Then, 'mid the ghastly ruins of the fire, Behold the unalterable heart entire, Emblem of faith untouched, miraculous attestation !t GENERAL VIEW OF THE TROUBLES OF THE REFORMATION. AID, glorious martyrs, from your fields of light Our mortal ken ! Inspire a perfect trust (While we look round) that Heaven's decrees are just : Which few can hold committed to a fight That shows, even on its better side, the might Of proud self-will, rapacity, and lust, 'Mid clouds enveloped of polemic dust, Which showers of blood seem rather tc incite Than to allay. Anathemas are hurled From both sides; veteran thunders (the brute test Of trut!,) are met by fulminations new- Tartarian flags are caught at, and un- furled Friends strike at friends the flying shall pursue [rest ! And victory sickens, ignorant where to ENGLISH REFORMERS IN EXILE. SCATTERING, like birds escaped the fowler's net, [strand ; Some seek with timely flight a foreign Most happy, re-assembled in a land By dauntless Luther freed, could they forget [they met, Their country's woes. But scarcely have Partners in faith, and brothers in distress, Free to pour forth their common thank- fulness, Ere hope declines ; their union is beset t For the belief in this fact see the contero porary historians. 222 ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. With speculative notions rashly sown, Whence thickly-sprouting growth of poi- sonous weeds ; [sions steeds 1'heir forms are broken staves ; their pas- That master them. How enviably blest Is he who can, by help of grace, enthrone The peace of God within his single breast! ELIZABETH. HAIL, virgin queen ! o'er many an envious bar [cherous wile ! Triumphant snatched from many a trea- All hail, sage lady, whom a grateful isle Hath blest, respiring from that dismal war Stilled by thy voice ! But quickly from afar Defiance breathes with more malignant aim ; [claim And alien storms with homt-bred ferments Portentous fellowship. Her silver car By sleepless prudence ruled, glides slowly on ; Unhurt by violence, from menaced taint Emerging pure, and seemingly more bright ! For, wheresoe'er she moves, the clouds anon Disperse ; or, under a divine constraint, Reflect some portion of her glorious light ! EMINENT REFORMERS. METHINKS that I could trip o'er heaviest soil, [wave, Light as a buoyant bark from wave to Were mine the trusty staff that Jewel gave To youthful Hooker, in familiar style The gift exalting, and with playful smile :* For thus equipped, and bearing on his head [dread The donor's farewell blessing, can he Tempest, or length of way, or weight of toil? * " On foot they went, and took Salisbury in their way, purposely to see the good bishop, who made Mr. Hooker sit at.his own table, which Mr. Hooker boasted of with much joy and gratitude when he saw his mother and friends ; and at the bishop's parting with him, the bishop gave him good counsel, and his benediction, but for- got to give him money ; which when the bishop had considered, he sent a servant in all haste to call Richard back to him, and at Richard's re- turn, the bishop said to him, ' Richard, I sent for you back to lend you a horse which hath earned me many a mile, and, I thank God, with much ease," and presently delivered into his hand a walking-staff, with which he professed he had travelled through many parts of Germany ; and More sweet than odours caught by him who sails Near spicy shores of Araby the blest, A thousand times more exquisitely sweet, The freight of holy feeling which we meet, In thoughtful moments, wafted by the gales [bowers wherein they rest. From fields where good men walk, or THE SAME. HOLY and heavenly spirits as they are, Spotless in life, and eloquent as wise, With what entire affection do they prize Their new-born Church ! labouring with earnest care To baffle all that may her strength impair ; That Church the unperverted gospel's seat ; In their afflictions a divine retreat ; Source of their liveliest hope, and tenderest prayer ! The truth exploring with an equal mind, In doctrine and communion they have sought Firmly between the two extremities to steer ; But theirs the wise man's ordinary lot, To trace right courses for the stubborn blind, And prophesy to ears that will not hear. DISTRACTIONS. MEN, who have ceased to reverence, soon defy [and split Their forefathers ; lo ! sects are formed With morbid restlessness, the ecstatic fit Spreads wide ; though special mysteries multiply, [cry ; The saints must govern, is their common And so they labour ; deeming Holy Writ Disgraced by aught that seems content to he said, ' Richard, I do not give, but lend you my horse ; be sure you be honest, and bring my horse back to me at your return this way to Ox- ford. And I do now give you ten groats to bear your charges to Exeter ; and here is ten groats more, which I charge you to deliver to your mother, and tell her I send her a bishop's bene- diction with it, and beg the continuance of her prayers for me. And if you bring my horse back to me, I will give you ten groats more to carry you on foot to the college ; and so God bless you, good Richard.' " See WALTON'S Life of Richard Hooker. ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. 223 Beneath the roof of settled modesty. The Romanist exults ; fresh hope he draws From the confusion craftily incites The overweening personates the mad * To heap disgust upon the worthier cause : Totters the throne ; the new-born Church is sad, For every wave against her peace unites. GUNPOWDER PLOT. FEAR hath a hundred eyes that all agree To plague her beating heart ; and there is one (Nor idlest that ! ) which holds communion With things that were not, yet were meant to be. Aghast within its gloomy cavity That eye (which sees as if fulfilled and done Crimes that might stop the motion of the sun) Beholds the horrible catastrophe Of an assembled senate unredeemed From subterraneous treason's darkling power ; Merciless act of sorrow infinite ! Worse than the product of that dismal night, When gushing, copious as a thunder-shower, The blood of Huguenots through Paris streamed. ILLUSTRATION. THE Virgin Mountain, t wearing like a queen A brilliant crown of everlasting snow, Sheds ruin from her sides ; and men below Wonder that aught of aspect so serene Can link with desolation. Smooth and green, And seeming, at a little distance, slow, The waters of the Rhine ; but on they go Fretting and whitening, keener and more keen, Till madness seizes on the whole wide flood, Turned to a fearful thing whose nostrils breathe [he tries Blasts of tempestuous smoke wherewith To hide himself, but only magnifies ; And doth in more conspicuous torment writhe, Deafening the region in his ireful mood. * A common device in religious and political conflicts. See STRYPE in support of tnis in- stance. t The Juiigfrau. TROUBLES OF CHARLES THE FIRST. SUCH is the contrast, which where'er we move, To the mind's eye religion doth present ; Now with her own deep quietness content ; Then, like the mountain, thundering from above Against the ancient pine-trees of the grove And the land's humblest comforts. Now hi r mood Recals the transformation of the flood, Whose rage the gentle skies in vain reprove, Earth cannot check. Oh, terrible excess Of headstrong will! Can this be piety? No some fierce maniac hath usurped her name ; And scourges England struggling to be free : Her peace destroyed ! her hopes a wilder- ness ! shame \ Her blessings cursed her glory turned to LAUD.t PREJUDGED by foes determined not tospare, An old weak man for vengeance thrown aside, Laud, " in the painful art of dying " tried, (Like a poor bird entangled in a snare Whose heart still flutters, though his wingF forbear To stir in useless struggle) hath relied On hope that conscious innocence supplied, And in his prison breathes celestial air. Why tarries, then, thy chariot? Wherefore stay, [wheels, O death ! the ensanguined yet triumphant } In this age a word cannot be said in praise of Laud, or even in compassion for his fate, without incurring a charge of bigotry ; but fearless of such imputation, I concur with Hume, "that it is sufficient for his vindication to ob- serve, that his errors were the most excusable of all those which prevailed during that zealous period " A key to the right understanding of those parts of his conduct that brought the most odium upon him in his own time, may be found in the following passage of his speech before the bar of the House of Peers : " Ever since I came in place, I have laboured nothing more, than that the external public worship of God, so much slighted in divers parts of this kingdom, might be preserved, and that with as much de- cency and uniformity as might be. For I evi- dently saw, that the publick neglect of God's service in the outward face of it, and the nasty lying of many places dedicated to that service, had almost cast a datitp upon the true and in- ward worship of God, which, ivhile ive live in the body needs external helps, and all little enough to keep it in any vigour" 224 ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. Which thou prepar'st, full often to convey, (What time a state with madding faction reels) The saint or patriot to the world that heals All wounds, all