丁登寺
　　
　　
　　五年过去了，五个夏天，还有
　　五个漫长的冬天！并且我重又听见
　　这些水声，从山泉中滚流出来，
　　在内陆的溪流中柔声低语。——
　　看到这些峻峭巍峨的山崖，
　　这一幕荒野的风景深深地留给
　　思想一个幽僻的印象：山水呀，
　　联结着天空的那一片宁静。
　　这一天到来，我重又在此休憩
　　在无花果树的浓荫之下．远眺
　　村舍密布的田野，簇生的果树园，
　　在这一个时令，果子呀尚未成熟，
　　披着一身葱绿，将自己掩没
　　在灌木丛和乔木林中。我又一次
　　看到树篙，或许那并非树篱，而是一行行
　　顽皮的树精在野跑：这些田园风光，
　　一直绿到家门；袅绕的炊烟
　　静静地升起在树林顶端！
　　它飘忽不定，仿佛是一些
　　漂泊者在无家的林中走动，
　　或许是有高人逸士的洞穴，孤独地
　　坐在火焰旁。
　　
　　这些美好的形体
　　虽然已经久违，我并不曾遗忘，
　　不是像盲者面对眼前的美景：
　　然而，当我独居一室，置身于
　　城镇的喧嚣声．深感疲惫之时，
　　它们却带来了甜蜜的感觉，
　　渗入血液，渗入心脏，
　　甚至进入我最纯净的思想，
　　位我恢复恬静：——还有忘怀己久的
　　愉悦的感觉，那些个愉悦
　　或许对一个良善者最美好的岁月
　　有过远非轻微和平凡的影响，
　　那是一些早经遗忘的无名琐事，
　　却饱含着善意与友爱。不仅如此，
　　我凭借它们还得到另一种能力，
　　具有更崇高的形态，一种满足的惬意，
　　这整个神秘的重负，那不可理解的
　　世界令人厌倦的压力，顿然间
　　减轻；一种恬静而幸福的心绪，
　　听从着柔情引导我们前进，
　　直到我们的肉躯停止了呼吸，
　　甚至人类的血液也凝滞不动，
　　我们的身体进入安眠状态，
　　并且变成一个鲜活的灵魂，
　　这时，和谐的力量，欣悦而深沉的力量，
　　让我们的眼睛逐渐变得安宁，
　　我们能够看清事物内在的生命。
　　
　　倘若这只是
　　一种虚妄的信念，可是，哦！如此频繁——
　　在黑暗中，在以各种面目出现的
　　乏味的白天里；当无益的烦闷
　　和世界的热病沉重地压迫着
　　心脏搏动的每一个节奏——
　　如此频繁，在精神上我转向你，
　　啊，绿叶葱笼的怀河！你在森林中漫游，
　　我如此频繁地在精神上转向你。
　　
　　而如今，思想之幽光明灭不定地闪烁，
　　许多熟悉的东西黯淡而述蒙，
　　还带着一丝怅惘的窘困，
　　心智的图像又一次重现；
　　我站立在此，不仅感到了
　　当下的愉悦，而且还欣慰地想到
　　未来岁月的生命与粮食正蕴藏
　　在眼前的片刻间。于是，我胆敢这样希望，
　　尽管我已不复当初，不再是新来乍到的
　　光景，即时我像这山上的一头小鹿，
　　在山峦间跳跃，在大江两岸
　　窜跑，在孤寂的小溪边逗留，
　　听凭大自然的引导：与其说像一个
　　在追求着所爱，倒莫如说正是
　　在躲避着所惧。因为那时的自然
　　（如今，童年时代粗鄙的乐趣，
　　和动物般的嬉戏已经消逝）
　　在我是一切的一切。——我那时的心境
　　难以描画。轰鸣着的瀑布
　　像一种激情萦绕我心；巨石，
　　高山，幽晦茂密的森林，
　　它们的颜色和形体，都曾经是
　　我的欲望，一种情愫，一份爱恋，
　　不需要用思想来赋予它们
　　深邃的魅力，也不需要
　　视觉以外的情趣。——那样的时光消逝，
　　一切掺合着苦痛的欢乐不复再现，
　　那今人晕眩的狂喜也已消失。我不再
　　为此沮丧，哀痛和怨诉；另一种能力
　　赋予了我，这一种损失呀，
　　已经得到了补偿，我深信不疑。
　　因为我已懂得如何看待大自然，再不似
　　少不更事的青年；而是经常听到
　　人生宁静而忧郁的乐曲，
　　优雅，悦耳，却富有净化
　　和克制的力量。我感觉到
　　有什么在以崇高的思想之喜悦
　　让我心动；一种升华的意念，
　　深深地融入某种东西，
　　仿佛正栖居于落日的余晖
　　浩瀚的海洋和清新的空气，
　　蔚蓝色的天空和人类的心灵：
　　一种动力，一种精神，推动着
　　思想的主体和思想的客体
　　穿过宇宙万物，不停地运行。所以，
　　我依然热爱草原，森林，和山峦；
　　一切这绿色大地能见的东西，‘
　　一切目睹耳闻的大千世界的
　　林林总总，——它们既有想象所造，
　　也有感觉所知。我欣喜地发现
　　在大自然和感觉的语言里，
　　隐藏着最纯洁的思想之铁锚，
　　心灵的护士、向导和警卫，以及
　　我整个精神生活的灵魂。
　　
　　即便我并没有
　　受到过这样的教育，我也不会更多地
　　被这种温和的精神所腐蚀，
　　因为有你陪伴着我，并且站立
　　在美丽的河畔，你呀，我最亲爱的朋友，
　　亲爱的，亲爱的朋友；在你的嗓音里
　　我捕捉住从前心灵的语言，在你顾盼流转的
　　野性的眼睛里，我再一次重温了
　　往昔的快乐。啊！我愿再有一会儿
　　让我在你身上寻觅过去的那个我，
　　我亲爱的．亲爱的妹妹！我要为此祈祷，
　　我知道大自然从来没有背弃过
　　爱她的心灵；这是她特殊的恩典，
　　贯穿我们一生的岁月．从欢乐
　　引向欢乐；因为她能够赋予
　　我们深藏的心智以活力，留给
　　我们宁静而优美的印象，以崇高的
　　思想滋养我们．使得流言蜚语，
　　急躁的武断，自私者的冷讽热嘲，
　　缺乏同情的敷衍应付，以及
　　日常生活中全部枯燥的交往，
　　都不能让我们屈服，不能损害
　　我们欢快的信念，毫不怀疑
　　我们所见的一切充满幸福。因此，
　　让月光照耀着你进行孤独的漫游，
　　让迷蒙蒙的山风自由地
　　吹拂你；如此，在往后的岁月里
　　当这些狂野的惊喜转化成
　　冷静的低意，当你的心智
　　变成一座集纳众美的大厦，
　　你的记忆像一个栖居的家园招引着
　　一切甜美而和谐的乐音；啊！那时，
　　即令孤独．惊悸，痛苦，或哀伤成为
　　你的命运，你将依然杯着柔情的喜悦
　　顺着这些健康的思路追忆起我，
　　和我这一番劝勉之言！即便我远走他方
　　再也听不见你可爱的声音，
　　再也不能在你野性的双眸中
　　看见我往昔生活的光亮一一你也不会
　　忘记我俩在这妩媚的河畔
　　一度并肩站立；而我呀，一个
　　长期崇拜大自然的人，再度重临，
　　虔敬之心未减：莫如说怀着
　　一腔更热烈的爱情——啊！更淳厚的热情，
　　更神圣的爱慕。你更加不会忘记，
　　经过多年的浪迹天涯，漫长岁月的
　　分离，这些高耸的树林和陡峻的山崖，
　　这绿色的田园风光，更让我感到亲近，
　　这有它们自身的魅力，更有你的缘故。
　　
　　（汪剑钊译）
　　
　　
　　--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
　　
　　昏睡曾蒙住我的心灵
　　
　　
　　昏睡曾蒙住我的心灵，
　　我没有人类的恐惧；
　　她漠然于尘世岁月的相侵，
　　仿佛感觉已失去。
　　
　　如今她不动，没有力气，
　　什么也不听不看，
　　每天与岩石和树木一起，
　　随地球循环旋转。
　　
　　（彭少健译）
　　
　　
　　--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
　　
　　她住在无人迹的小路旁
　　
　　
　　她住在无人迹的小路旁，
　　在鸽子溪边住家，
　　那儿无人赞颂这位姑娘，
　　也难得有人会爱她。
　　
　　她像不为人见的紫罗兰
　　被披青苔的岩石半掩！
　　她美丽如同一颗寒星
　　孤独地闪烁在天边。
　　
　　她不为人知地活着，也几乎
　　无人知她何时死去；
　　但如今露西已躺进坟墓，
　　对于我呀，世界已非往昔。
　　
　　（飞白译）
　　
　　
　　--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
　　
　　我有过奇异的心血来潮
　　
　　
　　我有过奇异的心血来潮，
　　我也敢坦然诉说
　　（不过，只能让情人听到）
　　我这儿发生过什么。
　　
　　那时，我情人容光焕发，
　　像六月玫瑰的颜色；
　　晚间．在淡淡月光之下
　　我走向她那座茅舍。
　　
　　我目不转睛，向明月注视，
　　走过辽阔的平芜；
　　我的马儿加快了步子，
　　踏上我心爱的小路。
　　
　　我们来到了果园，接着
　　又登上一片山岭，
　　这时，月亮正徐徐坠落，
　　临近露西的屋顶。
　　
　　我沉入一个温柔的美梦——
　　造化所赐的珍品！
　　我两眼始终牢牢望定
　　缓缓下坠的月轮。
　　
　　我的马儿呵，不肯停蹄，
　　一步步奔跃向前：
　　只见那一轮明月，蓦地
　　沉落到茅屋后边。
　　
　　什么怪念头，又痴又糊涂，
　　会溜入情人的头脑！
　　“天哪！”我向我自己惊呼，
　　“万一露西会死掉！”
　　
　　（杨德豫译）
　　
　　
　　--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
　　
　　我曾在陌生人中间作客
　　
　　
　　我曾在陌生人中间作客，
　　在那遥远的海外；
　　英格兰！那时，我才懂得
　　我对你多么挚爱。
　　
　　终于过去了，那忧伤的梦境！
　　我再不离开你远游；
　　我心中对你的一片真情
　　时间愈久煜深厚。
　　
　　在你的山岳中，我终于获得
　　向往已久的安恬；
　　我心爱的人儿摇着纺车，
　　坐在英国的炉边。
　　
　　你晨光展现的．你夜幕遮掩的
　　是露西游憩的林园；
　　露西，她最后一眼望见的
　　是你那青碧的草原。
　　
　　（杨德豫译）
　　
　　
　　--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
　　
　　威斯敏斯特桥上
　　
　　
　　大地再没有比这儿更美的风貌：
　　若有谁，对如此壮丽动人的景物
　　竟无动于衷，那才是灵魂麻木；
　　瞧这座城市，像披上一领新袍，
　　披上了明艳的晨光；环顾周遭：
　　船舶，尖塔，剧院，教堂，华屋，
　　都寂然、坦然，向郊野、向天穹赤露，
　　在烟尘未染的大气里粲然闪耀。
　　旭日金挥洒布于峡谷山陵，
　　也不比这片晨光更为奇丽；
　　我何尝见过、感受过这深沉的宁静！
　　河上徐流，由着自己的心意；
　　上帝呵！千门万户都沉睡未醒，
　　这整个宏大的心脏仍然在歇息！
　　
　　（杨德豫译）
　　
　　
　　--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
　　
　　我孤独地漫游，像一朵云
　　
　　
　　我孤独地漫游，像一朵云
　　在山丘和谷地上飘荡，
　　忽然间我看见一群
　　金色的水仙花迎春开放，
　　在树荫下，在湖水边，
　　迎着微风起舞翩翩。
　　
　　连绵不绝，如繁星灿烂，
　　在银河里闪闪发光，
　　它们沿着湖湾的边缘
　　延伸成无穷无尽的一行；
　　我一眼看见了一万朵，
　　在欢舞之中起伏颠簸。
　　
　　粼粼波光也在跳着舞，
　　水仙的欢欣却胜过水波；
　　与这样快活的伴侣为伍，
　　诗人怎能不满心欢乐！
　　我久久凝望，却想象不到
　　这奇景赋予我多少财宝，——
　　
　　每当我躺在床上不眠，
　　或心神空茫，或默默沉思，
　　它们常在心灵中闪现，
　　那是孤独之中的福祉；
　　于是我的心便涨满幸福，
　　和水仙一同翩翩起舞。
　　
　　（飞白译）
　　
　　
　　--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
　　
　　孤独的割麦女
　　
　　
　　看，一个孤独的高原姑娘
　　在远远的田野间收割，
　　一边割一边独自歌唱，——
　　请你站住．或者俏悄走过！
　　她独自把麦子割了又捆，
　　唱出无限悲凉的歌声，
　　屏息听吧！深广的谷地
　　已被歌声涨满而漫溢！
　　
　　还从未有过夜莺百啭，
　　唱出过如此迷人的歌，
　　在沙漠中的绿荫间
　　抚慰过疲惫的旅客；
　　还从未有过杜鹃迎春，
　　声声啼得如此震动灵魂，
　　在遥远的赫布利底群岛
　　打破过大海的寂寥。
　　
　　她唱什么，谁能告诉我？
　　忧伤的音符不断流涌，
　　是把遥远的不聿诉说？
　　是把古代的战争吟咏？
　　也许她的歌比较卑谦，
　　只是唱今日平凡的悲欢，
　　只是唱自然的哀伤苦痛——
　　昨天经受过，明天又将重逢？
　　
　　姑娘唱什么，我猜不着，
　　她的歌如流水永无尽头；
　　只见她一面唱一面干活，
　　弯腰挥镰，操劳不休……
　　我凝神不动，听她歌唱，
　　然后，当我登上了山岗，
　　尽管歌声早已不能听到，
　　它却仍在我心头缭绕。
　　
　　（飞白译）
　　
　　
　　--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
　　
　　我们是七个
　　
　　
　　我碰见一个乡村小姑娘：
　　她说才八岁开外；
　　浓密的发丝一卷卷从四方
　　包裹着她的小脑袋。
　　
　　她带了山林野地的风味，
　　衣着也带了土气：
　　她的眼睛很美，非常美；
　　她的美叫我欢喜。
　　
　　“小姑娘，你们一共是几个，
　　你们姊妹弟兄？”
　　“几个？一共是七个，”她说，
　　看着我象有点不懂。
　　
　　“他们在哪儿？请给我讲讲。”
　　“我们是七个，”她回答，
　　“两个老远的跑去了海上，
　　两个在康威住家。
　　
　　“还有我的小姐姐、小弟弟，
　　两个都躺在坟园，
　　我就位在坟园的小屋里，
　　跟母亲，离他们不远。”
　　
　　“你既说两个跑去了海上，
　　两个在康威住家，
　　可还说是七个！——请给我讲讲，
　　好姑娘，这怎么说法。”
　　
　　“我们一共是七个女和男，”
　　小姑娘马上就回答，
　　里头有两个躺在坟园
　　在那棵坟树底下。”
　　
　　“你跑来跑去，我的小姑娘，
　　你的手脚都灵活；
　　既然有两个埋进了坟坑，
　　你们就只剩了五个。”
　　
　　小姑娘回答说，“他们的坟头
　　看得见一片青青，
　　十二步就到母亲的门口，
　　他们俩靠得更近。
　　
　　“我常到那儿去织我的毛袜，
　　给我的手绢缝边；
　　我常到那儿的地上去坐下，
　　唱歌给他们消遣。
　　
　　“到太阳落山了，刚近黄昏，
　　要是天气好，黑得晚，
　　我常把小汤碗带上一份，
　　上那儿吃我的晚饭。
　　
　　“先走的一个是金妮姐姐，
　　她躺在床上哭叫，
　　老天爷把她的痛苦解了结，
　　她就悄悄的走掉。
　　
　　“所以她就在坟园里安顿；
　　我们要出去游戏，
　　草不湿，就绕着她的坟墩——
　　我和约翰小弟弟。
　　
　　“地上盖满了白雪的时候，
　　我可以滑溜坡面，
　　约翰小弟弟可又得一走，
　　他就躺到了她旁边。”
　　
　　我就说，“既然他们俩升了天，
　　你们剩几个了，那么？”
　　小姑娘马上又回答一遍：
　　“先生，我们是七个。”
　　
　　1798
　　
　　卞之琳 译

　　TO THE DAISY.
　　
　　 In youth from rock to rock I went
　　 From hill to hill, in discontent
　　 Of pleasure high and turbulent,
　　 Most pleas'd 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 soothed a while by milder airs,
　　 Thee Winter in the garland wears 10
　　 That thinly shades his few grey hairs;
　　 Spring cannot shun thee;
　　 Whole summer fields are thine by right;
　　 And Autumn, melancholy Wight!
　　 Doth in thy crimson head delight
　　 When rains are on thee.
　　
　　 In shoals and bands, a morrice train,
　　 Thou greet'st the Traveller in the lane;
　　 If welcome once thou count'st it gain;
　　 Thou art not daunted, 20
　　 Nor car'st if thou be set at naught;
　　 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 chuse;
　　 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; 30
　　 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,
　　 Imprison'd by hot sunshine lie
　　 Near the green holly,
　　 And wearily at length should fare;
　　 He need but look about, and there
　　 Thou art! a Friend at hand, to scare
　　 His melancholy. 40
　　
　　 A hundred times, by rock or bower,
　　 Ere thus I have lain couch'd 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, 50
　　 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, chearful Flower! my spirits play
　　 With kindred motion: 60
　　 At dusk, I've seldom mark'd thee press
　　 The ground, as if in thankfulness,
　　 Without some feeling, more or less,
　　 Of true devotion.
　　
　　 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, 70
　　 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 chearful when the day's begun
　　 As morning Leveret,
　　 Thou long the Poet's praise shalt gain;
　　 Thou wilt be more belov'd by men
　　 In times to come; thou not in vain
　　 Art Nature's Favorite. 80
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　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, 10
　　 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 20
　　 May sit beneath the walls
　　 Of some old cave, or mossy nook,
　　 When up she winds along the brook,
　　 To hunt the waterfalls.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　FIDELITY.
　　
　　 * * * * *
　　
　　 A barking sound the Shepherd hears,
　　 A cry as of a Dog or Fox;
　　 He halts, and searches with his eyes
　　 Among the scatter'd rocks:
　　 And now at distance can discern
　　 A stirring in a brake of fern;
　　 From which immediately leaps out
　　 A Dog, and yelping runs about.
　　
　　 The Dog is not of mountain breed;
　　 It's motions, too, are wild and shy; 10
　　 With something, as the Shepherd thinks,
　　 Unusual in its' cry:
　　 Nor is there any one in sight
　　 All round, in Hollow or on Height;
　　 Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear;
　　 What is the Creature doing here?
　　
　　 It was a Cove, a huge Recess,
　　 That keeps till June December's snow;
　　 A lofty Precipice in front,
　　 A silent Tarn [1] below! 20
　　 Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,
　　 Remote from public Road or Dwelling,
　　 Pathway, or cultivated land;
　　 From trace of human foot or hand.
　　
　　[Footnote 1: A Tarn is a small Mere or Lake mostly high up in the
　　mountains.]