perturbations doth allay ? AFFLICTIONS OF ENGLAND. HARP ! couldst thou venture, on thy boldest string, The faintest note to echo which the blast Caught from the hand of Moses as it past O'er Sinai's top, or from the shepherd king, Early awake, by Siloa's brook, to sing Of dread Jehovah ; then, should wood and waste Hear also of that name, and mercy cast Off to the mountains, like a covering Of which the Lord was weary. Weep, oh ! weep, [priest Weep with the good, beholding king and Despised by that stern God to whom they raise Their suppliant hands ; but holy is the feast He keepeth ; like the firmament his ways ; His statutes like the chambers of the deep. PART III. FROM THE RESTORATION TO THE PRESENT TIMES. I SAW the figure of a lovely maid Seated alone beneath a darksome tree, Whose fondly overhanging canopy Set off her brightness with a pleasing shade, Substance she seemed (and that my heart betrayed, For she was one I loved exceedingly) ; But while I gazed in tender reverie (Or was it sleep that with my fancy played?) The bright corporeal presence, form, and face, Remaining still distinct, grew thin and rare, Like sunny mist ; at length the golden hair, Shape, limbs, and heavenly features, keep- ing pace Each, with the other, in a lingering race Of dissolution, melted into air. PATRIOTIC SYMPATHIES. LAST night, without a voice, this vision ' spake Fear to my spirit passion that might seem Wholly dissevered from our present theme; Yet do I love my country and partake Of kindred agitations for her sake ; She visits oftentimes my midnight dream ; Her glory meets me with the earliest beam Of light, which tells that morning is awake. If aught impair her beauty or destroy, Or but forebode destruction, I deplore With filial love the sad vicissitude ; If she hath fallen and righteous Heaven re- store [newed, The prostrate, then my spring-time is re- And sorrow bartered for exceeding joy. CHARLES THE SECOND. WHO comes with rapture greeted, and caressed With frantic love his kingdom to regain ? Him virtue's nurse, adversity, in vain Received, and fostered in her iron breast : For all she taught of hardiest and of best, Or would have taught, by discipline of pain And long privation, now dissolves amain, Or is remembered only to give zest To wantonness. Away, Circean revels ! Already stands our country on the brink Of bigot rage, that all distinction levels Of truth and falsehood, swallowing the good name, [misery, shame, And, with that draught, the life-blood : By poets loathed ; from which historians shrink ! LATITUDINARIANISM. YET truth is keenly sought for, and the wind Charged with rich words poured out in thought's defence ; Whether the Church inspire that eloquence, Or a Platonic piety confined To the sole temple of the inward mind ; And one there is who builds immortal lays, Though doomed to tread in solitary ways, Darkness before, and danger's voice behind ! Yet not alone, nor helpless to repel Sad thoughts ; for from above the starry sphere 'ome secrets, whispered nightly to his ear ; And the pure spirit of celestial light Shines through his soul "that he may see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight." ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. 225 CLERICAL INTEGRITY. NOR shall the eternal roll of praise reject Those unconforming ; whom one rigorous day Drives from their cures, a voluntary prey To poverty and grief, and disrespect, And some to want as if by tempests wrecked On a wild coast ; how destitute ! did they Feel not that conscience never can betray, That peace of mind is virtue's sure effect. Their altars they forego, their homes they quit, [trod, Fields which they love, and paths they daily And cast the future upon Providence ; As men the dictate of whose inward sense Outweighs the world ; whom self-deceiving wit [of God. Lures not from what they deem the cause PERSECUTION OF THE SCOTTISH COVE- NANTERS. WHEN Alpine vales threw forth a suppliant cry, The majesty of England interposed And the sword stopped ; the bleeding wounds were closed ; And faith preserved her ancient purity. How little boots that precedent of good, Scorned or forgotten, thou canst testify, For England's shame, O sister realm ! from wood, [where lie Mountain, and moor, and crowded street, The headless martyrs of the Covenant, Slain by compatriot-protestants that draw From councils senseless as intolerant Their warrant. Bodies fall by wild sword- law ; [a straw But who would force the soul, tilts with Against a champion cased in adamant. ACQUITTAL OF THE BISHOPS. A VOICE, from long-expecting thousands sent, [spire- Shatters the air, and troubles tower and For justice hath absolved the innocent, And tyranny is balked of her desire : Up, down, the busy Thames rapid as fire Coursing a train of gunpowder it went, And transport finds in every street a vent, Till the whole city rings like one vast quire. The fathers urge the people to be still With outstretched hands and earnest speech in vain ! Yea, many, haply wont to entertain Small reverence for the mitre's offices, And to religion's self no friendly will, A prelate's blessing ask on bended knees. WILLIAM THE THIRD. CALM as an under-current strong to draw Millions of waves into itself, and run, From sea to sea, impervious to the sun And ploughing storm the spirit of Nassau (By constant impulse of religious awe Swayed, and thereby enabled to contend With the wide world's commotions) from its end Swerves not diverted by a casual law. Had mortal action e'er a nobler scope ? The hero comes to liberate, not defy : And, while he marches on with righteous hope, Conqueror beloved ! expected anxiously ! The vacillating bondman of the pope, Shrinks from the verdict of his steadfast eye. OBLIGATIONS OF CIVIL TO RELIGIOUS LIBERTY. UNGRATEFUL country, if thou e'er forget The sons who for thy civil rights have bled ! [head, How, like a Roman, Sidney bowed his And Russel's milder blood the scaffold wet ; But these had fallen for profitless regret Had not thy holy Church her champions bred ; And claims from other worlds inspirited The star of liberty to rise. Nor yet (Grave this within thy heart !) if spiritual things Be lost, through apathy, or scorn, or fear, Shalt thou thy humbler franchises support, However hardly won or justly dear ; What came from Heaven to Heaven by nature clings, [short. And, if dissevered thence, its course if DOWN a swift stream, thus far, a bold design Have we pursued, with livelier stir of heart Than his who sees, borne forward by the Rhine, 226 ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. The living landscapes greet him, and depart; Sees spires fast sinking up again to start ! And strives the towers to number, that recline O'er the dark steeps, or on the horizon line Striding with shattered crests the eye athwart ; [pleasure : So have we hurried on with troubled Henceforth, as on the bosom of a stream That slackens, and spreads wide a watery gleam, [measure, We, nothing loth a lingering course to May gather up our thoughts, and mark at leisure Features that else had vanished like a dream. WALTON'S BOOK OF LIVES. THERE arc no colours in the fairest sky So fair as these. The feather whence the pen [good men Was shaped that traced the lives of these Dropped from an angel's wing. With moistened eye We read of faith and purest charity In statesman, priest, and humble citizen. Oh, could we copy their mild virtues, then What j< y to live, what blessedness to die ! Methinks their very names shine still and bright ; Apart, like glow-worms on a summer night; Or lonely tapers when from far they fling A guiding ray ; or seen, like stars on high, Satellites burning in a lucid ring Around meek Walton's heavenly memory. SACHEVERELL. A SUDDEN conflict rises from the swell Of a proud slavery met by tenets strained In liberty's behalf. Fears, true or feigned, Spread through all ranks ; and lo ! the sentinel Who loudest rang his pulpit 'larum bell, Stands at the bar absolved by female eyes, Mingling their light with graver flatteries, Lavished on him that England may rebel Against her ancient virtue. High and Low, Watchwords of party, onall tongues are rife; Asif aChurch, though sprung from Heaven, must owe To opposites and fierce extremes her life Not to the golden mean, and quiet flow Of truths that soften hatred, temper strife. PLACES OF WORSHIP. As star that shines dependent upon star Is to the sky while we look up in love ; As to the deep fair ships which though they move [afar ; Seem fixed, to eyes that watch them from As to the sandy desert fountains are, With palm-groves shaded a* wide intervals, Whose fruit around the sun-burnt native falls Of roving tired or desultory war ; Such to this British isle her Christian fanes, Each linked to each for kindred services ; Her spires, her steeple-towers with glitter- ing vanes [trees, Far-kenned, her chapels lurking among Where a few villagers on bended knees Find solace which a busy world disdains . PASTORAL CHARACTER. A GENIAL hearth, a hospitable board, And a refined rusticity, belong To the neat mansion,* where, his flock among, [lord. The learned pastor dwells, their watchful * Among the benefits arising, as Mr. Coleridge has well observed, from a Church establishment