　　
　　 There, sometimes does a leaping Fish
　　 Send through the Tarn a lonely chear;
　　 The Crags repeat the Raven's croak,
　　 In symphony austere;
　　 Thither the Rainbow comes, the Cloud;
　　 And Mists that spread the flying shroud; 30
　　 And Sun-beams; and the sounding blast,
　　 That, if it could, would hurry past,
　　 But that enormous Barrier binds it fast.
　　
　　 Not knowing what to think, a while
　　 The Shepherd stood: then makes his way
　　 Towards the Dog, o'er rocks and stones,
　　 As quickly as he may;
　　 Nor far had gone before he found
　　 A human skeleton on the ground,
　　 Sad sight! the Shepherd with a sigh 40
　　 Looks round, to learn the history.
　　
　　 From those abrupt and perilous rocks,
　　 The Man had fallen, that place of fear!
　　 At length upon the Shepherd's mind
　　 It breaks, and all is clear:
　　 He instantly recall'd the Name,
　　 And who he was, and whence he came;
　　 Remember'd, too, the very day
　　 On which the Traveller pass'd this way.
　　
　　 But hear a wonder now, for sake 50
　　 Of which this mournful Tale I tell!
　　 A lasting monument of words
　　 This wonder merits well.
　　 The Dog, which still was hovering nigh,
　　 Repeating the same timid cry,
　　 This Dog had been through three months' space
　　 A Dweller in that savage place.
　　
　　 Yes, proof was plain that since the day
　　 On which the Traveller thus had died
　　 The Dog had watch'd about the spot, 60
　　 Or by his Master's side:
　　 How nourish'd here through such long time
　　 He knows, who gave that love sublime,
　　 And gave that strength of feeling, great
　　 Above all human estimate.
　　
　　
　　
　　_SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT_
　　
　　 * * * * *
　　
　　 She was a Phantom of delight
　　 When first she gleam'd 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 chearful Dawn;
　　 A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
　　 To haunt, to startle, and way-lay. 10
　　
　　 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. 20
　　
　　 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 plann'd,
　　 To warn, to comfort, and command;
　　 And yet a Spirit still, and bright
　　 With something of an angel light. 30
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　_The REDBREAST and the BUTTERFLY_.
　　
　　 Art thou the Bird whom Man loves best,
　　 The pious Bird with the scarlet breast,
　　 Our little English Robin;
　　 The Bird that comes about our doors
　　 When Autumn winds are sobbing?
　　 Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors?
　　 Their Thomas in Finland,
　　 And Russia far inland?
　　 The Bird, whom by some name or other
　　 All men who know thee call their Brother, 10
　　 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;
　　 His little heart is throbbing: 20
　　 Can this be the Bird, to man so good,
　　 Our consecrated Robin!
　　 That, after their bewildering,
　　 Did cover with leaves the little children,
　　 So painfully in the wood?
　　
　　 What ail'd thee Robin that thou could'st pursue
　　 A beautiful Creature,
　　 That is gentle by nature?
　　 Beneath the summer sky
　　 From flower to flower let him fly; 30
　　 'Tis all that he wishes to do.
　　
　　 The Chearer Thou of our in-door sadness,
　　 He is the Friend of our summer gladness:
　　 What hinders, then, that ye should be
　　 Playmates in the sunny weather,
　　 And fly about in the air together?
　　 Like the hues of thy breast
　　 His beautiful wings in crimson are drest,
　　 A brother he seems of thine own:
　　 If thou would'st be happy in thy nest, 40
　　 O pious Bird! whom Man loves best,
　　 Love him, or leave him alone!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　_THE SAILOR'S MOTHER_.
　　
　　 * * * * *
　　
　　 One morning (raw it was and wet,
　　 A foggy day in winter time)
　　 A Woman in 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: 10
　　 She begg'd an alms, like one in poor estate;
　　 I look'd at her again, nor did my pride abate.
　　
　　 When from these lofty thoughts I woke,
　　 With the first word I had to spare
　　 I said to her, "Beneath your Cloak
　　 What's that which on your arm you bear?"
　　 She answer'd soon as she the question heard,
　　 "A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird."
　　
　　 And, thus continuing, she said,
　　 "I had a Son, who many a day 20
　　 Sail'd on the seas; but he is dead;
　　 In Denmark he was cast away;
　　 And I have been as far as Hull, to see
　　 What clothes he might have left, or other property."
　　
　　 "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 hath gone with him;
　　 When last he sail'd he left the Bird behind;
　　 As it might be, perhaps, from bodings of his mind." 30
　　
　　 "He to a Fellow-lodger's care
　　 Had left it, to be watch'd and fed,
　　 Till he came back again; and there
　　 I found it when my Son was dead;
　　 And now, God help me for my little wit!
　　 I trail it with me, Sir! he took so much delight in it."
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　_TO THE SMALL CELANDINE_
　　 [Footnote: Common Pilewort.]
　　
　　 * * * * *
　　
　　 Pansies, Lilies, Kingcups, Daisies,
　　 Let them live upon their praises;
　　 Long as there's a sun that sets
　　 Primroses will have their glory;
　　 Long as there are Violets,
　　 They will have a place in story:
　　 There's a flower that shall be mine,
　　 'Tis the little Celandine.
　　
　　 Eyes of some men travel far
　　 For the finding of a star; 10
　　 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, 20
　　 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 it's nest,
　　 Thou wilt come with half a call,
　　 Spreading out thy glossy breast
　　 Like a careless Prodigal; 20
　　 Telling tales about the sun,
　　 When we've little warmth, or none.
　　
　　 Poets, vain men in their mood!
　　 Travel with the multitude;
　　 Never heed them; I aver
　　 That they all are wanton Wooers;
　　 But the thrifty Cottager,
　　 Who stirs little out of doors,
　　 Joys to spy thee near her home,
　　 Spring is coming, Thou art come! 40
　　
　　 Comfort have thou of thy merit,
　　 Kindly, unassuming Spirit!
　　 Careless of thy neighbourhood,
　　 Thou dost shew 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 befal the yellow Flowers,
　　 Children of the flaring hours! 50
　　 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,
　　 Scorn'd and slighted upon earth!
　　 Herald of a mighty band,
　　 Of a joyous train ensuing, 60
　　 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, 10
　　 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 mold 20
　　 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 sigh'd to measure
　　 By myself a lonely pleasure;
　　 Sigh'd to think, I read a book
　　 Only read perhaps by me;
　　 Yet I long could overlook
　　 Thy bright coronet and Thee, 30
　　 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 shelter'd hold:
　　 Bright as any of the train
　　 When ye all are out again. 40
　　
　　 Thou art not beyond the moon,
　　 But a thing "beneath our shoon;"
　　 Let, as old Magellen did,
　　 Others roam about the sea;
　　 Build who will a pyramid;
　　 Praise it is enough for me,
　　 If there be but three or four
　　 Who will love my little Flower.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　CHARACTER of the HAPPY WARRIOR.
　　
　　 Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he
　　 Whom every Man in arms should wish to be?
　　 --It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought
　　 Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought
　　 Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought:
　　 Whose high endeavours are an inward light
　　 That make the path before him always bright:
　　 Who, with a natural instinct to discern
　　 What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn;
　　 Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, 10
　　 But makes his moral being his prime care;
　　 Who, doom'd to go in company with Pain,
　　 And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train!
　　 Turns his necessity to glorious gain;
　　 In face of these doth exercise a power
　　 Which is our human-nature's highest dower;
　　 Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves
　　 Of their bad influence, and their good receives;
　　 By objects, which might force the soul to abate
　　 Her feeling, render'd more compassionate; 20
　　 Is placable because occasions rise
　　 So often that demand such sacrifice;
　　 More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure,
　　 As tempted more; more able to endure,
　　 As more expos'd to suffering and distress;
　　 Thence, also, more alive to tenderness.
　　 Tis he whose law is reason; who depends
　　 Upon that law as on the best of friends;
　　 Whence, in a state where men are tempted still
　　 To evil for a guard against worse ill, 30
　　 And what in quality or act is best
　　 Doth seldom on a right foundation rest,
　　 He fixes good on good alone, and owes
　　 To virtue every triumph that he knows:
　　 --Who, if he rise to station of command,
　　 Rises by open means; and there will stand
　　 On honourable terms, or else retire,
　　 And in himself possess his own desire;
　　 Who comprehends his trust, and to the same
　　 Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; 40
　　 And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait
　　 For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state;
　　 Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall,
　　 Like showers of manna, if they come at all:
　　 Whose powers shed round him in the common strife,
　　 Or mild concerns of ordinary life,
　　 A constant influence, a peculiar grace;
　　 But who, if he be called upon to face
　　 Some awful moment to which heaven has join'd
　　 Great issues, good or bad for human-kind, 50
　　 Is happy as a Lover; and attired
　　 With sudden brightness like a Man inspired;
　　 And through the heat of conflict keeps the law
　　 In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw;
　　 Or if an unexpected call succeed,
　　 Come when it will, is equal to the need:
　　 --He who, though thus endued as with a sense
　　 And faculty for storm and turbulence,
　　 Is yet a Soul whose master bias leans
　　 To home-felt pleasures and to gentle scenes; 60
　　 Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be,
　　 Are at his heart; and such fidelity
　　 It is his darling passion to approve;
　　 More brave for this, that he hath much to love:
　　 'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high,
　　 Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye,
　　 Or left unthought-of in obscurity,
　　 Who, with a toward or untoward lot,
　　 Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not,
　　 Plays, in the many games of life, that one 70
　　 Where what he most doth value must be won;
　　 Whom neither shape of danger can dismay,
　　 Nor thought of tender happiness betray;
　　 Who, not content that former worth stand fast,
　　 Looks forward, persevering to the last,
　　 From well to better, daily self-surpast:
　　 Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth
　　 For ever, and to noble deeds give birth,
　　 Or He must go to dust without his fame,
　　 And leave a dead unprofitable name, 80
　　 Finds comfort in himself and in his cause;
　　 And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws
　　 His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause;
　　 This is the happy Warrior; this is He
　　 Whom every Man in arms should wish to be.
　　
　　 * * * * *
　　
　　_The above Verses mere written soon after tidings had been
　　received of the Death of Lord Nelson, which event directed the
　　Author's thoughts to the subject. His respect for the memory of his
　　great fellow-countryman induces him to mention this; though he is
　　well aware that the Verses must suffer from any connection in the
　　Reader's mind with a Name so illustrious_.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　THE HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE.
　　
　　 When the Brothers reach'd 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, 10
　　 Who of right had claim'd the Lordship
　　 By the proof upon the Horn:
　　 Each at the appointed hour
　　 Tried the Horn, it own'd 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. 20
　　 Hear, then, and neglect me not!
　　 At this time, and on this spot,
　　 The words are utter'd 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; 30
　　 Return, and sound the Horn, that we
　　 May have a living House still left in thee!"
　　
　　 "Fear not," quickly answer'd 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. 40
　　
　　 Side by side they fought (the Lucies
　　 Were a line for valour fam'd)
　　 And where'er their strokes alighted
　　 There the Saracens were tam'd.
　　 Whence, then, could it come the thought,
　　 By what evil spirit brought?
　　 Oh! can a brave Man wish to take
　　 His Brother's life, for Land's and Castle's sake?
　　
　　 "Sir!" the Ruffians said to Hubert,
　　 "Deep he lies in Jordan flood."-- 50
　　 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 vex'd him then;
　　 And oft returned, again, and yet again.
　　
　　 Months pass'd on, and no Sir Eustace!
　　 Nor of him were tidings heard.
　　 Wherefore, bold as day, the Murderer
　　 Back again to England steer'd. 60
　　 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; 70
　　 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 utter'd from the Horn,
　　 Where by the Castle-gate it hung forlorn. 80
　　
　　 '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 lodg'd, and thou be Lord.
　　
　　 Speak! astounded Hubert cannot;
　　 And if power to speak he had, 90
　　 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, ask'd forgiveness,
　　 Ask'd it by a Brother's name, 100
　　 And by all the saints in heaven;
　　 And of Eustace was forgiv'n:
　　 Then in a Convent went to hide
　　 His melancholy head, and there he died.
　　
　　 But Sir Eustace, whom good Angels
　　 Had preserv'd from Murderers' hands,
　　 And from Pagan chains had rescued,
　　 Liv'd with honour on his lands.
　　 Sons he had, saw Sons of theirs:
　　 And through ages, Heirs of Heirs, 110
　　 A long posterity renown'd,
　　 Sounded the Horn which they alone could sound.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　THE AFFLICTION of MARGARET ---- OF ----
　　
　　 * * * * *
　　
　　 Where art thou, my beloved Son,
　　 Where art thou, worse to me than dead?
　　 Oh find me prosperous or undone!
　　 Or, if the grave be now thy bed,
　　 Why am I ignorant of the same
　　 That I may rest; and neither blame,
　　 Nor sorrow may attend thy name?
　　
　　 Seven years, alas, to have received
　　 No tidings of an only child;
　　 To have despair'd, and have believ'd, 10
　　 And be for evermore beguil'd;
　　 Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!
　　 I catch at them, and then I miss;
　　 Was ever darkness like to this?
　　
　　 He was among the prime in worth,
　　 An object beauteous to behold;
　　 Well born, well bred; I sent him forth
　　 Ingenuous, innocent, and bold:
　　 If things ensued that wanted grace,
　　 As hath been said, they were not base; 20
　　 And never blush was on my face.
　　
　　 Ah! little doth the Young One dream,
　　 When full of play and childish cares,
　　 What power hath even his wildest scream,
　　 Heard by his Mother unawares!
　　 He knows it not, he cannot guess:
　　 Years to a Mother bring distress;
　　 But do not make her love the less.
　　
　　 Neglect me! no I suffer'd long
　　 From that ill thought; and being blind, 30
　　 Said, "Pride shall help me in my wrong;
　　 Kind mother have I been, as kind
　　 As ever breathed:" and that is true;
　　 I've wet my path with tears like dew,
　　 Weeping for him when no one knew.
　　
　　 My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,
　　 Hopeless of honour and of gain,
　　 Oh! do not dread thy mother's door;
　　 Think not of me with grief and pain:
　　 I now can see with better eyes; 40
　　 And worldly grandeur I despise,
　　 And fortune with her gifts and lies
　　
　　 Alas! the fowls of Heaven have wings,
　　 And blasts of Heaven will aid their flight;
　　 They mount, how short a voyage brings
　　 The Wanderers back to their delight!
　　 Chains tie us down by land and sea;
　　 And wishes, vain as mine, may be
　　 All that is left to comfort thee.
　　
　　 Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan, 50
　　 Maim'd, mangled by inhuman men;
　　 Or thou upon a Desart thrown
　　 Inheritest the Lion's Den;
　　 Or hast been summoned to the Deep,
　　 Thou, Thou and all thy mates, to keep
　　 An incommunicable sleep.
　　
　　 I look for Ghosts; but none will force
　　 Their way to me; 'tis falsely said
　　 That there was ever intercourse
　　 Betwixt the living and the dead; 60
　　 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. 70
　　
　　 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 KITTEN AND THE FALLING LEAVES.
　　
　　 * * * * *
　　
　　 That way look, my Infant, lo!
　　 What a pretty baby show!
　　 See the Kitten on the Wall,
　　 Sporting with the leaves that fall,
　　 Wither'd leaves, one, two, and three,
　　 From the lofty Elder-tree!
　　 Through the calm and frosty air
　　 Of this morning bright and fair,
　　 Eddying round and round they sink
　　 Softly, slowly: one might think, 10
　　 From the motions that are made,
　　 Every little leaf convey'd
　　 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 it's fellow
　　 Just as light and just as yellow; 20
　　 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; 30
　　 Quick as he in feats of art,
　　 Far beyond in joy of heart.
　　 Were her antics play'd 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! 40
　　
　　 'Tis a pretty Baby-treat;
　　 Nor, I deem, for me unmeet:
　　 Here, for neither Babe or me,
　　 Other Play-mate can I see.
　　 Of the countless living things,
　　 That with stir of feet and wings,
　　 (In the sun or under shade
　　 Upon bough or grassy blade)
　　 And with busy revellings,
　　 Chirp and song, and murmurings, 50
　　 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
　　 Travell'd into distant Lands;
　　 Others slunk to moor and wood,
　　 Far from human neighbourhood,
　　 And, among the Kinds that keep
　　 With us closer fellowship, 60
　　 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,
　　 Flutter'd, perch'd; into a round 70
　　 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 it's prime,
　　 They are sober'd by this time.
　　 If you look to vale or hill, 80
　　 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: 90
　　 Is it that they have a fear
　　 Of the dreary season near?
　　 Or that other pleasures be
　　 Sweeter even than gaiety?
　　
　　 Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell
　　 In the impenetrable cell
　　 Of the silent heart which Nature
　　 Furnishes to every Creature,
　　 Whatsoe'er we feel and know
　　 Too sedate for outward show, 100
　　 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! 110
　　 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.
　　 --Pleas'd by any random toy;
　　 By a Kitten's busy joy,
　　 Or an infant's laughing eye
　　 Sharing in the extacy; 120
　　 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.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　THE SEVEN SISTERS,
　　OR THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE.
　　
　　 * * * * *
　　
　　 Seven Daughters had Lord Archibald,
　　 All Children of one Mother:
　　 I could not say in one short day
　　 What love they bore each other,
　　 A Garland of seven Lilies wrought!
　　 Seven Sisters that together dwell;
　　 But he, bold Knight as ever fought,
　　 Their Father, took of them no thought,
　　 He loved the Wars so well.
　　 Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, 10
　　 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. 20
　　 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, 30
　　 Methinks you take small heed!
　　 Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
　　 The Solitude of Binnorie.
　　
　　 Away the seven fair Campbells fly,
　　 And, over Hill and Hollow,
　　 With menace proud, and insult loud,
　　 The youthful Rovers follow.
　　 Cried they, "Your Father loves to roam:
　　 Enough for him to find
　　 The empty House when he comes home; 40
　　 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; 50
　　 They ran, and with a desperate leap
　　 Together plung'd 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, 60
　　 Have risen from out the deep:
　　 The Fishers say, those Sisters fair
　　 By Faeries are all buried there,
　　 And there together sleep.
　　 Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully
　　 The Solitude of Binnorie.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　To H. C.,
　　
　　SIX YEARS OLD.
　　
　　 * * * * *
　　
　　 O Thou! whose fancies from afar are brought;
　　 Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel,
　　 And fittest to unutterable thought
　　 The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol;
　　 Thou Faery Voyager! that dost float
　　 In such clear water, that thy Boat
　　 May rather seem
　　 To brood on air than on an earthly stream;
　　 Suspended in a stream as clear as sky,
　　 Where earth and heaven do make one imagery; 10
　　 O blessed Vision! happy Child!
　　 That art so exquisitely wild,
　　 I think of thee with, many fears
　　 For what may be thy lot in future years.
　　
　　 I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest,
　　 Lord of thy house and hospitality;
　　 And grief, uneasy Lover! never rest
　　 But when she sate within the touch of thee.
　　
　　 Oh! too industrious folly!
　　 Oh! vain and causeless melancholy! 20
　　 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 tomorrow?