of endowments corresponding with the wealth of the country to which it belongs, may be reckoned as eminently important, the examples of civility and refinement which the clergy, sta- tioned at intervals, afford to the whole people. The established clergy in many parts of Eng- land have long been, as they continue to be, the principal bulwark against barbarism, and the link which unites the sequestered peasantry with the intellectual advancement of the age. Nor is it below the dignity of the subject to observe that their taste, as acting upon rural residences and scenery, often furnishes models which coun- try gentlemen, who are more at liberty to follow the caprices of fashion, might profit by. The precincts of an old residence must be treated by ecclesiastics with respect, both from prudence and necessity. I remember being much pleased some years ago, at Rose Castle, the rural seat of the see of Carlisle, with a style of garden and architecture, which, if the place had be- longed to a wealthy layman, would no doubt have been swept away. A parsonage-house generally stonds not far from the church ; this proximity imposes favourable restraints, and sometimes suggests an affecting union of the accommodations and elegances of life with the outward signs of piety and mortality. With pleasure I recall to mind a happy instance >f this in the residence of an old and much-valued friend in Oxfordshire. The house and church ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. 227 Though meek and patient as a sheathed sword, [a wrong Though pride's least lurking thought appear To human kind ; though peace be on his tongue, Gentleness in his heart ; can earth afford Such genuine state, pre-eminence so free, As when, arrayed in Christ's authority, He from the pulpit lifts his awful hand ; Conjures, implores, and labours all he can For re-subjecting to divine command The stubborn spirit of rebellious man ? THE LITURGY. YES, if the intensities of hope and fear Attract us still, and passionate exercise Of lofty thoughts, the way before us lies Distinct with signs through which, in fixed career, As through a zodiac, moves the ritual year Of England's Church stupendous mys- teries ! Which whoso travels in her bosom, eyes As he approaches them, with solemn cheer. Enough for us to cast a transient glance The circle through ; relinquishing its story For those whom Heaven hath fitted to advance, [Glory And, harp in hand, rehearse the King of From His mild advent till His countenance Shall dissipate the seas and mountains hoary. BLEST be the Church, that, watching o'er the needs Of infancy, provides a timely shower, Whose virtue changes to a Christian flower The sinful product of a bed of weeds ! Fitliest beneath the sacred roof proceeds stand parallel to each other, at a small distance ; a circular lawn, or rather grass-plot, spreads between them ; shrubs and trees curve from each side of the dwelling, veiling, but not hiding the church. From the front of this dwelling, no part of the burial-ground is seen ; but, as you wind by the side of the shrubs towards the steeple end of the church, the eye catches a single, small, low, monumental head - stone, moss-grown, sinking into, and gently inclining towards, the earth. Advance, and the church- yard, populous and gay with glittering tomb- stones, opens upon the view. This humble and beautiful parsonage called forth a tribute, for which see "A Parsonage in Oxfordshire," in Miscellaneous Sonnets. The ministration ; while parental love Looks on, and grace descendeth from above [pleads. As the high service pledges now, now There, should vain thoughts outspread their wings and fly To meet the coming hours of festal mirth, The tombs which hear and answer that brief cry, The infant's notice of his second birth, Recal the wandering soul to sympathy With what man hopes from Heaven, yet fears from earth. CATECHISING. FROM little down to least in due degree, Around the pastor, each in new-wrought vest, Each with a vernal posy at his breast, We stood, a trembling, earnest company ! With low soft murmur, like a distant bee, Some spake, by thought-perplexing fears betrayed ; And some a bold unerring answer made ; How fluttered then thy anxious heart for me, Beloved mother ! Thou whose happy hand Had bound the flowers I wore, with faith- ful tie : [mand Sweet flowers ! at whose inaudible com- Her countenance, phantom-like, doth re- appear : Oh, lost too early for the frequent tear, And ill requited by this heart-felt sigh ! CONFIRMATION. THE young-ones gathered in from hill and dale, With holiday delight on every brow : 'Tis passed away ; far other thoughts pre- vail ; For they are taking the baptismal vow Upon their conscious selves ; their own lips speak The solemn promise. Strongest sinews fail, And many a blooming, many a lovely cheek Under the holy fear of God turns pale, While on each head His lawn-robed servant lays An apostolic hand, and with prayer seals The covenant. The Omnipotent will raise Their feeble souls; and bear with his regrets, [ feels Who, looking round the fair assemblage, That ere the sun goes down their childhood sets. 228 ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. CONFIRMATION CONTINUED. 