　　
　　 Thou art a Dew-drop, which, the morn brings forth,
　　 Not doom'd to jostle with unkindly shocks;
　　 Or to be trail'd along the soiling earth;
　　 A Gem that glitters while it lives, 30
　　 And no forewarning gives;
　　 But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife
　　 Slips in a moment out of life.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　_Among all lovely things my Love had been_
　　
　　 * * * * *
　　
　　 Among all lovely things my Love had been;
　　 Had noted well the stars, all flowers that grew
　　 About her home; but she had never seen
　　 A Glow-worm, never one, and this I knew.
　　
　　 While riding near her home one stormy night
　　 A single Glow-worm did I chance to espy;
　　 I gave a fervent welcome to the sight,
　　 And from my Horse I leapt; great joy had I.
　　
　　 Upon a leaf the Glow-worm did I lay,
　　 To bear it with me through the stormy night: 10
　　 And, as before, it shone without dismay;
　　 Albeit putting forth a fainter light.
　　
　　 When to the Dwelling of my Love I came,
　　 I went into the Orchard quietly;
　　 And left the Glow-worm, blessing it by name,
　　 Laid safely by itself, beneath a Tree.
　　
　　 The whole next day, I hoped, and hoped with fear;
　　 At night the Glow-worm shone beneath the Tree:
　　 I led my Lucy to the spot, "Look here!"
　　 Oh! joy it was for her, and joy for me! 20
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　_I travell'd among unknown Men_
　　
　　 * * * * *
　　
　　 I travell'd among unknown Men,
　　 In Lands beyond the Sea;
　　 Nor England! did I know till then
　　 What love I bore to thee.
　　
　　 'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
　　 Nor will I quit thy shore
　　 A second time; for still I seem
　　 To love thee more and more.
　　
　　 Among thy mountains did I feel
　　 The joy of my desire; 10
　　 And She I cherish'd turn'd her wheel
　　 Beside an English fire.
　　
　　 Thy mornings shew'd--thy nights conceal'd
　　 The bowers where Lucy play'd;
　　 And thine is, too, the last green field
　　 Which Lucy's eyes survey'd!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　ODE TO DUTY.
　　
　　 * * * * *
　　
　　 Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!
　　 O Duty! if that name thou love
　　 Who art a Light to guide, a Rod
　　 To check the erring, and reprove;
　　 Thou who art victory and law
　　 When empty terrors overawe;
　　 From vain temptations dost set free;
　　 From strife and from despair; a glorious ministry.
　　
　　 There are who ask not if thine eye
　　 Be on them; who, in love and truth, 10
　　 Where no misgiving is, rely
　　 Upon the genial sense of youth:
　　 Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot;
　　 Who do thy work, and know it not:
　　 May joy be theirs while life shall last!
　　 And Thou, if they should totter, teach them to stand fast!
　　
　　 Serene will be our days and bright,
　　 And happy will our nature be,
　　 When love is an unerring light,
　　 And joy its own security. 20
　　 And bless'd are they who in the main
　　 This faith, even now, do entertain:
　　 Live in the spirit of this creed;
　　 Yet find that other strength, according to their need.
　　
　　 I, loving freedom, and untried;
　　 No sport of every random gust,
　　 Yet being to myself a guide,
　　 Too blindly have reposed my trust:
　　 Resolved that nothing e'er should press
　　 Upon my present happiness, 30
　　 I shoved unwelcome tasks away;
　　 But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.
　　
　　 Through no disturbance of my soul,
　　 Or strong compunction in me wrought,
　　 I supplicate for thy controul;
　　 But in the quietness of thought:
　　 Me this uncharter'd freedom tires;
　　 I feel the weight of chance desires:
　　 My hopes no more must change their name,
　　 I long for a repose which ever is the same. 40
　　
　　 Yet not the less would I throughout
　　 Still act according to the voice
　　 Of my own wish; and feel past doubt
　　 That my submissiveness was choice:
　　 Not seeking in the school of pride
　　 For "precepts over dignified,"
　　 Denial and restraint I prize
　　 No farther than they breed a second Will more wise.
　　
　　 Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
　　 The Godhead's most benignant grace; 50
　　 Nor know we any thing so fair
　　 As is the smile upon thy face;
　　 Flowers laugh before thee on their beds;
　　 And Fragrance in thy footing treads;
　　 Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong;
　　 And the most ancient Heavens through Thee are fresh and strong.
　　
　　 To humbler functions, awful Power!
　　 I call thee: I myself commend
　　 Unto thy guidance from this hour;
　　 Oh! let my weakness have an end! 60
　　 Give unto me, made lowly wise,
　　 The spirit of self-sacrifice;
　　 The confidence of reason give;
　　 And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　POEMS COMPOSED DURING A TOUR, CHIEFLY ON FOOT.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　1. _BEGGARS_.
　　
　　 She had a tall Man's height, or more;
　　 No bonnet screen'd her from the heat;
　　 A long drab-colour'd Cloak she wore,
　　 A Mantle reaching to her feet:
　　 What other dress she had I could not know;
　　 Only she wore a Cap that was as white as snow.
　　
　　 In all my walks, through field or town,
　　 Such Figure had I never seen:
　　 Her face was of Egyptian brown:
　　 Fit person was she for a Queen, 10
　　 To head those ancient Amazonian files:
　　 Or ruling Bandit's Wife, among the Grecian Isles.
　　
　　 Before me begging did she stand,
　　 Pouring out sorrows like a sea;
　　 Grief after grief:--on English Land
　　 Such woes I knew could never be;
　　 And yet a boon I gave her; for the Creature
　　 Was beautiful to see; a Weed of glorious feature!
　　
　　 I left her, and pursued my way;
　　 And soon before me did espy 20
　　 A pair of little Boys at play,
　　 Chasing a crimson butterfly;
　　 The Taller follow'd with his hat in hand,
　　 Wreath'd round with yellow flow'rs, the gayest of the land.
　　
　　 The Other wore a rimless crown,
　　 With leaves of laurel stuck about:
　　 And they both follow'd up and down,
　　 Each whooping with a merry shout;
　　 Two Brothers seem'd they, eight and ten years old;
　　 And like that Woman's face as gold is like to gold. 30
　　
　　 They bolted on me thus, and lo!
　　 Each ready with a plaintive whine;
　　 Said I, "Not half an hour ago
　　 Your Mother has had alms of mine."
　　 "That cannot be," one answer'd, "She is dead."
　　 "Nay but I gave her pence, and she will buy you bread."
　　
　　 "She has been dead, Sir, many a day."
　　 "Sweet Boys, you're telling me a lie";
　　 "It was your Mother, as I say--"
　　 And in the twinkling of an eye, 40
　　 "Come, come!" cried one; and, without more ado,
　　 Off to some other play they both together flew.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　2. _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 all the heav'ns about thee ringing,
　　 Lift me, guide me, till I find
　　 That spot which seems so to thy mind!
　　
　　 I have walk'd through wildernesses dreary,
　　 And today my heart is weary;
　　 Had I now the soul of a Faery, 10
　　 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! 15
　　 Joyous as Morning,
　　 Thou art laughing and scorning;
　　 Thou hast a nest, for thy love and thy rest:
　　 And, though little troubled with sloth,
　　 Drunken Lark! thou would'st be loth 20
　　 To be such a Traveller as I.
　　 Happy, happy Liver!
　　 With a soul as strong as a mountain River,
　　 Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver,
　　 Joy and jollity be with us both!
　　 Hearing thee, or else some other,
　　 As merry a Brother,
　　 I on the earth will go plodding on,
　　 By myself, chearfully, till the day is done.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　3. _With how sad Steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the Sky_
　　
　　3.
　　
　　 "With how sad steps, O Moon thou climb'st the sky.
　　 How silently, and with how wan a face!" [2]
　　 Where art thou? Thou whom I have seen on high
　　 Running among the clouds a Wood-nymph's race?
　　 Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath's a sigh
　　 Which they would stifle, move at such a pace!
　　 The Northern Wind, to call thee to the chace,
　　 Must blow tonight his bugle horn. Had I
　　 The power of Merlin, Goddess! this should be
　　 And all the Stars, now shrouded up in heaven,
　　 Should sally forth to keep thee company.
　　 What strife would then be yours, fair Creatures, driv'n
　　 Now up, now down, and sparkling in your glee!
　　 But, Cynthia, should to Thee the palm be giv'n,
　　 Queen both for beauty and for majesty.
　　
　　
　　[Footnote 2: From a sonnet of Sir Philip Sydney.]
　　
　　
　　
　　4. ALICE FELL.
　　
　　
　　 The Post-boy drove with fierce career,
　　 For threat'ning clouds the moon had drown'd;
　　 When suddenly I seem'd to hear
　　 A moan, a lamentable sound.
　　
　　 As if the wind blew many ways
　　 I heard the sound, and more and more:
　　 It seem'd to follow with the Chaise,
　　 And still I heard it as before.
　　
　　 At length I to the Boy call'd out,
　　 He stopp'd his horses at the word; 10
　　 But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout,
　　 Nor aught else like it could be heard.
　　
　　 The Boy then smack'd his whip, and fast
　　 The horses scamper'd 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. 20
　　
　　 "My Cloak!" the word was last and first,
　　 And loud and bitterly she wept,
　　 As if her very heart would burst;
　　 And down from off the Chaise she leapt.
　　
　　 "What ails you, Child?" she sobb'd, "Look here!"
　　 I saw it in the wheel entangled,
　　 A weather beaten Rag as e'er
　　 From any garden scare-crow dangled.
　　
　　 'Twas twisted betwixt nave and spoke;
　　 Her help she lent, and with good heed 30
　　 Together we released the Cloak;
　　 A wretched, wretched rag indeed!
　　
　　 "And whither are you going, Child,
　　 To night along these lonesome ways?"
　　 "To Durham" answer'd 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. 40
　　
　　 "My Child, in Durham do you dwell?"
　　 She check'd 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 tatter'd Cloak.
　　
　　 The chaise drove on; our journey's end
　　 Was nigh; and, sitting by my side, 50
　　 As if she'd lost her only friend
　　 She wept, nor would be pacified.
　　
　　 Up to the Tavern-door we post;
　　 Of Alice and her grief I told;
　　 And I gave money to the Host,
　　 To buy a new Cloak for the old.
　　
　　 "And let it be of duffil grey,
　　 As warm a cloak as man can sell!"
　　 Proud Creature was she the next day,
　　 The little Orphan, Alice Fell! 60
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　5. RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE.
　　
　　 There was a roaring in the wind all night;
　　 The rain came heavily and fell in floods;
　　 But now the sun is rising calm and bright;
　　 The birds are singing in the distant woods;
　　 Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods;
　　 The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters;
　　 And all the air is fill'd 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 10
　　 The Hare is running races in her mirth;
　　 And with her feet she from the plashy earth
　　 Raises a mist; which, glittering in the sun,
　　 Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.
　　
　　 I was a Traveller then upon the moor;
　　 I saw the Hare that rac'd about with joy;
　　 I heard the woods, and distant waters, roar;
　　 Or heard them not, as happy as a Boy:
　　 The pleasant season did my heart employ:
　　 My old remembrances went from me wholly; 20
　　 And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy.
　　
　　 But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might
　　 Of joy in minds that can no farther go,
　　 As high as we have mounted in delight
　　 In our dejection do we sink as low,
　　 To me that morning did it happen so;
　　 And fears, and fancies, thick upon me came;
　　 Dim sadness, & blind thoughts I knew not nor could name.
　　
　　 I heard the Sky-lark singing in the sky;
　　 And I bethought me of the playful Hare: 30
　　 Even such a happy Child of earth am I;
　　 Even as these blissful Creatures do I fare;
　　 Far from the world I walk, and from all care;
　　 But there may come another day to me,
　　 Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty.
　　
　　 My whole life I have liv'd in pleasant thought,
　　 As if life's business were a summer mood;
　　 As if all needful things would come unsought
　　 To genial faith, still rich in genial good;
　　 But how can He expect that others should 40
　　 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 perish'd in its pride;
　　 Of Him who walk'd in glory and in joy
　　 Behind his plough, upon the mountain-side:
　　 By our own spirits are we deified;
　　 We Poets in our youth begin in gladness;
　　 But thereof comes in the end despondency and madness.
　　
　　 Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, 50
　　 A leading from above, a something given,
　　 Yet it befel, that, in this lonely place,
　　 When up and down my fancy thus was driven,
　　 And I with these untoward thoughts had striven,
　　 I saw a Man before me unawares:
　　 The oldest Man he seem'd that ever wore grey hairs.
　　
　　 My course I stopped as soon as I espied
　　 The Old Man in that naked wilderness:
　　 Close by a Pond, upon the further side,
　　 He stood alone: a minute's space I guess 60
　　 I watch'd him, he continuing motionless:
　　 To the Pool's further margin then I drew;
　　 He being all the while before me full in view.
　　
　　 As a huge Stone is sometimes seen to lie
　　 Couch'd 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 crawl'd forth, which on a shelf
　　 Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself. 70
　　
　　 Such seem'd this Man, not all alive nor dead,
　　 Nor all asleep; in his extreme old age:
　　 His body was bent double, feet and head
　　 Coming together in their pilgrimage;
　　 As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage
　　 Of sickness felt by him in times long past,
　　 A more than human weight upon his frame had cast.
　　
　　 Himself he propp'd, his body, limbs, and face,
　　 Upon a long grey Staff of shaven wood:
　　 And, still as I drew near with gentle pace, 80
　　 Beside the little pond or 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 conn'd,
　　 As if he had been reading in a book:
　　 And now such freedom as I could I took;
　　 And, drawing to his side, to him did say, 90
　　 "This morning gives us promise of a glorious day."
　　
　　 A gentle answer did the Old Man make,
　　 In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew:
　　 And him with further words I thus bespake,
　　 "What kind of work is that which you pursue?
　　 This is a lonesome place for one like you."
　　 He answer'd me with pleasure and surprize;
　　 And there was, while he spake, a fire about his eyes.
　　
　　 His words came feebly, from a feeble chest,
　　 Yet each in solemn order follow'd each, 100
　　 With something of a lofty utterance drest;
　　 Choice word, and measured phrase; above the reach
　　 Of ordinary men; a stately speech!
　　 Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use,
　　 Religious men, who give to God and Man their dues.
　　
　　 He told me that he to this pond had come
　　 To gather Leeches, being old and poor:
　　 Employment hazardous and wearisome!
　　 And he had many hardships to endure:
　　 From Pond to Pond he roam'd, from moor to moor, 110
　　 Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance:
　　 And in this way he gain'd an honest maintenance.
　　
　　 The Old Man still stood talking by my side;
　　 But now his voice to me was like a stream
　　 Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide;
　　 And the whole Body of the man did seem
　　 Like one whom I had met with in a dream;
　　 Or like a Man from some far region sent;
　　 To give me human strength, and strong admonishment.
　　
　　 My former thoughts return'd: the fear that kills; 120
　　 The hope that is unwilling to be fed;
　　 Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills;
　　 And mighty Poets in their misery dead.
　　 And now, not knowing what the Old Man had said,
　　 My question eagerly did I renew,
　　 "How is it that you live, and what is it you do?"
　　
　　 He with a smile did then his words repeat;
　　 And said, that, gathering Leeches, far and wide
　　 He travelled; stirring thus about his feet
　　 The waters of the Ponds where they abide. 130
　　 "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 seem'd to see him pace
　　 About the weary moors continually,
　　 Wandering about alone and silently.
　　 While I these thoughts within myself pursued,
　　 He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed. 140
　　
　　 And soon with this he other matter blended,
　　 Chearfully uttered, with demeanour kind,
　　 But stately in the main; and, when he ended,
　　 I could have laugh'd myself to scorn, to find
　　 In that decrepit Man so firm a mind.
　　 "God," said I, "be my help and stay secure;
　　 I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor."
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNETS.
　　
　　PREFATORY SONNET.
　　
　　 * * * * *
　　
　　 Nuns fret not at their Convent's narrow room;
　　 And Hermits are contented with their Cells;
　　 And Students with their pensive Citadels:
　　 Maids at the Wheel, the Weaver at his Loom,
　　 Sit blithe and happy; Bees that soar for bloom,
　　 High as the highest Peak of Furness Fells,
　　 Will murmur by the hour in Foxglove bells:
　　 In truth, the prison, unto which we doom
　　 Ourselves, no prison is: and hence to me,
　　 In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound
　　 Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground:
　　 Pleas'd if some Souls (for such there needs must be)
　　 Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
　　 Should find short solace there, as I have found.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　PART THE FIRST.
　　
　　 * * * * *
　　
　　MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS.
　　
　　1.
　　
　　 * * * * *
　　
　　 How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks
　　 The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood!
　　 An old place, full of many a lovely brood,
　　 Tall trees, green arbours, and ground flowers in flocks;
　　 And Wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks,
　　 Like to a bonny Lass, who plays her pranks
　　 At Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks,
　　 When she stands cresting the Clown's head, and mocks
　　 The crowd beneath her. Verily I think,
　　 Such place to me is sometimes like a dream
　　 Or map of the whole world: thoughts, link by link
　　 Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam
　　 Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink,
　　 And leap at once from the delicious stream.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　2.
　　
　　 * * * * *
　　
　　 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 enquiry? Neither friend nor foe
　　 She cares for; let her travel where she may,
　　 She finds familiar names, a beaten way
　　 Ever before her, and a wind to blow.
　　 Yet still I ask, what Haven is her mark?
　　 And, almost as it was when ships were rare,
　　 From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there
　　 Crossing the waters; doubt, and something dark,
　　 Of the old Sea some reverential fear,
　　 Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　3. COMPOSED after a Journey across THE HAMILTON HILLS, YORKSHIRE.
　　
　　
　　 Ere we had reach'd the wish'd-for place, night fell:
　　 We were too late at least by one dark hour,
　　 And nothing could we see of all that power
　　 Of prospect, whereof many thousands tell.
　　 The western sky did recompence us well
　　 With Grecian Temple, Minaret, and Bower;
　　 And, in one part, a Minster with its Tower
　　 Substantially distinct, a place for Bell
　　 Or Clock to toll from. Many a glorious pile
　　 Did we behold, sights that might well repay
　　 All disappointment! and, as such, the eye
　　 Delighted in them; but we felt, the while,
　　 We should forget them: they are of the sky,
　　 And from our earthly memory fade away.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　4.
　　
　　
　　 ...._they are of the sky,
　　 And from our earthly memory fade away_.
　　
　　 These words were utter'd in a pensive mood,
　　 Even while mine eyes were on that solemn sight:
　　 A contrast and reproach to gross delight,
　　 And life's unspiritual pleasures daily woo'd!
　　 But now upon this thought I cannot brood:
　　 It is unstable, and deserts me quite;
　　 Nor will I praise a Cloud, however bright,
　　 Disparaging Man's gifts, and proper food.
　　 The Grove, the sky-built Temple, and the Dome,
　　 Though clad in colours beautiful and pure,
　　 Find in the heart of man no natural home:
　　 The immortal Mind craves objects that endure:
　　 These cleave to it; from these it cannot roam,
　　 Nor they from it: their fellowship is secure.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　5. TO SLEEP.
　　
　　 O gentle Sleep! do they belong to thee,
　　 These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love
　　 To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove,
　　 A Captive never wishing to be free.
　　 This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to me
　　 A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove
　　 Upon a fretful rivulet, now above,
　　 Now on the water vex'd with mockery.