1 SAW a mother's eye intensely bent Upon a maiden trembling as she knelt ; In and for whom the pious mother felt Things that we judge of by a light too faint; Tell, if ye may, some star-crowned muse, or saint ! [relieved Tell what rushed in, from what she was Then, when her child the hallowing touch received, And such vibration to the mother went That tears burst forth amain. Did gleams appear ? Opened a vision of that blissful place Where dwells a sister-child ? And was power given Part of her lost one's glory back to trace Even to this rite ? For thus she knelt, and, ere [heaven. The summer-leaf had faded, passed to SACRAMENT. BY chain yet stronger must the soul be tied: One duty more, last stage of this ascent, Brings to thy food, memorial Sacrament! The offspring, haply at the parents' side: But not till they, with all that do abide In heaven, have lifted up their hearts to laud And magnify the glorious name of God, Fountain of Grace, whose Son for sinners died. Here must my song in timid reverence pause: But shrink not ye whom to the saving rite The altar calls ; come early under laws That can secure for you a path of light Through gloomiest shade ; put on (nor dread its weight) Armour divine, and conquer in your cause! RURAL CEREMONY.* CONTENT with calmer scenes around us spread And humbler objects, give we to a day Of annual joy one tributary lay; This day when, forth by rustic music led, The village children, while the sky is red With evening lights, advance in long array Through the still church-yard, each with garland gay, * This is still continued in many churches in Westmorland. It takes place in the month of July, when the floor of the stalls is strewn with fresh rushes ; and hence it is called the " rush- bearing." That, carried sceptre-like, o'ertops the head Of the proud bearer- To the wide church door, [fathers bore Charged with these offerings which their 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 ! WOULD that our scrupulous sires had dared to leave Less scanty measure of those graceful rites And usages, whose due return invites A stir of mind too natural to deceive; Giving the memory help when she would weave [lights A crown for hope ! I dread the boasted That all too often are but fiery blights, Killing the bud o'er which in vain we grieve. Go, seek when Christmas snows discomfort bring [church The counter spirit, found in some gay Green with fresh holly, every pew a perch In which the linnet or the thrush might sing, Merry and loud, and safe from prying search, Strains offered only to the genial spring. MUTABILITY. FROM low to high doth dissolution climb, And sinks from high to low, along a scale Of awful notes, whose concord shall not A musical but melancholy chime, [fail ; 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 Its crown of weeds, but could not even sustain Some casual shout that broke the silent air, Or the unimaginable touch of time. OLD ABBEYS. MONASTIC domes ! following my down- ward way, [fall ! Untouched by due regret I marked youi ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. 229 Now, ruin, beauty, ancient stillness, all Dispose to judgments temperate as we lay On our past selves in life's declining day : For as, by discipline of time made wise, We learn to tolerate the infirmities And faults of others, gently as he may Towards our own the mild instructor deals, Teaching us to forget them or forgive.