　　 I have no pain that calls for patience, no;
　　 Hence am I cross and peevish as a child:
　　 Am pleas'd 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.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　6. TO SLEEP.
　　
　　 A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by,
　　 One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
　　 Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
　　 Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;
　　 I've thought of all by turns; and still I lie
　　 Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies
　　 Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees;
　　 And the first Cuckoo's melancholy cry.
　　 Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
　　 And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
　　 So do not let me wear to night away:
　　 Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
　　 Come, blessed barrier betwixt day and day,
　　 Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　7. TO SLEEP.
　　
　　 Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep!
　　 And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names;
　　 The very sweetest words that fancy frames
　　 When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep!
　　 Dear bosom Child we call thee, that dost steep
　　 In rich reward all suffering; Balm that tames
　　 All anguish; Saint that evil thoughts and aims
　　 Takest away, and into souls dost creep,
　　 Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone;
　　 I surely not a man ungently made,
　　 Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost?
　　 Perverse, self-will'd to own and to disown,
　　 Mere Slave of them who never for thee pray'd,
　　 Still last to come where thou art wanted most!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　8.
　　
　　 With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh,
　　 Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed;
　　 Some lying fast at anchor in the road,
　　 Some veering up and down, one knew not why.
　　 A goodly Vessel did I then espy
　　 Come like a Giant from a haven broad;
　　 And lustily along the Bay she strode,
　　 Her tackling rich, and of apparel high.
　　 This Ship was nought to me, nor I to her,
　　 Yet I pursued her with a Lover's look;
　　 This Ship to all the rest did I prefer:
　　 When will she turn, and whither? She will brook
　　 No tarrying; where she comes the winds must stir:
　　 On went She, and due north her journey took.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　9. TO THE RIVER DUDDON.
　　
　　 O mountain Stream! the Shepherd and his Cot
　　 Are privileg'd Inmates of deep solitude:
　　 Nor would the nicest Anchorite exclude
　　 A Field or two of brighter green, or Plot
　　 Of tillage-ground, that seemeth like a spot
　　 Of stationary sunshine: thou hast view'd
　　 These only, Duddon! with their paths renew'd
　　 By fits and starts, yet this contents thee not.
　　 Thee hath some awful Spirit impell'd to leave,
　　 Utterly to desert, the haunts of men,
　　 Though simple thy Companions were and few;
　　 And through this wilderness a passage cleave
　　 Attended but by thy own Voice, save when
　　 The Clouds and Fowls of the air thy way pursue.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　10. FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO.
　　
　　 Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep pace,
　　 And I be undeluded, unbetray'd;
　　 For if of our affections none find grace
　　 In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God made
　　 The world which we inhabit? Better plea
　　 Love cannot have, than that in loving thee
　　 Glory to that eternal Peace is paid,
　　 Who such Divinity to thee imparts
　　 As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.
　　 His hope is treacherous only whose love dies
　　 With beauty, which is varying every hour;
　　 But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power
　　 Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower,
　　 That breathes on earth the air of paradise.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　11. 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:
　　 Heav'n-born, the Soul a heav'n-ward course must hold;
　　 Beyond the visible world She soars to seek,
　　 For what delights the sense is false and weak,
　　 Ideal Form, the universal mould.
　　 The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest
　　 In that which perishes: nor will he lend
　　 His heart to aught which doth on time depend.
　　 'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love,
　　 Which kills the soul: Love betters what is best,
　　 Even here below, but more in heaven above.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　12. 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,
　　 Which of its native self can nothing feed:
　　 Of good and pious works thou art the seed,
　　 Which quickens only where thou say'st it may:
　　 Unless thou shew to us thine own true way
　　 No man can find it: Father! thou must lead.
　　 Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind
　　 By which such virtue may in me be bred
　　 That in thy holy footsteps I may tread;
　　 The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind,
　　 That I may have the power to sing of thee,
　　 And sound thy praises everlastingly.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　13.
　　
　　_Written in very early Youth_.
　　
　　 Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.
　　 The Kine are couch'd upon the dewy grass;
　　 The Horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,
　　 Is up, and cropping yet his later meal:
　　 Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal
　　 O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky.
　　 Now, in this blank of things, a harmony
　　 Home-felt, and home-created seems to heal
　　 That grief for which the senses still supply
　　 Fresh food; for only then, when memory
　　 Is hush'd, am I at rest. My Friends, restrain
　　 Those busy cares that would allay my pain:
　　 Oh! leave me to myself; nor let me feel
　　 The officious touch that makes me droop again.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　14. COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE,
　　 Sept. 3, 1803.
　　
　　
　　 Earth has not any thing to shew more fair:
　　 Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
　　 A sight so touching in it's majesty:
　　 This City now doth like a garment wear
　　 The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
　　 Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
　　 Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
　　 All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
　　 Never did sun more beautifully steep
　　 In his first splendor valley, rock, or hill;
　　 Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
　　 The river glideth at his own sweet will:
　　 Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
　　 And all that mighty heart is lying still!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　15.
　　
　　 "Beloved Vale!" I said, "when I shall con
　　 Those many records of my childish years,
　　 Remembrance of myself and of my peers
　　 Will press me down: to think of what is gone
　　 Will be an awful thought, if life have one."
　　 But, when into the Vale I came, no fears
　　 Distress'd me; I look'd round, I shed no tears;
　　 Deep thought, or awful vision, I had none.
　　 By thousand petty fancies I was cross'd,
　　 To see the Trees, which I had thought so tall,
　　 Mere dwarfs; the Brooks so narrow, Fields so small.
　　 A Juggler's Balls old Time about him toss'd;
　　 I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed; and all
　　 The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　16.
　　
　　 Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne
　　 Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud,
　　 Nor view of him who sate thereon allow'd;
　　 But all the steps and ground about were strown
　　 With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone
　　 Ever put on; a miserable crowd,
　　 Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud,
　　 "Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan."
　　 I seem'd to mount those steps; the vapours gave
　　 Smooth way; and I beheld the face of one
　　 Sleeping alone within a mossy cave,
　　 With her face up to heaven; that seem'd to have
　　 Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone;
　　 A lovely Beauty in a summer grave!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　17. _To the_ ----.
　　
　　 Lady! the songs of Spring were in the grove
　　 While I was framing beds for winter flowers;
　　 While I was planting green unfading bowers,
　　 And shrubs to hang upon the warm alcove,
　　 And sheltering wall; and still, as fancy wove
　　 The dream, to time and nature's blended powers
　　 I gave this paradise for winter hours,
　　 A labyrinth Lady! which your feet shall rove.
　　 Yes! when the sun of life more feebly shines,
　　 Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn gloom
　　 Or of high gladness you shall hither bring;
　　 And these perennial bowers and murmuring pines
　　 Be gracious as the music and the bloom
　　 And all the mighty ravishment of Spring.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　18.
　　
　　 The world is too much with us; late and soon,
　　 Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
　　 Little we see in nature that is ours;
　　 We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
　　 This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
　　 The Winds that will be howling at all hours
　　 And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
　　 For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;
　　 It moves us not--Great God! I'd rather be
　　 A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
　　 So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
　　 Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
　　 Have sight of Proteus coming from the sea;
　　 Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　19.
　　
　　 It is a beauteous Evening, calm and free;
　　 The holy time is quiet as a Nun
　　 Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
　　 Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
　　 The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea:
　　 Listen! the mighty Being is awake
　　 And doth with his eternal motion make
　　 A sound like thunder--everlastingly.
　　 Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,
　　 If thou appear'st untouch'd by solemn thought,
　　 Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
　　 Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year;
　　 And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine,
　　 God being with thee when we know it not.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　20. TO THE MEMORY OF _RAISLEY CALVERT_.
　　
　　 Calvert! it must not be unheard by them
　　 Who may respect my name that I to thee
　　 Ow'd many years of early liberty.
　　 This care was thine when sickness did condemn
　　 Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem:
　　 That I, if frugal and severe, might stray
　　 Where'er I liked; and finally array
　　 My temples with the Muse's diadem.
　　 Hence, if in freedom I have lov'd the truth,
　　 If there be aught of pure, or good, or great,
　　 In my past verse; or shall be, in the lays
　　 Of higher mood, which now I meditate,
　　 It gladdens me, O worthy, short-lived Youth!
　　 To think how much of this will be thy praise.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　END OF THE FIRST PART.
　　
　　
　　
　　PART THE SECOND.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　SONNETS
　　
　　DEDICATED _TO LIBERTY_.
　　
　　
　　
　　1. COMPOSED BY THE _SEA-SIDE, near CALAIS_,
　　 August, 1802.
　　
　　
　　
　　 Fair Star of Evening, Splendor of the West,
　　 Star of my Country! on the horizon's brink
　　 Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink
　　 On England's bosom; yet well pleas'd to rest,
　　 Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest
　　 Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think,
　　 Should'st be my Country's emblem; and should'st wink,
　　 Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest
　　 In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spot
　　 Beneath thee, it is England; there it lies.
　　 Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot,
　　 One life, one glory! I, with many a fear
　　 For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs,
　　 Among Men who do not love her linger here.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　2. _CALAIS_, August, 1802.
　　
　　 Is it a Reed that's shaken by the wind,
　　 Or what is it that ye go forth to see?
　　 Lords, Lawyers, Statesmen, Squires of low degree,
　　 Men known, and men unknown, Sick, Lame, and Blind,
　　 Post forward all, like Creatures of one kind,
　　 With first-fruit offerings crowd to bend the knee
　　 In France, before the new-born Majesty.
　　 'Tis ever thus. Ye Men of prostrate mind!
　　 A seemly reverence may be paid to power;
　　 But that's a loyal virtue, never sown
　　 In haste, nor springing with a transient shower:
　　 When truth, when sense, when liberty were flown
　　 What hardship had it been to wait an hour?
　　 Shame on you, feeble Heads, to slavery prone!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　3. TO A FRIEND, COMPOSED NEAR CALAIS,
　　On the Road leading to Ardres, August 7th, 1802.
　　
　　 Jones! when from Calais southward you and I
　　 Travell'd on foot together; then this Way,
　　 Which I am pacing now, was like the May
　　 With festivals of new-born Liberty:
　　 A homeless sound of joy was in the Sky;
　　 The antiquated Earth, as one might say,
　　 Beat like the heart of Man: songs, garlands, play,
　　 Banners, and happy faces, far and nigh!
　　 And now, sole register that these things were,
　　 Two solitary greetings have I heard,
　　 "_Good morrow, Citizen_!" a hollow word,
　　 As if a dead Man spake it! Yet despair
　　 I feel not: happy am I as a Bird:
　　 Fair seasons yet will come, and hopes as fair.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　4.
　　
　　 I griev'd for Buonaparte, with a vain
　　 And an unthinking grief! the vital blood
　　 Of that Man's mind what can it be? What food
　　 Fed his first hopes? What knowledge could He gain?
　　 'Tis not in battles that from youth we train
　　 The Governor who must be wise and good,
　　 And temper with the sternness of the brain
　　 Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
　　 Wisdom doth live with children round her knees:
　　 Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk
　　 Man holds with week-day man in the hourly walk
　　 Of the mind's business: these are the degrees
　　 By which true Sway doth mount; this is the stalk
　　 True Power doth grow on; and her rights are these.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　5. _CALAIS_.
　　August 15th, 1802.
　　
　　 Festivals have I seen that were not names:
　　 This is young Buonaparte's natal day;
　　 And his is henceforth an established sway,
　　 Consul for life. With worship France proclaims
　　 Her approbation, and with pomps and games.
　　 Heaven grant that other Cities may be gay!
　　 Calais is not: and I have bent my way
　　 To the Sea-coast, noting that each man frames
　　 His business as he likes. Another time
　　 That was, when I was here long years ago:
　　 The senselessness of joy was then sublime!
　　 Happy is he, who, caring not for Pope,
　　 Consul, or King, can sound himself to know
　　 The destiny of Man, and live in hope.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　6. ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE _VENETIAN REPUBLIC_.
　　
　　 Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee;
　　 And was the safeguard of the West: the worth
　　 Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
　　 Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty.
　　 She was a Maiden City, bright and free;
　　 No guile seduced, no force could violate;
　　 And when She took unto herself a Mate
　　 She must espouse the everlasting Sea.
　　 And what if she had seen those glories fade,
　　 Those titles vanish, and that strength decay,
　　 Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid
　　 When her long life hath reach'd its final day:
　　 Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade
　　 Of that which once was great is pass'd away.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　7. _THE KING OF SWEDEN_.
　　
　　 The Voice of Song from distant lands shall call
　　 To that great King; shall hail the crowned Youth
　　 Who, taking counsel of unbending Truth,
　　 By one example hath set forth to all
　　 How they with dignity may stand; or fall,
　　 If fall they must. Now, whither doth it tend?
　　 And what to him and his shall be the end?
　　 That thought is one which neither can appal
　　 Nor chear him; for the illustrious Swede hath done
　　 The thing which ought to be: He stands _above_
　　 All consequences: work he hath begun
　　 Of fortitude, and piety, and love,
　　 Which all his glorious Ancestors approve:
　　 The Heroes bless him, him their rightful Son.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　8. _TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE_.
　　
　　 Toussaint, the most unhappy Man of Men!
　　 Whether the rural Milk-maid by her Cow
　　 Sing in thy hearing, or thou liest now
　　 Alone 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 chearful brow:
　　 Though fallen Thyself, never to rise again,
　　 Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind
　　 Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies;
　　 There's not a breathing of the common wind
　　 That will forget thee; thou hast great allies;
　　 Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
　　 And love, and Man's unconquerable mind.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　9.
　　
　　September 1st, 1802.
　　
　　
　　 We had a fellow-Passenger who came
　　 From Calais with us, gaudy in array,
　　 A Negro Woman like a Lady gay,
　　 Yet silent as a woman fearing blame;
　　 Dejected, meek, yea pitiably tame,
　　 She sate, from notice turning not away,
　　 But on our proffer'd kindness still did lay
　　 A weight of languid speech, or at the same
　　 Was silent, motionless in eyes and face.
　　 She was a Negro Woman driv'n from France,
　　 Rejected like all others of that race,
　　 Not one of whom may now find footing there;
　　 This the poor Out-cast did to us declare,
　　 Nor murmur'd at the unfeeling Ordinance.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　10. COMPOSED IN THE _VALLEY, near DOVER_,
　　On the Day of landing.
　　
　　 Dear fellow Traveller! here we are once more.
　　 The Cock that crows, the Smoke that curls, that sound
　　 Of Bells, those Boys that in yon meadow-ground
　　 In white sleev'd shirts are playing by the score,
　　 And even this little River's gentle roar,
　　 All, all are English. Oft have I look'd round
　　 With joy in Kent's green vales; but never found
　　 Myself so satisfied in heart before.
　　 Europe is yet in Bonds; but let that pass,
　　 Thought for another moment. Thou art free
　　 My Country! and 'tis joy enough and pride
　　 For one hour's perfect bliss, to tread the grass
　　 Of England once again, and hear and see,
　　 With such a dear Companion at my side.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　11.
　　
　　September, 1802.
　　
　　 Inland, within a hollow Vale, I stood,
　　 And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear,
　　 The Coast of France, the Coast of France how near!
　　 Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood.
　　 I shrunk, for verily the barrier flood
　　 Was like a Lake, or River bright and fair,
　　 A span of waters; yet what power is there!
　　 What mightiness for evil and for good!
　　 Even so doth God protect us if we be
　　 Virtuous and wise: Winds blow, and Waters roll,
　　 Strength to the brave, and Power, and Deity,
　　 Yet in themselves are nothing! One decree
　　 Spake laws to _them_, and said that by the Soul
　　 Only the Nations shall be great and free.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　12. THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE _SUBJUGATION OF SWITZERLAND_.
　　
　　 Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea,
　　 One of the Mountains; each a mighty Voice:
　　 In both from age to age Thou didst rejoice,
　　 They were thy chosen Music, Liberty!
　　 There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee
　　 Thou fought'st against Him; but hast vainly striven;
　　 Thou from thy Alpine Holds at length art driven,
　　 Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.
　　 Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft:
　　 Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left!
　　 For, high-soul'd Maid, what sorrow would it be
　　 That mountain Floods should thunder as before,
　　 And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
　　 And neither awful Voice be heard by thee!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　13. WRITTEN IN LONDON,
　　September, 1802.
　　
　　 O Friend! I know not which way I must look
　　 For comfort, being, as I am, opprest,
　　 To think that now our Life is only drest
　　 For shew; mean handywork of craftsman, cook,
　　 Or groom! We must run glittering like a Brook
　　 In the open sunshine, or we are unblest:
　　 The wealthiest man among us is the best:
　　 No grandeur now in nature or in book
　　 Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expence,
　　 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.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　14.
　　
　　_LONDON_, 1802.
　　
　　 Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour:
　　 England hath need of thee: she is a fen
　　 Of stagnant waters: altar, sword and pen,
　　 Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
　　 Have forfeited their ancient English dower
　　 Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
　　 Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
　　 And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
　　 Thy soul was like a Star and dwelt apart:
　　 Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea;
　　 Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
　　 So didst thou travel on life's common way,
　　 In chearful godliness; and yet thy heart
　　 The lowliest duties on itself did lay.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　15.
　　
　　 Great Men have been among us; hands that penn'd
　　 And tongues that utter'd wisdom, better none:
　　 The later Sydney, Marvel, Harrington,
　　 Young Vane, and others who call'd Milton Friend.
　　 These Moralists could act and comprehend:
　　 They knew how genuine glory was put on;
　　 Taught us how rightfully a nation shone
　　 In splendor: what strength was, that would not bend
　　 But in magnanimous meekness. France, 'tis strange,
　　 Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then.
　　 Perpetual emptiness! unceasing change!
　　 No single Volume paramount, no code,
　　 No master spirit, no determined road;
　　 But equally a want of Books and Men!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　16.
　　
　　 It is not to be thought of that the Flood
　　 Of British freedom, which to the open Sea
　　 Of the world's praise from dark antiquity
　　 Hath flowed, "with pomp of waters, unwithstood,"
　　 Road by which all might come and go that would,
　　 And bear out freights of worth to foreign lands;
　　 That this most famous Stream in Bogs and Sands
　　 Should perish; and to evil and to good
　　 Be lost for ever. In our Halls is hung
　　 Armoury of the invincible Knights of old:
　　 We must be free or die, who speak the tongue
　　 That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold
　　 Which Milton held. In every thing we are sprung
　　 Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　17.
　　
　　 When I have borne in memory what has tamed
　　 Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart
　　 When Men change Swords for Ledgers, and desert
　　 The Student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed
　　 I had, my Country! am I to be blamed?
　　 But, when I think of Thee, and what Thou art,
　　 Verily, in the bottom of my heart,
　　 Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.
　　 But dearly must we prize thee; we who find
　　 In thee a bulwark of the cause of men;
　　 And I by my affection was beguiled.
　　 What wonder, if a Poet, now and then,
　　 Among the many movements of his mind,
　　 Felt for thee as a Lover or a Child.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　18.
　　
　　October, 1803.
　　
　　 One might believe that natural miseries
　　 Had blasted France, and made of it a land
　　 Unfit for Men; and that in one great Band
　　 Her Sons were bursting forth, to dwell at ease.
　　 But 'tis a chosen soil, where sun and breeze
　　 Shed gentle favors; rural works are there;
　　 And ordinary business without care;
　　 Spot rich in all things that can soothe and please!
　　 How piteous then that there should be such dearth
　　 Of knowledge; that whole myriads should unite
　　 To work against themselves such fell despite:
　　 Should come in phrenzy and in drunken mirth,
　　 Impatient to put out the only light
　　 Of Liberty that yet remains on Earth!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　19.
　　
　　 There is a bondage which is worse to bear
　　 Than his who breathes, by roof, and floor, and wall,
　　 Pent in, a Tyrant's solitary Thrall:
　　 'Tis his who walks about in the open air,
　　 One of a Nation who, henceforth, must wear
　　 Their fetters in their Souls. For who could be,
　　 Who, even the best, in such condition, free
　　 From self-reproach, reproach which he must share
　　 With Human Nature? Never be it ours
　　 To see the Sun how brightly it will shine,
　　 And know that noble Feelings, manly Powers,
　　 Instead of gathering strength must droop and pine,
　　 And Earth with all her pleasant fruits and flowers
　　 Fade, and participate in Man's decline.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　20.
　　
　　October, 1803.
　　
　　 These times touch money'd Worldlings with dismay:
　　 Even rich men, brave by nature, taint the air
　　 With words of apprehension and despair:
　　 While tens of thousands, thinking on the affray,
　　 Men unto whom sufficient for the day
　　 And minds not stinted or untill'd are given,
　　 Sound, healthy Children of the God of Heaven,
　　 Are cheerful as the rising Sun in May.
　　 What do we gather hence but firmer faith
　　 That every gift of noble origin
　　 Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath;
　　 That virtue and the faculties within
　　 Are vital, and that riches are akin
　　 To fear, to change, to cowardice, and death!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　21.
　　
　　 England! the time is come when thou shouldst wean
　　 Thy heart from its emasculating food;
　　 The truth should now be better understood;
　　 Old things have been unsettled; we have seen
　　 Fair seed-time, better harvest might have been
　　 But for thy trespasses; and, at this day,
　　 If for Greece, Egypt, India, Africa,
　　 Aught good were destined, Thou wouldst step between.
　　 England! all nations in this charge agree:
　　 But worse, more ignorant in love and hate,
　　 Far, far more abject is thine Enemy:
　　 Therefore the wise pray for thee, though the freight
　　 Of thy offences be a heavy weight:
　　 Oh grief! that Earth's best hopes rest all with Thee!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　22.
　　
　　October, 1803.
　　
　　 When, looking on the present face of things,
　　 I see one Man, of Men the meanest too!
　　 Rais'd up to sway the World, to do, undo,
　　 With mighty Nations for his Underlings,
　　 The great events with which old story rings
　　 Seem vain and hollow; I find nothing great;
　　 Nothing is left which I can venerate;
　　 So that almost a doubt within me springs
　　 Of Providence, such emptiness at length
　　 Seems at the heart of all things. But, great God!
　　 I measure back the steps which I have trod,
　　 And tremble, seeing, as I do, the strength
　　 Of such poor Instruments, with thoughts sublime
　　 I tremble at the sorrow of the time.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　23. _TO THE MEN OF KENT_.
　　
　　October, 1803.
　　
　　 Vanguard of Liberty, ye Men of Kent,
　　 Ye Children of a Soil that doth advance
　　 It's haughty brow against the coast of France,
　　 Now is the time to prove your hardiment!
　　 To France be words of invitation sent!
　　 They from their Fields can see the countenance
　　 Of your fierce war, may ken the glittering lance.
　　 And hear you shouting forth your brave intent.
　　 Left single, in bold parley, Ye, of yore,
　　 Did from the Norman win a gallant wreath;
　　 Confirm'd the charters that were yours before;--
　　 No parleying now! In Britain is one breath;
　　 We all are with you now from Shore to Shore:--
　　 Ye Men of Kent, 'tis Victory or Death!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　24.
　　
　　October, 1803.
　　
　　 Six thousand Veterans practis'd in War's game,
　　 Tried Men, at Killicranky were array'd
　　 Against an equal Host that wore the Plaid,
　　 Shepherds and Herdsmen.--Like a whirlwind came
　　 The Highlanders, the slaughter spread like flame;
　　 And Garry thundering down his mountain-road
　　 Was stopp'd, 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.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　25. _ANTICIPATION_.
　　
　　October, 1803.
　　
　　 Shout, for a mighty Victory is won!
　　 On British ground the Invaders are laid low;
　　 The breath of Heaven has drifted them like snow,
　　 And left them lying in the silent sun,
　　 Never to rise again!--the work is done.
　　 Come forth, ye Old Men, now in peaceful show
　　 And greet your Sons! drums beat, and trumpets blow!
　　 Make merry, Wives! ye little Children stun
　　 Your Grandame's ears with pleasure of your noise!
　　 Clap, Infants, clap your hands! Divine must be
　　 That triumph, when the very worst, the pain,
　　 And even the prospect of our Brethren slain,
　　 Hath something in it which the heart enjoys:--
　　 In glory will they sleep and endless sanctity.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　26.
　　
　　November, 1803.
　　
　　 Another year!--another deadly blow!
　　 Another mighty Empire overthrown!
　　 And we are left, or shall be left, alone;
　　 The last that dares to struggle with the Foe.
　　 'Tis well! from this day forward we shall know
　　 That in ourselves our safety must be sought;
　　 That by our own right hands it must be wrought,
　　 That we must stand unpropp'd, or be laid low.
　　 O Dastard whom such foretaste doth not chear!
　　 We shall exult, if They who rule the land
　　 Be Men who hold its many blessings dear,
　　 Wise, upright, valiant; not a venal Band,
　　 Who are to judge of danger which they fear,
　　 And honour which they do not understand.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　_NOTES to the FIRST VOLUME_
　　
　　
　　_NOTES_.
　　
　　
　　NOTE I.
　　
　　PAGE I (9).--_To the Daisy_. This Poem, and two others to the same
　　Flower, which the Reader will find in the second Volume, were
　　written in the year 1802; which is mentioned, because in some of the
　　ideas, though not in the manner in which those ideas are connected,
　　and likewise even in some of the expressions, they bear a striking
　　resemblance to a Poem (lately published) of Mr. Montgomery, entitled,
　　a Field Flower. This being said, Mr. Montgomery will not think any
　　apology due to him; I cannot however help addressing him in the
　　words of the Father of English Poets.
　　
　　 'Though it happe me to rehersin--
　　 That ye han in your freshe song is saied,
　　 Forberith me, and beth not ill apaied,
　　 Sith that ye se I doe it in the honour
　　 Of Love, and eke in service of the Flour.'
　　
　　
　　NOTE II.
　　
　　PAGE 35 (43); line 13.--
　　
　　 ".... persevering to the last,
　　 From well to better."
　　
　　 'For Knightes ever should be persevering
　　 To seek honour without feintise or slouth
　　 Fro wele to better in all manner thing.'
　　 CHAUCER:--_The Floure and the Leafe_.
　　
　　
　　
　　NOTE III.
　　
　　PAGE 37 (45).--_The Horn of Egremont Castle_. This Story is a
　　Cumberland tradition; I have heard it also related of the Hall of
　　Hutton John an ancient residence of the Huddlestones, in a
　　sequestered Valley upon the River Dacor.
　　
　　
　　
　　NOTE IV.
　　
　　PAGE 58 (64).--_The Seven Sisters_. The Story of this Poem is from
　　the German of FREDERICA BRUN.
　　
　　
　　
　　NOTE V.
　　
　　Page 63 (71); line 6.--
　　
　　 ".... that thy Boat
　　 May rather seem
　　 To brood on air," _&c. &c._
　　
　　See Carver's Description of his Situation upon one of the Lakes of
　　America.
　　
　　
　　
　　NOTE VI.
　　
　　PAGE 112 (120); line 8.--"Her tackling rich, and of apparel high."
　　From a passage in Skelton, which I cannot here __insert__, not having
　　the Book at hand.
　　
　　
　　
　　NOTE VII.
　　
　　PAGE 150 (158); line 11.--"Oh! for a single hour of that Dundee."
　　See an anecdote related in Mr. Scott's Border Minstrelsy.
　　
　　
　　
　　NOTE VIII.
　　
　　PAGE 152 (160); lines 13 and 14.--
　　
　　 "Who are to judge of danger which they fear
　　 And honour which they do not understand."
　　
　　These two lines from Lord Brooke's Life of Sir Philip Sydney.

　　POEMS WRITTEN DURING A TOUR IN SCOTLAND.
　　
　　1. _Rob Roy's Grave_
　　2. _The solitary Reaper_
　　3. _Stepping Westward_
　　4. _Glen-Almain, or the Narrow Glen_
　　5. _The Matron of Jedborough and her Husband_
　　6. _To a Highland Girl_
　　7. _Sonnet_
　　8. _Address to the Sons of Burns after visiting
　　 their Father's Grave, Aug. 14th, 1803_
　　9. _Yarrow unvisited_
　　
　　MOODS OF MY OWN MIND.
　　
　　1. _To a Butterfly_
　　2.
　　3.
　　4.
　　5. _Written in March while resting on the
　　 Bridge at the Foot of Brother's Water_
　　6. _The small Celandine_
　　7.
　　8.
　　9. _The Sparrow's Nest_
　　10. _Gipsies_
　　11. _To the Cuckoo_
　　12. _To a Butterfly_
　　13.
　　
　　THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY.
　　
　　_The Blind Highland Boy
　　The Green Linnet
　　To a Young Lady, who had been reproached
　　for taking long Walks in the Country
　　By their floating Mill, &c
　　Star-gazers
　　Power of Music
　　To the Daisy
　　To the same Flower
　　Incident, characteristic of a favourite Dog,
　　which belonged to a Friend of the Author
　　Tribute to the Memory of the same Dog_
　　
　　_Sonnet
　　Sonnet
　　Sonnet
　　Sonnet to Thomas Clarkson
　　Once in a lonely Hamlet, &c
　　Foresight, or the Charge of a Child to his
　　younger Companion
　　A Complaint
　　I am not One, &c
　　Yes! full surely 'twas the Echo, &c
　　To the Spade of a Friend
　　Song, at the Feast of Brougham Castle
　　Lines, composed at Grasmere
　　Elegaic Stanzas
　　Ode
　　Notes_
　　
　　
　　POEMS _WRITTEN DURING A TOUR_ IN SCOTLAND.
　　
　　_ROB ROY's GRAVE_.
　　
　　 The History of Rob Roy is sufficiently known; his Grave
　　 is near the head of Loch Ketterine, in one of those small
　　 Pin-fold-like Burial-grounds, of neglected and desolate
　　 appearance, which the Traveller meets with in the
　　 Highlands of Scotland.
　　
　　
　　 A famous Man is Robin Hood,
　　 The English Ballad-singer's joy!
　　 And Scotland has a Thief as good,
　　 An Outlaw of as daring mood,
　　 She has her brave ROB ROY!
　　 Then clear the weeds from off his Grave,
　　 And let us chaunt a passing Stave
　　 In honour of that Hero brave!
　　
　　 Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart,
　　 And wondrous length and strength of arm: 10
　　 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;--
　　 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. 20
　　
　　 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 controul!
　　 And for the law itself we fight
　　 In bitterness of soul."
　　
　　 "And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose
　　 Distinctions that are plain and few: 30
　　 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." 40
　　
　　 "A lesson which is quickly learn'd,
　　 A signal this which all can see!
　　 Thus nothing here provokes the Strong
　　 To wanton cruelty."
　　
　　 "All freakishness of mind is check'd;
　　 He tam'd, 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: 50
　　 Tis God's appointment who must sway,
　　 And who is to submit."
　　
　　 "Since then," said Robin, "right is plain,
　　 And longest life is but a day;
　　 To have my ends, maintain my rights,
　　 I'll take the shortest way."
　　
　　 And thus among these rocks he liv'd,
　　 Through summer's heat and winter's snow:
　　 The Eagle, he was Lord above,
　　 And Rob was Lord below. 60
　　
　　 So was it--_would_, at least, have been
　　 But through untowardness of fate:
　　 For Polity was then too strong;
　　 He came an age too late,
　　
　　 Or shall we say an age too soon?
　　 For, were the bold Man living _now_,
　　 How might he flourish in his pride,
　　 With buds on every bough!
　　
　　 Then rents and Factors, rights of chace,
　　 Sheriffs, and Lairds and their domains 70
　　 Would all have seem'd but paltry things,
　　 Not worth a moment's pains.
　　
　　 Rob Roy had never linger'd here,
　　 To these few meagre Vales confin'd;
　　 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!" 80
　　
　　 "Tis fit that we should do our part;
　　 Becoming, that mankind should learn
　　 That we are not to be surpass'd
　　 In fatherly concern."
　　
　　 "Of old things all are over old,
　　 Of good things none are good enough:--
　　 We'll shew that we can help to frame
　　 A world of other stuff."
　　
　　 "I, too, will have my Kings that take
　　 From me the sign of life and death: 90
　　 Kingdoms shall shift about, like clouds,
　　 Obedient to my breath."
　　
　　 And, if the word had been fulfill'd,
　　 As _might_ have been, then, thought of joy!
　　 France would have had her present Boast;
　　 And we our brave Rob Roy!
　　
　　 Oh! say not so; compare them not;
　　 I would not wrong thee, Champion brave!
　　 Would wrong thee no where; least of all
　　 Here standing by thy Grave. 100
　　
　　 For Thou, although with some wild thoughts,
　　 Wild Chieftain of a Savage Clan!
　　 Hadst this to boast of; thou didst love
　　 The _liberty_ of Man.
　　
　　 And, had it been thy lot to live
　　 With us who now behold the light,
　　 Thou would'st have nobly stirr'd thyself,
　　 And battled for the Right.
　　
　　 For Robin was the poor Man's stay
　　 The poor man's heart, the poor man's hand; 110
　　 And all the oppress'd, who wanted strength,
　　 Had Robin's to 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;
　　 And kindle, like a fire new stirr'd,
　　 At sound of ROB ROY's name. 120
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　2. _THE SOLITARY REAPER_.
　　
　　
　　 Behold her, single in the field,
　　 Yon solitary Highland Lass!
　　 Reaping and singing by herself;
　　 Stop here, or gently pass!
　　 Alone she cuts, and binds the grain,
　　 And sings a melancholy strain;
　　 O listen! for the Vale profound
　　 Is overflowing with the sound.
　　
　　 No Nightingale did ever chaunt
　　 So sweetly to reposing bands 10
　　 Of Travellers in some shady haunt,
　　 Among Arabian Sands:
　　 No sweeter voice was ever heard
　　 In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
　　 Breaking the silence of the seas
　　 Among the farthest Hebrides.
　　
　　 Will no one tell me what she sings?
　　 Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
　　 For old, unhappy, far-off things,
　　 And battles long ago: 20
　　 Or is it some more humble lay,
　　 Familiar matter of today?
　　 Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
　　 That has been, and may be again!
　　
　　 Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sung
　　 As if her song could have no ending;
　　 I saw her singing at her work,
　　 And o'er the sickle bending;
　　 I listen'd till I had my fill;
　　 And, as I mounted up the hill, 30
　　 The music in my heart I bore,
　　 Long after it was heard no more.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　3. _STEPPING WESTWARD_.
　　
　　 While my Fellow-traveller and I were walking by the side of
　　 Loch Ketterine, one fine evening after sun-set, in our
　　 road to a Hut where in the course of our Tour we had
　　 been hospitably entertained some weeks before, we met,
　　 in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary region,
　　 two well dressed Women, one of whom said to us, by
　　 way of greeting, "What you are stepping westward?"
　　
　　
　　 _"What you are stepping westward?"--"Yea_."
　　 --'Twould be a wildish destiny,
　　 If we, who thus together roam
　　 In a strange Land, and far from home,
　　 Were in this place the guests of Chance:
　　 Yet who would stop, or fear to advance,
　　 Though home or shelter he had none,
　　 With such a Sky to lead him on?
　　
　　 The dewy ground was dark and cold;
　　 Behind, all gloomy to behold; 10
　　 And stepping westward seem'd to be
　　 A kind of _heavenly_ destiny;
　　 I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound
　　 Of something without place or bound;
　　 And seem'd 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: 20
　　 It's power was felt; and while my eye
　　 Was fixed upon the glowing sky,
　　 The echo of the voice enwrought
　　 A human sweetness with the thought
　　 Of travelling through the world that lay
　　 Before me in my endless way.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　4. _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 sudely heap'd, and rent
　　 As by a spirit turbulent; 10
　　 Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,
　　 And every thing unreconciled;
　　 In some complaining, dim retreat,
　　 For fear and melancholy meet;
　　 But this is calm; there cannot be
　　 A more entire tranquillity.
　　
　　 Does then the Bard sleep here indeed?
　　 Or is it but a groundless creed?
　　 What matters it? I blame them not
　　 Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot 20
　　 Was moved; and in this way express'd
　　 Their notion of it's 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
　　 And happy feelings of the dead:
　　 And, therefore, was it rightly said 30
　　 That Ossian, last of all his race!
　　 Lies buried in this lonely place.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　5. _THE MATRON OF JEDBOROUGH AND HER HUSBAND_.
　　
　　
　　 At Jedborough we went into private Lodgings for a few
　　 days; and the following Verses were called forth by
　　 the character, and domestic situation, of our Hostess.
　　
　　
　　 Age! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers!
　　 And call a train of laughing Hours;
　　 And bid them dance, and bid them sing;
　　 And Thou, too, mingle in the Ring!
　　 Take to thy heart a new delight;
　　 If not, make merry in despite!
　　 For there is one who scorns thy power.
　　 --But dance! for under Jedborough Tower
　　 There liveth in the prime of glee,
　　 A Woman, whose years are seventy-three, 10
　　 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: 20
　　 His world is in this single room:
　　 Is this a place for mirth and cheer?
　　 Can merry-making enter here?
　　
　　 The joyous Woman is the Mate
　　 Of Him in that forlorn estate!
　　 He breathes a subterraneous damp,
　　 But bright as Vesper shines her lamp:
　　 He is as mute as Jedborough Tower;
　　 She jocund as it was of yore,
　　 With all it's bravery on; in times, 30
　　 When, all alive with merry chimes,
　　 Upon a sun-bright morn of May,
　　 It rouz'd 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; 40
　　 A strength unthought of heretofore!
　　 Delighted am I for thy sake;
　　 And yet a higher joy partake.
　　 Our Human-nature throws away
　　 It's second Twilight, and looks gay:
　　 A Land of promise and of pride
　　 Unfolding, wide as life is wide.
　　
　　 Ah! see her helpless Charge! enclos'd
　　 Within himself, as seems; compos'd;
　　 To fear of loss, and hope of gain, 50
　　 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; 60
　　 An animal delight though dim!
　　 'Tis all that now remains for him!
　　
　　 I look'd, I scann'd her o'er and o'er;
　　 The more I look'd I wonder'd more:
　　 When suddenly I seem'd to espy
　　 A trouble in her strong black eye;
　　 A remnant of uneasy light,
　　 A flash of something over-bright!
　　 And soon she made this matter plain;
　　 And told me, in a thoughtful strain, 70
　　 That she had borne a heavy yoke,
　　 Been stricken by a twofold stroke;
　　 Ill health of body; and had pin'd
　　 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 call'd for thee a second Spring;
　　 Repaid thee for that sore distress
　　 By no untimely joyousness; 80
　　 Which makes of thine a blissful state;
　　 And cheers thy melancholy Mate!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　6. _TO A HIGHLAND GIRL_.