* Perversely curious, then for hidden ill Why should we break time's charitable seals ? Once ye were holy, ye are holy still ; Your spirit let me freely drink and live ! EMIGRANT FRENCH CLERGY. EVEN while I speak, the sacred roofs of France Are shattered into dust ; and self-exiled From altars threatened, levelled, or defiled, Wander the ministers of God, as chance Opens a way for life, or consonance Of faith invites. More welcome to no land The fugitives than to the British strand, Where priest and layman with the vigilance Of true compassion greet them. Creed and test Vanish before the unreserved embrace Of Catholic humanity : distrest They came, and, while the moral tempest roars [shores Throughout the country they have left, our Give to their faith a dreadless resting-place. CONGRATULATION . THUS all things lead to charity secured By them who blessed the soft and happy gale [sail, ! That landward urged the great deliverer's ! Till in the sunny bay his fleet was moored ! j Propitious hour ! had we, like them, endured I Sore stress of apprehension,! with a mind Sickened by injuries, dreading worse de- signed, From month to month trembling and un- assured, How had we then rejoiced ! But we have felt, As a loved substance, their futurity ; Good, which they dared not hope for, we have seen ; [j s dealt ; A state whose generous will through earth A state which, balancing herself between Licence and slavish order, dares be free. NEW CHURCHES. BUT liberty, and triumphs on the main, And laurelled armies not to be withstood, What serve they ? if, on transitory good Intent, and sedulous of abject gain, The state (ah, surely not preserved in vain !) Forbear to shape due channels which the flood Of sacred truth may enter till it brood O'er the wide realm, as o'er the Egyptian plain The all-sustaining Nile. No more the time Is conscious of her want ; through Eng- land's bounds, In rival haste, the wished-for temples rise ! I hear their Sabbath bells' harmonious chime [sounds Float on the breeze the heavenliest of al) That hill or vale prolongs or multiplies ! * This is borrowed from an affecting passage in Mr. George Dyer's history of Cambridge. t See Burnet, who is unusually animated on this subject : the east wind, so anxiously ex- pected and prayed for, was called the "Protes- tant wind." CHURCH TO BE ERECTED. BE this the chosen site ; the virgin sod, Moistened from age to age by dewy eve, Shall disappear and grateful earth recei\ The corner-stone from hands that build to God. [rod Yon reverend hawthorns, hardened to the Of winter storms, yet budding cheerfully ; Those forest oaks of Druid memory, Shall long survive, to shelter the abode Of genuine faith. Where, haply, 'mid thiv band Of daisies, shepherds sate of yore and wove May-garlands, let the holy altar stand For kneeling adoration ; while above, Broods, visibly portrayed, the mystic Dove That sliall protect from blasphemy the land. CONTINUED. MINE ear has rung, my spirit sunk sub- dued, Sharing the strong emotion of the crowd. When each pale brow to dread hosannas bowed [the rood. While clouds of incense mounting veiled 8 230 ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. That glimmered like a pine-treedimly viewed Through Alpine vapours. Such appalling rite [might Our Church prepares not, trusting to the Of simple truth with grace divine imbued ; Vet will we not conceal the precious cross, Like men ashamed :* the sun with his first smile [pile ; Shall greet that symbol crowning the low And the fresh air of ' ' incense-breathing morn " Shall wooingly embrace it ; and green moss Creep round its arms through centuries unborn. NEW CHURCH-YARD. THE encircling ground, in native turf ar- rayed, Is now by solemn consecration given To social interests, and to favouring heaven: And where the rugged colts their gambols played, [glade, And wild deer bounded through the forest U nchecked as when by merry outlaw driven, Shall hymns of praise resound at morn and even ; And so, full soon, the lonely sexton's spade Shall wound the tender sod. Encincture -small, But infinite its grasp of joy and woe ! Hopes, fears, in never-ending ebb and flow [dust" The spousal trembling and the ' ' dust to The prayers, the contrite struggle, and the trust [all ! That to the Almighty Father looks through CATHEDRALS, ETC. OPEN your gates, ye everlasting piles ! Types of the spiritual Church which God hath reared ; Not loth we quit the newly-hallowed sward And humble altar, 'mid your sumptuous aisles To kneel or thrid your intricate defiles Or down the nave to pace in motion slow ; Watching, with upward eye, the tall tower grow And mount, at every step, with living wiles Instinct to rouse the heart and lead the will * The Lutherans have retained the cross within their churches ; it is to be regretted that we have not done the same. By a. bright ladder to the world above. Open your gates, ye monuments of love Divine! thou, Lincoln, on thy sovereign hill! Thou, stately York ! and ye, whose splen- dours cheer Isis and Cam, to patient science dear ! INSIDE OF KING S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE. TAX not the royal saint with vain expense, With ill-matched aims the architect who