　　
　　(At Inversneyde, upon Loch Lomond.)
　　
　　
　　 Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
　　 Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
　　 Twice seven consenting years have shed
　　 Their utmost bounty on thy head:
　　 And these 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; 10
　　 In truth together ye do seem
　　 Like something fashion'd 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 fill'd with tears.
　　
　　 With earnest feeling I shall pray 20
　　 For thee when I am far away:
　　 For never saw I mien, or face,
　　 In which more plainly I could trace
　　 Benignity and home-bred sense
　　 Ripening in perfect innocence.
　　 Here, scatter'd like a random seed,
　　 Remote from men, Thou dost not need
　　 The embarrass'd look of shy distress,
　　 And maidenly shamefacedness:
　　
　　 Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear 30
　　 The freedom of a Mountaineer.
　　 A face with gladness overspread!
　　 Sweet looks, by human kindness bred!
　　 And seemliness complete, that sways
　　 Thy courtesies, about thee plays;
　　 With no restraint, but such as springs
　　 From quick and eager visitings
　　 Of thoughts, that lie beyond the reach
　　 Of thy few words of English speech:
　　 A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife 40
　　 That gives thy gestures grace and life!
　　 So have I, not unmov'd in mind,
　　 Seen birds of tempest-loving kind,
　　 Thus beating up against the wind.
　　
　　 What hand but would a garland cull
　　 For thee who art so beautiful?
　　 O happy pleasure! here to dwell
　　 Beside thee in some heathy dell;
　　 Adopt your homely ways and dress,
　　 A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess! 50
　　 But I could frame a wish for thee
　　 More like a grave reality:
　　 Thou art to me but as a wave
　　 Of the wild sea; and I would have
　　 Some claim upon thee, if I could,
　　 Though but of common neighbourhood.
　　 What joy to hear thee, and to see!
　　 Thy elder Brother I would be,
　　 Thy Father, any thing to thee!
　　
　　 Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace 60
　　 Hath led me to this lonely place.
　　 Joy have I had; and going hence
　　 I bear away my recompence.
　　 In spots like these it is we prize
　　 Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes:
　　 Then, why should I be loth to stir?
　　 I feel this place was made for her;
　　 To give new pleasure like the past,
　　 Continued long as life shall last.
　　 Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, 70
　　 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!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　7. _SONNET_.
　　 (Composed at ---- Castle.)
　　
　　
　　 Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy Lord!
　　 Whom mere despite of heart could so far please,
　　 And love of havoc (for with such disease
　　 Fame taxes him) that he could send forth word
　　 To level with the dust a noble horde,
　　 A brotherhood of venerable Trees,
　　 Leaving an ancient Dome, and Towers like these,
　　 Beggared and outraged!--Many hearts deplor'd
　　 The fate of those old Trees; and oft with pain
　　 The Traveller, at this day, will stop and gaze
　　 On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:
　　 For shelter'd places, bosoms, nooks and bays,
　　 And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,
　　 And the green silent pastures, yet remain.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　8. ADDRESS _TO THE SONS OF BURNS_
　　 after visiting their Father's Grave (August 14th, 1803.)
　　
　　
　　 Ye now are panting up life's hill!
　　 'Tis twilight time of good and ill,
　　 And more than common strength and skill
　　 Must ye display
　　 If ye would give the better will
　　 Its lawful sway.
　　
　　 Strong bodied if ye be to bear
　　 Intemperance with less harm, beware!
　　 But if your Father's wit ye share,
　　 Then, then indeed, 10
　　 Ye Sons of Burns! for watchful care
　　 There will be need.
　　
　　 For honest men delight will take
　　 To shew you favor for his sake,
　　 Will flatter you; and Fool and Rake
　　 Your steps pursue:
　　 And of your Father's name will make
　　 A snare for you.
　　
　　 Let no mean hope your souls enslave;
　　 Be independent, generous, brave! 20
　　 Your Father such example gave,
　　 And such revere!
　　 But be admonish'd by his Grave,
　　 And think, and fear!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　9. _YARROW UNVISITED_.
　　
　　 (See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon the
　　 Banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite Ballad
　　 of Hamilton, beginning:
　　 "Busk ye, busk ye my bonny, bonny Bride,
　　 Busk ye, busk ye my winsome Marrow!"--)
　　
　　
　　 From Stirling Castle we had seen
　　 The mazy Forth unravell'd;
　　 Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
　　 And with the Tweed had travell'd;
　　 And, when we came to Clovenford,
　　 Then said my '_winsome Marrow_',
　　 "Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
　　 And see the Braes of Yarrow."
　　
　　 "Let Yarrow Folk, _frae_ Selkirk Town,
　　 Who have been buying, selling, 10
　　 Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own,
　　 Each Maiden to her Dwelling!
　　 On Yarrow's Banks let herons feed,
　　 Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!
　　 But we will downwards with the Tweed,
　　 Nor turn aside to Yarrow."
　　
　　 "There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
　　 Both lying right before us;
　　 And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed
　　 The Lintwhites sing in chorus; 20
　　 There's pleasant Tiviot Dale, a land
　　 Made blithe with plough and harrow;
　　 Why throw away a needful day
　　 To go in search of Yarrow?"
　　
　　 "What's Yarrow but a River bare
　　 That glides the dark hills under?
　　 There are a thousand such elsewhere
　　 As worthy of your wonder."
　　 --Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn;
　　 My True-love sigh'd for sorrow; 30
　　 And look'd me in the face, to think
　　 I thus could speak of Yarrow!
　　
　　 "Oh! green," said I, "are Yarrow's Holms,
　　 And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
　　 Fair hangs the apple frae the rock [1],
　　 But we will leave it growing.
　　 O'er hilly path, and open Strath,
　　 We'll wander Scotland thorough;
　　 But, though so near, we will not turn
　　 Into the Dale of Yarrow." 40
　　
　　 [Footnote 1: See Hamilton's Ballad as above.]
　　
　　 "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,
　　 Today, nor yet tomorrow;
　　 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: 50
　　 We have a vision of our own;
　　 Ah! why should we undo it?
　　 The treasured dreams of times long past
　　 We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!
　　 For when we're there although 'tis fair
　　 'Twill be another Yarrow!"
　　
　　 "If Care with freezing years should come,
　　 And wandering seem but folly,
　　 Should we be loth to stir from home,
　　 And yet be melancholy; 60
　　 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!"
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　MOODS OF MY OWN MIND.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　1. _TO A BUTTERFLY_.
　　
　　
　　 Stay near me--do not take thy flight!
　　 A little longer stay in sight!
　　 Much converse do I find in Thee,
　　 Historian of my Infancy!
　　 Float near me; do not yet depart!
　　 Dead times revive in thee:
　　 Thou bring'st, gay Creature as thou art!
　　 A solemn image to my heart,
　　 My Father's Family!
　　
　　 Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,
　　 The time, when in our childish plays
　　 My sister Emmeline and I
　　 Together chaced the Butterfly!
　　 A very hunter did I rush
　　 Upon the prey:--with leaps and springs
　　 I follow'd on from brake to bush;
　　 But She, God love her! feared to brush
　　 The dust from off its wings.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　2.
　　
　　
　　 The Sun has long been set:
　　 The Stars are out by twos and threes;
　　 The little Birds are piping yet
　　 Among the bushes and trees;
　　 There's a Cuckoo, and one or two thrushes;
　　 And a noise of wind that rushes,
　　 With a noise of water that gushes;
　　 And the Cuckoo's sovereign cry
　　 Fills all the hollow of the sky!
　　
　　 Who would go "parading" 10
　　 In London, and "masquerading,"
　　 On such a night of June?
　　 With that beautiful soft half-moon,
　　 And all these innocent blisses,
　　 On such a night as this is!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　3.
　　
　　
　　 O Nightingale! thou surely art
　　 A Creature of a fiery heart--
　　 These notes of thine they pierce, and pierce;
　　 Tumultuous harmony and fierce!
　　 Thou sing'st as if the God of wine
　　 Had help'd 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! 10
　　
　　 I heard a Stockdove 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 coo'd--and coo'd;
　　 And somewhat pensively he woo'd:
　　 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! 20
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　4.
　　
　　
　　 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.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　5. _WRITTEN IN MARCH_,
　　 While resting on the Bridge at the Foot of Brother's Water.
　　
　　
　　 The cook is crowing,
　　 The stream is flowing,
　　 The small birds twitter,
　　 The lake doth glitter,
　　 The green field sleeps in the sun;
　　 The oldest and youngest
　　 Are at work with the strongest;
　　 The cattle are grazing,
　　 Their heads never raising;
　　 There are forty feeding like one! 10
　　 Like an army defeated
　　 The Snow hath retreated,
　　 And now doth fare ill
　　 On the top of the bare hill;
　　 The Plough-boy is whooping--anon--anon:
　　 There's joy in the mountains;
　　 There's life in the fountains;
　　 Small clouds are sailing,
　　 Blue sky prevailing;
　　 The rain is over and gone! 20
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　6. _THE SMALL CELANDINE_.
　　 Common Pilewort.
　　
　　 There is a Flower, the Lesser Celandine,
　　 That shrinks, like many more, from cold and rain;
　　 And, the first moment that the sun may shine,
　　 Bright as the sun itself, 'tis out again!
　　
　　 When hailstones have been falling swarm on swarm,
　　 Or blasts the green field and the trees distress'd,
　　 Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm,
　　 In close self-shelter, like a Thing at rest.
　　
　　 But lately, one rough day, this Flower I pass'd,
　　 And recognized it, though an alter'd Form, 10
　　 Now standing forth an offering to the Blast,
　　 And buffetted at will by Rain and Storm,
　　
　　 I stopp'd, and said with inly muttered voice,
　　 "It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold:
　　 This neither is it's courage nor it's choice,
　　 But it's necessity in being old."
　　
　　 The sunshine may not bless it, nor the dew;
　　 It cannot help itself in it's decay;
　　 Stiff in it's members, wither'd, changed of hue.
　　 And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was grey. 20
　　
　　 To be a Prodigal's Favorite--then, worse truth,
　　 A Miser's Pensioner--behold our lot!
　　 O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth
　　 Age might but take the things Youth needed not!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　7.
　　
　　
　　 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 dancing Daffodills;
　　 Along the Lake, beneath the trees,
　　 Ten thousand dancing in the breeze.
　　
　　 The waves beside them danced, but they
　　 Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:--
　　 A Poet could not but be gay
　　 In such a laughing company: 10
　　 I gaz'd--and gaz'd--but little thought
　　 What wealth the shew to me had brought:
　　
　　 For oft when on my couch I lie
　　 In vacant or in pensive mood,
　　 They flash upon that inward eye
　　 Which is the bliss of solitude,
　　 And then my heart with pleasure fills,
　　 And dances with the Daffodils.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　8.
　　
　　
　　 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 ask'd--'twas whisper'd, The device
　　 To each or 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.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　9. _THE SPARROW'S NEST_.
　　
　　
　　 Look, five blue eggs are gleaming there!
　　 Few visions have I seen more fair,
　　 Nor many prospects of delight
　　 More pleasing than that simple sight!
　　 I started seeming to espy
　　 The home and shelter'd bed,
　　 The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by
　　 My Father's House, in wet or dry,
　　 My Sister Emmeline and I
　　 Together visited. 10
　　
　　 She look'd at it as if she fear'd 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. 20
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　10. _GIPSIES_.
　　
　　
　　 Yet are they here?--the same unbroken knot
　　 Of human Beings, in the self-same spot!
　　 Men, Women, Children, yea the frame
　　 Of the whole Spectacle the same!
　　 Only their fire seems bolder, yielding light:
　　 Now deep and red, the colouring of night;
　　 That on their Gipsy-faces falls,
　　 Their bed of straw and blanket-walls.
　　 --Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours, are gone while I
　　 Have been a Traveller under open sky, 10
　　 Much witnessing of change and chear,
　　 Yet as I left I find them here!
　　
　　 The weary Sun betook himself to rest.
　　 --Then issued Vesper from the fulgent West,
　　 Outshining like a visible God
　　 The glorious path in which he trod.
　　 And now, ascending, after one dark hour,
　　 And one night's diminution of her power,
　　 Behold the mighty Moon! this way
　　 She looks as if at them--but they 20
　　 Regard not her:--oh better wrong and strife,
　　 Better vain deeds or evil than such life!
　　 The silent Heavens have goings on;
　　 The stars have tasks--but these have none.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　11. _TO THE CUCKOO_.
　　
　　
　　 O blithe New-comer! I have heard,
　　 I hear thee and rejoice:
　　 O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
　　 Or but a wandering Voice?
　　
　　 While I am lying on the grass,
　　 I hear thy restless shout:
　　 From hill to hill it seems to pass,
　　 About, and all about!
　　
　　 To me, no Babbler with a tale
　　 Of sunshine and of flowers, 10
　　 Thou tellest, Cuckoo! in the vale
　　 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 listen'd to; that Cry
　　 Which made me look a thousand ways;
　　 In bush, and tree, and sky. 20
　　
　　 To seek thee did I often rove
　　 Through woods and on the green;
　　 And thou wert still a hope, a love;
　　 Still long'd 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 30
　　 An unsubstantial, faery place;
　　 That is fit home for Thee!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　12. _TO A BUTTERFLY_.
　　
　　
　　 I've watch'd you now a full half hour,
　　 Self-pois'd 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; 10
　　 My trees they are, my Sister's flowers;
　　 Stop here whenever you are weary,
　　 And rest 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!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　13.
　　
　　
　　 It is no Spirit who from Heaven hath flown,
　　 And is descending on his embassy;
　　 Nor Traveller gone from Earth the Heavens to espy!
　　 'Tis Hesperus--there he stands with glittering crown,
　　 First admonition that the sun is down!
　　 For yet it is broad day-light: clouds pass by;
　　 A few are near him still--and now the sky,
　　 He hath it to himself--'tis all his own.
　　 O most ambitious Star! an inquest wrought
　　 Within me when I recognised thy light;
　　 A moment I was startled at the sight:
　　 And, while I gazed, there came to me a thought
　　 That I might step beyond my natural race
　　 As thou seem'st now to do; might one day trace
　　 Some ground not mine; and, strong her strength above,
　　 My Soul, an Apparition in the place,
　　 Tread there, with steps that no one shall reprove!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY; WITH _OTHER POEMS_.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　_THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY_.
　　 (A Tale told by the Fire-side.)
　　
　　
　　 Now we are tired of boisterous joy,
　　 We've romp'd 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. 10
　　
　　 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 liv'd.
　　
　　 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. 20
　　
　　 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. 30
　　
　　 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. 40
　　
　　 And then the bagpipes he could blow;
　　 And thus from house to house would go,
　　 And all were pleas'd 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. 50
　　
　　 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: 60
　　
　　 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 sweetly ride,
　　 Between the woods and lofty rocks;
　　 And to the Shepherds with their Flocks
　　 Bring tales of distant Lands. 70
　　
　　 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 stirr'd,
　　 When from the water-side he heard
　　 The shouting, and the jolly cheers,
　　 The bustle of the mariners
　　 In stillness or in storm. 80
　　
　　 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." 90
　　
　　 Thus lived he by Loch Levin'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,
　　 You soon shall know how this befel)
　　 He's in a vessel of his own,
　　 On the swift water hurrying down
　　 Towards the mighty Sea. 100
　　
　　 In such a vessel ne'er before
　　 Did human Creature leave the shore:
　　 If this or that way he should stir,
　　 Woe to the poor blind Mariner!
　　 For death will be his doom.
　　
　　 Strong is the current; but be mild,
　　 Ye waves, and spare the helpless Child!
　　 If ye in anger fret or chafe,
　　 A Bee-hive would be ship as safe
　　 As that in which he sails. 110
　　
　　 But say, what was it? Thought of fear!
　　 Well may ye tremble when ye hear!
　　 --A Household Tub, like one of those
　　 Which women use to wash their clothes,
　　 This carried the blind Boy.
　　
　　 Close to the water he had found
　　 This Vessel, push'd it from dry ground,
　　 Went into it; and, without dread,
　　 Following the fancies in his head,
　　 He paddled up and down. 120
　　
　　 A while he stood upon his feet;
　　 He felt the motion--took his seat;
　　 And dallied thus, till from the shore
　　 The tide retreating more and more
　　 Had suck'd, and suck'd him in.
　　
　　 And there he is in face of Heaven!
　　 How rapidly the Child is driven!
　　 The fourth part of a mile I ween
　　 He thus had gone, ere he was seen
　　 By any human eye. 130
　　
　　 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 bless'd. 140
　　
　　 And let him, let him go his way,
　　 Alone, and innocent, and gay!
　　 For, if good Angels love to wait
　　 On the forlorn unfortunate,
　　 This Child will take no harm.
　　
　　 But now the passionate lament,
　　 Which from the crowd on shore was sent,
　　 The cries which broke from old and young
　　 In Gaelic, or the English tongue,
　　 Are stifled--all is still. 150
　　
　　 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.
　　
　　 With sound the least that can be made
　　 They follow, more and more afraid,
　　 More cautious as they draw more near;
　　 But in his darkness he can hear,
　　 And guesses their intent. 160
　　
　　 "_Lei-gha--Lei-gha_"--then did he cry
　　 "_Lei-gha--Lei-gha_"--most eagerly;
　　 Thus did he cry, and thus did pray,
　　 And what he meant was, "Keep away,
　　 And leave me to myself!"
　　
　　 Alas! and when he felt their hands--
　　 You've often heard of magic Wands,
　　 That with a motion overthrow
　　 A palace of the proudest shew,
　　 Or melt it into air. 170
　　
　　 So all his dreams, that inward light
　　 With which his soul had shone so bright,
　　 All vanish'd;--'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 watch'd the event, and now can see
　　 That he is safe at last. 180
　　
　　 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 welcom'd 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. 190
　　
　　 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 flow'd in torrents from her eyes,
　　 She could not blame him, or chastise:
　　 She was too happy far. 200
　　
　　 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.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　_THE GREEN LINNET_.
　　
　　
　　 The May is come again:--how sweet
　　 To sit upon my Orchard-seat!
　　 And Birds and Flowers once more to greet,
　　 My last year's Friends together:
　　 My thoughts they all by turns employ;
　　 A whispering Leaf is now my joy,
　　 And then a Bird will be the toy
　　 That doth my fancy tether.
　　
　　 One have I mark'd, the happiest Guest
　　 In all this covert of the blest: 10
　　 Hail to Thee, far above the rest
　　 In joy of voice and pinion,
　　 Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,
　　 Presiding Spirit here to-day,
　　 Dost lead the revels of the May,
　　 And this is thy dominion.
　　
　　 While Birds, and Butterflies, and Flowers
　　 Make all one Band of Paramours,
　　 Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,
　　 Art sole in thy employment; 20
　　 A Life, a Presence like the Air,
　　 Scattering thy gladness without care,
　　 Too bless'd with any one to pair,
　　 Thyself thy own enjoyment.
　　
　　 Upon yon tuft of hazel trees,
　　 That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
　　 Behold him perch'd in ecstasies,
　　 Yet seeming still to hover;
　　 There! where the flutter of his wings
　　 Upon his back and body flings 30
　　 Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
　　 That cover him all over.
　　
　　 While thus before my eyes he gleams,
　　 A Brother of the Leaves he seems;
　　 When in a moment forth he teems
　　 His little song in gushes:
　　 As if it pleas'd him to disdain
　　 And mock the Form which he did feign,
　　 While he was dancing with the train
　　 Of Leaves among the bushes. 40
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　_TO A YOUNG LADY_,
　　 Who had been reproached for taking long
　　 Walks in the Country.
　　
　　
　　 Dear Child of Nature, let them rail!
　　 --There is a nest in a green dale,
　　 A harbour and a hold,
　　 Where thou a Wife and Friend, shalt see
　　 Thy own delightful days, and be
　　 A light to young and old.
　　
　　 There, healthy as a Shepherd-boy,
　　 As if thy heritage were joy,
　　 And pleasure were thy trade,
　　 Thou, while thy Babes around thee cling,
　　 Shalt shew us how divine a thing
　　 A Woman may be made.
　　
　　 Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die,
　　 Nor leave thee, when grey hairs are nigh,
　　 A melancholy slave
　　 But an old age, alive and bright,
　　 And lovely as a Lapland night,
　　 Shall lead thee to thy grave.
　　 "--_Pleasure is spread through the earth
　　 In stray gifts to be claim'd by whoever shall find_."
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　 * * * * *
　　
　　
　　 By their floating Mill,
　　 Which lies dead and still,
　　 Behold yon Prisoners three!
　　 The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the Thames;
　　 The Platform is small, but there's room for them all;
　　 And they're dancing merrily.
　　
　　 From the shore come the notes
　　 To their Mill where it floats,
　　 To their House and their Mill tether'd fast;
　　 To the small wooden isle where their work to beguile 10
　　 They from morning to even take whatever is given;--
　　 And many a blithe day they have past.
　　
　　 In sight of the Spires
　　 All alive with the fires
　　 Of the Sun going down to his rest,
　　 In the broad open eye of the solitary sky,
　　 They dance,--there are three, as jocund as free,
　　 While they dance on the calm river's breast.
　　
　　 Man and Maidens wheel,
　　 They themselves make the Reel, 20
　　 And their Music's a prey which they seize;
　　 It plays not for them,--what matter! 'tis their's;
　　 And if they had care it has scattered their cares,
　　 While they dance, crying, "Long as ye please!"
　　
　　 They dance not for me,
　　 Yet mine is their glee!
　　 Thus pleasure is spread through the earth
　　 In stray gifts to be claim'd by whoever shall find;
　　 Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind,
　　 Moves all nature to gladness and mirth. 30
　　
　　 The Showers of the Spring
　　 Rouze the Birds and they sing;
　　 If the Wind do but stir for his proper delight,
　　 Each Leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss,
　　 Each Wave, one and t'other, speeds after his Brother;
　　 They are happy, for that is their right!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　_STAR GAZERS_.
　　
　　
　　 What crowd is this? what have we here! we must not pass it by;
　　 A Telescope upon its frame, and pointed to the sky:
　　 Long is it as a Barber's Poll, or Mast of little Boat,
　　 Some little Pleasure-Skiff, that doth on Thames's waters float.
　　
　　 The Show-man chuses well his place, 'tis Leicester's busy Square;
　　 And he's as happy in his night, for the heavens are blue and fair;
　　 Calm, though impatient is the Crowd; Each is ready with the fee,
　　 And envies him that's looking--what an insight must it be!
　　
　　 Yet, Show-man, where can lie the cause? Shall thy Implement have
　　 blame,
　　 A Boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is put to shame? 10
　　 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,
　　 Do they betray us when they're seen? and are they but a name?
　　
　　 Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is and strong,
　　 And bounty never yields so much but it seems to do her wrong?
　　 Or is it, that when human Souls a journey long have had,
　　 And are returned into themselves, they cannot but be sad? 20
　　
　　 Or must we be constrain'd to think that these Spectators rude,
　　 Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude,
　　 Have souls which never yet have ris'n, and therefore prostrate lie?
　　 No, no, this cannot be--Men thirst for power and majesty!
　　
　　 Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful mind employ
　　 Of him who gazes, or has gazed? a grave and steady joy,
　　 That doth reject all shew of pride, admits no outward sign,
　　 Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine!
　　
　　 Whatever be the cause, 'tis sure that they who pry & pore
　　 Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than before: 30
　　 One after One they take their turns, nor have I one espied
　　 That doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　_POWER OF MUSIC_.
　　
　　
　　 An Orpheus! An Orpheus!--yes, Faith may grow bold,
　　 And take to herself all the wonders of old;--
　　 Near the stately Pantheon you'll meet with the same,
　　 In the street that from Oxford hath borrowed its name.
　　
　　 His station is there;--and he works on the crowd,
　　 He sways them with harmony merry and loud;
　　 He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim--
　　 Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and him!
　　
　　 What an eager assembly! what an empire is this!
　　 The weary have life and the hungry have bliss; 10
　　 The mourner is cheared, and the anxious have rest;
　　 And the guilt-burthened Soul is no longer opprest.
　　
　　 As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night,
　　 So he where he stands is a center of light;
　　 It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-faced Jack,
　　 And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket on back.
　　
　　 That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in haste--
　　 What matter! he's caught--and his time runs to waste--
　　 The News-man is stopped, though he stops on the fret,
　　 And the half-breathless Lamp-lighter he's in the net! 20
　　
　　 The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore;
　　 The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her store;--
　　 If a Thief could be here he might pilfer at ease;
　　 She sees the Musician, 'tis all that she sees!
　　
　　 He stands, back'd by the Wall;--he abates not his din;
　　 His hat gives him vigour, with boons dropping in,
　　 From the Old and the Young, from the Poorest; and there!
　　 The one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare.
　　
　　 O blest are the Hearers and proud be the Hand
　　 Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a Band; 30
　　 I am glad for him, blind as he is!--all the while
　　 If they speak 'tis to praise, and they praise with a smile.
　　
　　 That tall Man, a Giant in bulk and in height,
　　 Not an inch of his body is free from delight;
　　 Can he keep himself still, if he would? oh, not he!
　　 The music stirs in him like wind through a tree.
　　
　　 There's a Cripple who leans on his Crutch; like a Tower
　　 That long has lean'd forward, leans hour after hour!--
　　 Mother, whose Spirit in fetters is bound,
　　 While she dandles the babe in her arms to the sound. 40
　　
　　 Now, Coaches and Chariots, roar on like a stream;
　　 Here are twenty souls happy as Souls in a dream:
　　 They are deaf to your murmurs--they care not for you,
　　 Nor what ye are flying, or what ye pursue!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　_TO THE DAISY_.
　　 The two following Poems were overflowings of the mind in
　　 composing the one which stands first in the first Volume.
　　
　　
　　 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 do I sit by thee at ease,
　　 And weave a web of similies, 10
　　 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; 20
　　 A Queen in crown of rubies drest,
　　 A Starveling in a scanty vest,
　　 Are all, as seem 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, 30
　　 That spreads itself, some Faery bold
　　 In fight to cover.
　　
　　 I see thee glittering from afar;--
　　 And then thou art a pretty Star,
　　 Not quite so fair as many are
　　 In heaven above thee!
　　 Yet, like a star, with glittering crest,
　　 Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;--
　　 May peace come never to his nest,
　　 Who shall reprove thee! 40
　　
　　 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 every where!
　　 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 concord with humanity,
　　 Given to no other Flower I see
　　 The forest thorough!
　　
　　 Is it that Man is soon deprest?
　　 A thoughtless Thing! who, once unblest, 10
　　 Does little on his memory rest,
　　 Or on his reason,
　　 And Thou would'st teach him how to find
　　 A shelter under every wind.
　　 A hope for times that are unkind
　　 And every season?
　　
　　 Thou wander'st the wide world about,
　　 Uncheck'd by pride or scrupulous doubt,
　　 With friends to greet thee, or without,
　　 Yet pleased and willing; 20
　　 Meek, yielding to the occasion's call,
　　 And all things suffering from all,
　　 Thy function apostolical
　　 In peace fulfilling.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　_INCIDENT_,
　　 Characteristic of a favourite Dog, which belonged
　　 to a Friend of the Author.
　　
　　
　　 On his morning rounds the Master
　　 Goes to learn how all things fare;
　　 Searches pasture after pasture,
　　 Sheep and Cattle eyes with care;
　　 And, for silence or for talk,
　　 He hath Comrades in his walk;
　　 Four Dogs, each pair of different breed,
　　 Distinguished two for scent, and two for speed.
　　
　　 See, a Hare before him started!
　　 --Off they fly in earnest chace; 10
　　 Every Dog is eager-hearted,
　　 All the four are in the race!
　　 And the Hare whom they pursue
　　 Hath an instinct what to do;
　　 Her hope is near: no turn she makes;
　　 But, like an arrow, to the River takes.
　　
　　 Deep the River was, and crusted
　　 Thinly by a one night's frost;
　　 But the nimble Hare hath trusted
　　 To the ice, and safely crost; 20
　　 She hath crost, and without heed
　　 All are following at full speed,
　　 When, lo! the ice, so thinly spread,
　　 Breaks--and the Greyhound, DART, is over head!
　　
　　 Better fate have PRINCE and SWALLOW--
　　 See them cleaving to the sport!
　　 Music has no heart to follow,
　　 Little Music, she stops short.
　　 She hath neither wish nor heart.
　　 Her's is now another part: 30
　　 A loving Creature she, and brave!
　　 And doth her best her struggling Friend to save.
　　
　　 From the brink her paws she stretches,
　　 Very hands as you would say!
　　 And afflicting moans she fetches,
　　 As he breaks the ice away.
　　 For herself she hath no fears,
　　 Him alone she sees and hears,
　　 Makes efforts and complainings; nor gives o'er
　　 Until her Fellow sunk, and reappear'd no more. 40
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　_TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF THE SAME DOG_.
　　
　　
　　 Lie here sequester'd:--be this little mound
　　 For ever thine, and be it holy ground!
　　 Lie here, without a record of thy worth,
　　 Beneath the covering of the common earth!
　　 It is not from unwillingness to praise,
　　 Or want of love, that here no Stone we raise;
　　 More thou deserv'st; but _this_ Man gives to Man,
　　 Brother to Brother, _this_ is all we can.
　　 Yet they to whom thy virtues made thee dear
　　 Shall find thee through all changes of the year: 10
　　 This Oak points out thy grave; the silent Tree
　　 Will gladly stand a monument of thee.
　　
　　 I pray'd for thee, and that thy end were past;
　　 And willingly have laid thee here at last:
　　 For thou hadst liv'd, till every thing that chears
　　 In thee had yielded to the weight of years;
　　 Extreme old age had wasted thee away,
　　 And left thee but a glimmering of the day;
　　 Thy ears were deaf; and feeble were thy knees,--
　　 saw thee stagger in the summer breeze, 20
　　 Too weak to stand against its sportive breath,
　　 And ready for the gentlest stroke of death.
　　 It came, and we were glad; yet tears were shed;
　　 Both Man and Woman wept when Thou wert dead;
　　 Not only for a thousand thoughts that were,
　　 Old household thoughts, in which thou hadst thy share;
　　 But for some precious boons vouchsafed to thee,
　　 Found scarcely any where in like degree!
　　
　　 For love, that comes to all; the holy sense,
　　 Best gift of God, in thee was most intense; 30
　　 A chain of heart, a feeling of the mind,
　　 A tender sympathy, which did thee bind
　　 Not only to us Men, but to thy Kind:
　　 Yea, for thy Fellow-brutes in thee we saw
　　 The soul of Love, Love's intellectual law:--
　　 Hence, if we wept, it was not done in shame;
　　 Our tears from passion and from reason came,
　　 And, therefore, shalt thou be an honoured name!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　_SONNET_.
　　
　　ADMONITION,
　　 (Intended more particularly for the Perusal of those who may have
　　 happened to be enamoured of some beautiful Place of Retreat, in
　　 the Country of the Lakes.)
　　
　　
　　 Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!
　　 --The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook
　　 Hath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook,
　　 Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!
　　 But covet not th' Abode--oh! do not sigh,
　　 As many do, repining while they look,
　　 Sighing a wish to tear from Nature's Book
　　 This blissful leaf, with worst impiety.
　　 Think what the home would be if it were thine,
　　 Even thine, though few thy wants!--Roof, window, door,
　　 The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,
　　 The roses to the porch which they entwine:
　　 Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day
　　 On which it should be touch'd, would melt, and melt away!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　_SONNET_.
　　
　　 ... "_gives to airy nothing
　　 A local habitation and a name_."
　　
　　 Though narrow be that Old Man's cares, and near
　　 The poor Old Man is greater than he seems:
　　 For he hath waking empire, wide as dreams;
　　 An ample sovereignty of eye and ear.
　　 Rich are his walks with supernatural chear;
　　 The region of his inner spirit teems
　　 With vital sounds, and monitory gleams
　　 Of high astonishment and pleasing fear.
　　 He the seven birds hath seen that never part,
　　 Seen the SEVEN WHISTLERS in their nightly rounds,
　　 And counted them: and oftentimes will start--
　　 For overhead are sweeping GABRIEL'S HOUNDS,
　　 Doom'd, with their impious Lord, the flying Hart
　　 To chase for ever, on aerial grounds.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　_SONNET_.
　　
　　A PROPHECY.
　　 Feb. 1807.
　　
　　
　　 High deeds, O Germans, are to come from you!
　　 Thus in your Books the record shall be found,
　　 "A Watchword was pronounced, a potent sound,
　　 ARMINIUS!--all the people quaked like dew
　　 Stirr'd by the breeze--they rose, a Nation, true,
　　 True to itself--the mighty Germany,
　　 She of the Danube and the Northern sea,
　　 She rose,--and off at once the yoke she threw.
　　 All power was given her in the dreadful trance--
　　 Those new-born Kings she wither'd like a flame."
　　 --Woe to them all! but heaviest woe and shame
　　 To that Bavarian, who did first advance
　　 His banner in accursed league with France,
　　 First open Traitor to her sacred name!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　_SONNET_,
　　 TO THOMAS CLARKSON,
　　 On the final passing of the Bill for the Abolition of the Slave
　　 Trade, March, 1807.
　　
　　
　　 Clarkson! it was an obstinate Hill to climb;
　　 How toilsome, nay how dire it was, by Thee
　　 Is known,--by none, perhaps, so feelingly;
　　 But Thou, who, starting in thy fervent prime,
　　 Didst first lead forth this pilgrimage sublime,
　　 Hast heard the constant Voice its charge repeat,
　　 Which, out of thy young heart's oracular seat,
　　 First roused thee.--O true yoke-fellow of Time
　　 With unabating effort, see, the palm
　　 Is won, and by all Nations shall be worn!
　　 The bloody Writing is for ever torn,
　　 And Thou henceforth shalt have a good Man's calm,
　　 A great Man's happiness; thy zeal shall find
　　 Repose at length, firm Friend of human kind!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　 * * * * *
　　
　　
　　 Once in a lonely Hamlet I sojourn'd
　　 In which a Lady driv'n from France did dwell;
　　 The big and lesser griefs, with which she mourn'd,
　　 In friendship she to me would often tell.
　　
　　 This Lady, dwelling upon English ground,
　　 Where she was childless, daily did repair
　　 To a poor neighbouring Cottage; as I found,
　　 For sake of a young Child whose home was there.
　　
　　 Once did I see her clasp the Child about,
　　 And take it to herself; and I, next day, 10
　　 Wish'd in my native tongue to fashion out
　　 Such things as she unto this Child might say:
　　 And thus, from what I knew, had heard, and guess'd,
　　 My song the workings of her heart express'd.
　　
　　 "Dear Babe, thou Daughter of another,
　　 One moment let me be thy Mother!
　　 An Infant's face and looks are thine;
　　 And sure a Mother's heart is mine:
　　 Thy own dear Mother's far away,
　　 At labour in the harvest-field: 20
　　 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 30
　　 For thee, sweet Baby!--thou hast tried.
　　 Thou know'st, the pillow of my breast:
　　 Good, good art thou; alas! to me
　　 Far more than I can be to thee."
　　
　　 "Here little Darling dost thou 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; 40
　　 The Nurse said to me, 'Tears should not
　　 Be shed upon an Infant's face,
　　 It was unlucky'--no, no, no;
　　 No truth is in them who say so!"
　　
　　 "My own dear Little-one will sigh,
　　 Sweet Babe! and they will let him die.
　　 'He pines,' they'll say, 'it is his doom,
　　 And you may see his hour is come.'
　　 Oh! had he but thy chearful smiles,
　　 Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay, 50
　　 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--forgotten--let me do
　　 My best--there was a smile or two,
　　 I can remember them, I see
　　 The smiles, worth all the world to me.
　　 Dear Baby! I must lay thee down;
　　 Thou troublest me with strange alarms; 60
　　 Smiles hast Thou, sweet ones of thy own;
　　 I cannot keep thee in my arms,
　　 For they confound me: as it is,
　　 I have forgot those smiles of his."
　　
　　 "Oh! how I love thee! we will stay
　　 Together here this one half day.
　　 My Sister's Child, who bears my name,
　　 From France across the Ocean came;
　　 She with her Mother cross'd the sea;
　　 The Babe and Mother near me dwell: 70
　　 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; 80
　　 Thine eyes are on me--they would speak,
　　 I think, to help me if they could.
　　 Blessings upon that quiet 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; 90
　　 Thou hast, I think, a look of ours,
　　 Thy features seem to me the same;
　　 His little Sister thou shalt be;
　　 And, when once more my home I see,
　　 I'll tell him many tales of Thee."
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　_FORESIGHT_.
　　 Or the Charge of a Child to his younger Companion.
　　
　　
　　 That is work which I am rueing--
　　 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. 10
　　 --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, do what they will,
　　 Wither'd on the ground must lie; 20
　　 Daisies will be daisies still;
　　 Daisies they must live and die:
　　 Fill your lap, and fill your bosom,
　　 Only spare the Strawberry-blossom!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　_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!
　　 Bless'd 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.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　 * * * * *
　　
　　
　　 I am not One who much or oft delight
　　 To season my fireside with personal talk,
　　 About Friends, who live within an easy walk,
　　 Or Neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight:
　　 And, for my chance-acquaintance, Ladies bright,
　　 Sons, Mothers, Maidens withering on the stalk,
　　 These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk
　　 Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night.
　　 Better than such discourse doth silence long,
　　 Long, barren silence, square with my desire; 10
　　 To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,
　　 By my half-kitchen my half-parlour fire,
　　 And listen to the flapping of the flame,
　　 Or kettle, whispering it's 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 foster'd by the comment and the gibe." 20
　　 Even be it so: yet still among your tribe,
　　 Our daily world's true Worldlings, rank not me!
　　 Children are blest, and powerful; their world lies
　　 More justly balanced; partly at their feet,
　　 And part far from them:--sweetest melodies
　　 Are those that are by distance made more sweet;
　　 Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes
　　 He is a Slave; the meanest we can meet!
　　
　　 Wings have we, and as far as we can go
　　 We may find pleasure: wilderness and wood, 30
　　 Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood
　　 Which with the lofty sanctifies the low:
　　 Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know,
　　 Are a substantial world, both pure and good:
　　 Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
　　 Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
　　 There do I find a never-failing store
　　 Of personal themes, and such as I love best;
　　 Matter wherein right voluble I am:
　　 Two will I mention, dearer than the rest; 40
　　 The gentle Lady, married to the Moor;
　　 And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb.