planned, Albeit labouring for a scanty band Of white-robed scholars only, this immense And glorious work of fine intelligence ! Give all thou canst ; high Heaven rejects the lore Of nicely-calculated less or more ; So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense [roof These lofty pillars, spread that branching Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells, [dwells Where light and shade repose, where music Lingering and wandering on as loth to die; Like thoughts whose very sweetness yield- eth proof That they were born for immortality. THE SAME. WHAT awful perspective ! while from oin sight [hide With gradual stealth the lateral windows Their portraitures, their stone-work glim- mers, dyed In the soft chequerings of a sleepy light. Martyr, or king, or sainted eremite, Whoe'er ye be, that thus yourselves un- seen Imbue your prison-bars with solemn sheen, Shine on ! until ye fade with coming night ! But, from the arms of silence list ! oh, list ! The music bursteth into second life ; The notes luxuriate every stone is kissed By sound, or ghost of sound, in mazy strife; Heart-thrilling strains, that cast before the Of the devout a veil of ecstasy ! [eye 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; ECCLESIASTICAL SKETCHES. 231 Or through the aisles of Westminster to roam ; [foam Where bubbles burst, and folly's dancing Melts, if it cross the threshold ; where the wreath [path Of awe-struck wisdom droops : or let my Lead to that younger pile, whose sky-like dome Hath typified by reach of daring art Infinity's embrace ; whose guardian crest, The silent cross, among the stars shall spread As now, when she hath also seen her breast Filled with mementos, satiate with its part Of grateful England's overflowing dead. EJACULATION. GLORY to God! and to the Power who came In filial duty, clothed with love divine ; That made His human tabernacle shine Like ocean burning with purpureal flame ; Or like the Alpine mount, that takes its name [and even, From roseate hues,* far kenned at morn in hours of peace, or when the storm is driven * Some say that Monte Rosa takes its name from a belt of rock at its summit a very un- poetical, and scarcely a probable supposition. Along the nether region's rugged frame ! Earth prompts Heaven urges ; let us seek the light Studious of that pure intercourse begun When first our infant brows their lustre won ; [bright So, like the mountain, may we grow more From unimpeded commerce with the sun, At the approach of all-involving night. CONCLUSION. WHY sleeps the future, as a snake enrolled Coil within coil, at noon-tide ? For the Word [plored, Yields, if with unpresumptuous faith ex- Power at whose touch the sluggard shall unfold, [behold, His drowsy rings. Look forth ! that stream That stream upon whose bosom we have passed Floating at ease while nations have effaced Nations, and death has gathered to his fold Long lines of mighty kings look forth, my soul ! (Nor in this vision be thou slow to trust) The living waters, less and less by guilt Stained and polluted, brighten as they roll, Till they have reached the eternal city- built For the perfected spirits of the just ! 232 Wfyt Wttpit g0e 0f . i OR, THE FATE OF THE NORTONS. ADVERTISEMENT. DURING the Summer of 1807, the author visited, for the first time, the beautiful scenery that sur rounds Bolton Priory, in Yorkshire ; and the poem of the White Doe, founded upon a tradition connected with the place, was composed at the close of the same year. IN trellised shed with clustering roses gay, And, Mary ! oft beside our blazing fire, When years of wedded life were as a day Whose current answers totheheart's desire, Did we together read in Spenser's lay, How Una, sad of soul in sad attire. The gentle Una, born of heu^enly birth, To seek her knight went wandering o'er the earth. Ah, then, beloved ! pleasing was the smart, And the tear precious in compassion shed For her, who, pierced by sorrow's thrilling dart, Did meekly bear the pang unmerited ; Meek as that emblem of her lowly heart The milk-white lamb which in a line she led, And faithful, loyal in her innocence, Like the brave lion slain in her defence. Notes could we hear as of a faery shell Attuned to words with sacred wisdom fraught ; Free fancy prized each specious miracle, And all its finer inspiration caught ; Till, in the bosom of our rustic cell, We by a lamentable change were taught That ' ' bliss with mortal man may not abide : " How nearly joy and sorrow are allied ! For us the stream of fiction ceased to flow, For MS the voice of melody was mute. But, as soft gales dissolve the dreary snow, And