　　
　　 Nor can I not believe but that hereby
　　 Great gains are mine: for thus I live remote
　　 From evil-speaking; rancour, never sought,
　　 Comes to me not; malignant truth, or 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. 50
　　 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.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　 * * * * *
　　
　　
　　 Yes! full surely 'twas the Echo,
　　 Solitary, clear, profound,
　　 Answering to Thee, shouting Cuckoo!
　　 Giving to thee Sound for Sound.
　　
　　 Whence the Voice? from air or earth?
　　 This the Cuckoo cannot tell;
　　 But a startling sound had birth,
　　 As the Bird must know full well;
　　
　　 Like the voice through earth and sky
　　 By the restless Cuckoo sent; 10
　　 Like her ordinary cry,
　　 Like--but oh how different!
　　
　　 Hears not also mortal Life?
　　 Hear not we, unthinking Creatures!
　　 Slaves of Folly, Love, or Strife,
　　 Voices of two different Natures?
　　
　　 Have not We too? Yes we have
　　 Answers, and we know not whence;
　　 Echoes from beyond the grave,
　　 Recogniz'd intelligence? 20
　　
　　 Such within ourselves we hear
　　 Oft-times, ours though sent from far;
　　 Listen, ponder, hold them dear;
　　 For of God, of God they are!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　_TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND_, (AN AGRICULTURIST.)
　　 Composed while we were labouring together in his Pleasure-Ground.
　　
　　
　　 Spade! with which Wilkinson hath till'd his Lands,
　　 And shap'd these pleasant walks by Emont's side,
　　 Thou art a tool of honour in my hands;
　　 I press thee through the yielding soil with pride.
　　
　　 Rare Master has it been thy lot to know;
　　 Long hast Thou serv'd a Man to reason true;
　　 Whose life combines the best of high and low,
　　 The toiling many and the resting few;
　　
　　 Health, quiet, meekness, ardour, hope secure,
　　 And industry of body and of mind; 10
　　 And elegant enjoyments, that are pure
　　 As Nature is; too pure to be refined.
　　
　　 Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing
　　 In concord with his River murmuring by;
　　 Or in some silent field, while timid Spring
　　 Is yet uncheer'd by other minstrelsy.
　　
　　 Who shall inherit Thee when Death hath laid
　　 Low in the darksome Cell thine own dear Lord?
　　 That Man will have a trophy, humble, Spade!
　　 More noble than the noblest Warrior's sword. 20
　　
　　 If he be One that feels, with skill to part
　　 False praise from true, or greater from the less,
　　 Thee will he welcome to his hand and heart,
　　 Thou monument of peaceful happiness!
　　
　　 With Thee he will not dread a toilsome day,
　　 His powerful Servant, his inspiring Mate!
　　 And, when thou art past service, worn away,
　　 Thee a surviving soul shall consecrate.
　　
　　 His thrift thy uselessness will never scorn;
　　 An _Heir-loom_ in his cottage wilt thou be:-- 30
　　 High will he hang thee up, and will adorn
　　 His rustic chimney with the last of Thee!
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　_SONG_, AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE,
　　 Upon the RESTORATION OF LORD CLIFFORD, the SHEPHERD,
　　 to the Estates and Honours of his Ancestors.
　　
　　
　　 High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate.
　　 And Emont's murmur mingled with the Song.--
　　 The words of ancient time I thus translate,
　　 A festal Strain that hath been silent long.
　　
　　 From Town to Town, from Tower to Tower,
　　 The Red Rose is a gladsome Flower.
　　 Her thirty years of Winter past;
　　 The Red Rose is revived at last;
　　
　　 She lifts her head for endless spring,
　　 For everlasting blossoming! 10
　　 Both Roses flourish, Red and White.
　　 In love and sisterly delight
　　 The two that were at strife are blended,
　　 And all old sorrows 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; 20
　　 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 help'd him with the cry of blood:
　　 St. George was for us, and the might
　　 Of blessed Angels crown'd the right.
　　 Loud voice the Land hath utter'd forth, 30
　　 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!
　　 Silent, deserted of her best,
　　 Without an Inmate or a Guest,
　　 Knight, Squire, or Yeoman, Page, or Groom; 40
　　 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, 50
　　 Though each is but a lonely Tower:--
　　 But here is perfect joy and pride
　　 For one fair House by Emont's side,
　　 This day distinguished without peer
　　 To see her Master and to cheer;
　　 Him, and his Lady Mother dear.
　　
　　 Oh! it was a time forlorn
　　 When the Fatherless was born--
　　 Give her wings that she may fly,
　　 Or she sees her Infant die! 60
　　 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. 70
　　 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 80
　　 For shelter, and a poor Man's bread?
　　 God loves the Child; and God hath will'd
　　 That those dear words should be fulfill'd,
　　 The Lady's words, when forc'd 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. 90
　　 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, 100
　　 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, 110
　　 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 chearful company,
　　 That learn'd of him submissive ways; 120
　　 And comforted his private days.
　　 To his side the Fallow-deer
　　 Came, and rested without fear;
　　 The Eagle, Lord of land and sea,
　　 Stoop'd 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, 130
　　 To and fro, for his delight.
　　 He knew the Rocks which Angels haunt
　　 On the Mountains visitant;
　　 He hath kenn'd them taking wing:
　　 And the Caves where Faeries sing
　　 He hath entered; and been told
　　 By Voices how Men liv'd of old.
　　 Among the Heavens his eye can see
　　 Face of thing that is to be;
　　 And, if Men report him right, 140
　　 He can whisper words of might.
　　 --Now another day is come,
　　 Fitter hope, and nobler doom:
　　 He hath thrown aside his Crook,
　　 And hath buried deep his Book;
　　 Armour rusting in his Halls
　　 On the blood of Clifford calls;--
　　
　　 "Quell the Scot," exclaims the Lance,
　　 "Bear me to the heart of France,
　　 Is the longing of the Shield-- 150
　　 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,
　　 Mail'd and hors'd, with lance and sword,
　　 To his Ancestors restored,
　　 Like a reappearing Star,
　　 Like a glory from afar,
　　 First shall head the Flock of War!" 160
　　
　　 Alas! the fervent Harper did not know
　　 That for a tranquil Soul the Lay was framed,
　　 Who, long compell'd in humble walks to go,
　　 Was softened into feeling, sooth'd, and tamed.
　　 Love had he found in huts where poor Men lie,
　　 His daily Teachers had been Woods and Rills,
　　 The silence that is in the starry sky,
　　 The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
　　
　　 In him the savage Virtue of the Race,
　　 Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead: 170
　　 Nor did he change; but kept in lofty place
　　 The wisdom which adversity had bred.
　　
　　 Glad were the Vales, and every cottage hearth;
　　 The Shepherd Lord was honour'd more and more:
　　 And, ages after he was laid in earth,
　　 "The Good Lord Clifford" was the name he bore.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　_LINES_,
　　 Composed at GRASMERE, during a walk, one Evening, after
　　 a stormy day, the Author having just read in a Newspaper
　　 that the dissolution of MR. FOX was hourly expected.
　　
　　
　　 Loud is the Vale! the Voice is up
　　 With which she speaks when storms are gone,
　　 A mighty Unison of streams!
　　 Of all her Voices, One!
　　
　　 Loud is the Vale;--this inland Depth
　　 In peace is roaring like the Sea;
　　 Yon Star upon the mountain-top
　　 Is listening quietly.
　　
　　 Sad was I, ev'n to pain depress'd,
　　 Importunate and heavy load! 10
　　 The Comforter hath found me here,
　　 Upon this lonely road;
　　
　　 And many thousands now are sad,
　　 Wait the fulfilment of their fear;
　　 For He must die who is their Stay,
　　 Their Glory disappear.
　　
　　 A Power is passing from the earth
　　 To breathless Nature's dark abyss;
　　 But when the Mighty pass away
　　 What is it more than this, 20
　　
　　 That Man, who is from God sent forth,
　　 Doth yet again to God return?--
　　 Such ebb and flow must ever be,
　　 Then wherefore should we mourn?
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　_ELEGIAC STANZAS_,
　　 Suggested by a Picture of PEELE CASTLE, in a Storm,
　　 _painted_ BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT.
　　
　　
　　 I was thy Neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!
　　 Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:
　　 I saw thee every day; and all the while
　　 Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea.
　　
　　 So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!
　　 So like, so very like, was day to day!
　　 Whene'er I look'd, thy Image still was there;
　　 It trembled, but it never pass'd away.
　　
　　 How perfect was the calm! it seem'd no sleep;
　　 No mood, which season takes away, or brings: 10
　　 I could have fancied that the mighty Deep
　　 Was even the gentlest of all gentle Things.
　　
　　 Ah! THEN, if mine had been the Painter's hand,
　　 To express what then I saw; and add the gleam,
　　 The light that never was, on sea or land,
　　 The consecration, and the Poet's dream;
　　
　　 I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile!
　　 Amid a world how different from this!
　　 Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;
　　 On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss: 20
　　
　　 Thou shouldst have seem'd a treasure-house, a mine
　　 Of peaceful years; a chronicle of heaven:--
　　 Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine
　　 The very sweetest had to thee been given.
　　
　　 A Picture had it been of lasting ease,
　　 Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;
　　 No motion but the moving tide, a breeze,
　　 Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.
　　
　　 Such, in the fond delusion of my heart,
　　 Such Picture would I at that time have made: 30
　　 And seen the soul of truth in every part;
　　 A faith, a trust, that could not be betray'd.
　　
　　 So once it would have been,--'tis so no more;
　　 I have submitted to a new controul:
　　 A power is gone, which nothing can restore;
　　 A deep distress hath humaniz'd my Soul.
　　
　　 Not for a moment could I now behold
　　 A smiling sea and be what I have been:
　　 The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old;
　　 This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. 40
　　
　　 Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the Friend,
　　 If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore,
　　 This Work of thine I blame not, but commend;
　　 This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.
　　
　　 Oh 'tis a passionate Work!--yet wise and well;
　　 Well chosen is the spirit that is here;
　　 That Hulk which labours in the deadly swell,
　　 This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!
　　
　　 And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,
　　 I love to see the look with which it braves, 50
　　 Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time,
　　 The light'ning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.
　　
　　 Farewell, farewell the Heart that lives alone,
　　 Hous'd in a dream, at distance from the Kind!
　　 Such happiness, wherever it be known,
　　 Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind.
　　
　　 But welcome fortitude, and patient chear,
　　 And frequent sights of what is to be born!
　　 Such sights, or worse, as are before me here.--
　　 Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 60
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　ODE.
　　
　　 _Paulo majora canamus_.
　　
　　
　　_ODE_.
　　
　　
　　 There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
　　 The earth, and every common sight,
　　 To me did seem
　　 Apparell'd in celestial light,
　　 The glory and the freshness of a dream.
　　 It is not now as it has been of yore;--
　　 Turn wheresoe'er I may,
　　 By night or day,
　　 The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
　　
　　 The Rainbow comes and goes, 10
　　 And lovely is the Rose,
　　 The Moon doth with delight
　　 Look round her when the heavens are bare;
　　 Waters on a starry night
　　 Are beautiful and fair;
　　 The sunshine is a glorious birth;
　　 But yet I know, where'er I go,
　　 That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.
　　
　　 Now, while the Birds thus sing a joyous song,
　　 And while the young Lambs bound 20
　　 As to the tabor's sound,
　　 To me alone there came a thought of grief:
　　 A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
　　 And I again am strong.
　　 The Cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,
　　 No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
　　 I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,
　　 The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
　　
　　 And all the earth is gay,
　　 Land and sea 30
　　 Give themselves up to jollity,
　　 And with the heart of May
　　 Doth every Beast keep holiday,
　　 Thou Child of Joy
　　 Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd Boy!
　　
　　 Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call
　　 Ye to each other make; I see
　　 The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
　　 My heart is at your festival,
　　 My head hath it's coronal, 40
　　 The fullness of your bliss, I feel--I feel it all.
　　 Oh evil day! if I were sullen
　　 While the Earth herself is adorning,
　　 This sweet May-morning,
　　 And the Children are pulling,
　　 On every side,
　　 In a thousand vallies far and wide,
　　 Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
　　 And the Babe leaps up on his mother's arm:--
　　 I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 50
　　 --But there's a Tree, of many one,
　　 A single Field which I have look'd upon,
　　 Both of them speak of something that is gone:
　　 The Pansy at my feet
　　 Doth the same tale repeat:
　　 Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
　　 Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
　　
　　 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
　　 The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
　　 Hath had elsewhere it's setting, 60
　　 And cometh from afar:
　　 Not in entire forgetfulness,
　　 And not in utter nakedness,
　　 But trailing clouds of glory do we come
　　 From God, who is our home;
　　 Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
　　 Shades of the prison-house begin to close
　　 Upon the growing Boy,
　　 But He beholds the light, and whence it flows,
　　 He sees it in his joy; 70
　　 The Youth, who daily farther from the East
　　 Must travel, still is Nature's Priest,
　　 And by the vision splendid
　　 Is on his way attended;
　　 At length the Man perceives it die away,
　　 And fade into the light of common day.
　　
　　 Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
　　 Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
　　 And, even with something of a Mother's mind,
　　 And no unworthy aim, 80
　　 The homely Nurse doth all she can
　　 To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,
　　 Forget the glories he hath known,
　　 And that imperial palace whence he came.
　　
　　 Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
　　 A four year's Darling of a pigmy size!
　　 See, where mid work of his own hand he lies,
　　 Fretted by sallies of his Mother's kisses,
　　 With light upon him from his Father's eyes!
　　 See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 90
　　 Some fragment from his dream of human life,
　　 Shap'd by himself with newly-learned art;
　　 A wedding or a festival,
　　 A mourning or a funeral;
　　 And this hath now his heart,
　　 And unto this he frames his song:
　　 Then will he fit his tongue
　　 To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
　　
　　 But it will not be long
　　 Ere this be thrown aside, 100
　　 And with new joy and pride
　　 The little Actor cons another part,
　　 Filling from time to time his "humourous stage"
　　 With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
　　 That Life brings with her in her Equipage;
　　 As if his whole vocation
　　 Were endless imitation.
　　
　　 Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
　　 Thy Soul's immensity;
　　 Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 110
　　 Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind,
　　 That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
　　 Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,--
　　 Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!
　　 On whom those truths do rest,
　　 Which we are toiling all our lives to find;
　　 Thou, over whom thy Immortality
　　
　　 Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave,
　　 A Presence which is not to be put by;
　　 To whom the grave 120
　　 Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight
　　 Of day or the warm light,
　　 A place of thought where we in waiting lie;
　　 Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might
　　 Of untam'd pleasures, on thy Being's height,
　　 Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
　　 The Years to bring the inevitable yoke,
　　 Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
　　 Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,
　　 And custom lie upon thee with a weight, 130
　　 Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
　　
　　 O joy! that in our embers
　　 Is something that doth live,
　　 That nature yet remembers
　　 What was so fugitive!
　　
　　 The thought of our past years in me doth breed
　　 Perpetual benedictions: not indeed
　　 For that which is most worthy to be blest;
　　 Delight and liberty, the simple creed
　　 Of Childhood, whether fluttering or at rest, 140
　　 With new-born hope for ever in his breast:--
　　 Not for these I raise
　　 The song of thanks and praise;
　　 But for those obstinate questionings
　　 Of sense and outward things,
　　 Fallings from us, vanishings;
　　 Blank misgivings of a Creature
　　 Moving about in worlds not realiz'd,
　　 High instincts, before which our mortal Nature
　　 Did tremble like a guilty Thing surpriz'd: 150
　　 But for those first affections,
　　 Those shadowy recollections,
　　 Which, be they what they may,
　　 Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
　　 Are yet a master light of all our seeing;
　　 Uphold us, cherish us, and make
　　 Our noisy years seem moments in the being
　　 Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,
　　 To perish never;
　　 Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, 160
　　 Nor Man nor Boy,
　　 Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
　　 Can utterly abolish or destroy!
　　 Hence, in a season of calm weather,
　　 Though inland far we be,
　　 Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea
　　 Which brought us hither,
　　 Can in a moment travel thither,
　　 And see the Children sport upon the shore,
　　 And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 170
　　
　　 Then, sing ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
　　 And let the young Lambs bound
　　 As to the tabor's sound!
　　 We in thought will join your throng,
　　 Ye that pipe and ye that play,
　　 Ye that through your hearts to day
　　 Feel the gladness of the May!
　　 What though the radiance which was once so bright
　　 Be now for ever taken from my sight,
　　 Though nothing can bring back the hour 180
　　 Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
　　 We will grieve not, rather find
　　 Strength in what remains behind,
　　 In the primal sympathy
　　 Which having been must ever be,
　　 In the soothing thoughts that spring
　　 Out of human suffering,
　　 In the faith that looks through death,
　　 In years that bring the philosophic mind.
　　
　　 And oh ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 190
　　 Think not of any severing of our loves!
　　 Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
　　 I only have relinquish'd one delight
　　 To live beneath your more habitual sway.
　　 I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,
　　 Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they;
　　 The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
　　 Is lovely yet;
　　 The Clouds that gather round the setting sun
　　 Do take a sober colouring from an eye 200
　　 That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
　　 Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
　　 Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
　　 Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
　　 To me the meanest flower that blows can give
　　 Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　_NOTES to the SECOND VOLUME_.
　　
　　
　　_NOTES_.
　　
　　
　　NOTE I.
　　
　　PAGE 4 (177); line 2.--"And wondrous length and strength of arm."
　　The people of the neighbourhood of Loch Ketterine, in order to prove
　　the extraordinary length of their Hero's arm, tell you that
　　"he could garter his Tartan Stockings below the knee when standing
　　upright." According to their account he was a tremendous Swordsman;
　　after having sought all occasions of proving his prowess, he was
　　never conquered but once, and this not till he was an Old Man.
　　
　　
　　NOTE II.
　　
　　PAGE 11 (185).--_The solitary Reaper_. This Poem was suggested by a
　　beautiful sentence in a MS Tour in Scotland written by a Friend, the
　　last line being taken from it _verbatim_.
　　
　　
　　NOTE III.
　　
　　PAGE 65 (239).--THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY. The incident upon which
　　this Poem is founded was related to me by an eye witness.
　　
　　
　　NOTE IV.
　　
　　PAGE 106 (280); line 10.--"Seen the Seven Whistlers, &c." Both these
　　superstitions are prevalent in the midland Counties of England: that
　　of "Gabriel's Hounds" appears to be very general over Europe; being
　　the same as the one upon which the German Poet, Burger, has founded
　　his Ballad of the Wild Huntsman.
　　
　　
　　NOTE V.
　　
　　PAGE 128 (302).--_Song, at the Feast of Brougham Castle_. Henry Lord
　　Clifford, &c. &c., who is the subject of this Poem, was the son of
　　John, Lord Clifford, who was slain at Towton Field, which John, Lord
　　Clifford, as is known to the Reader of English History, was the
　　person who after the battle of Wakefield slew, in the pursuit, the
　　young Earl of Rutland, Son of the Duke of York who had fallen in the
　　battle, "in part of revenge" (say the Authors of the History of
　　Cumberland and Westmorland); "for the Earl's Father had slain his."
　　A deed which worthily blemished the author (saith Speed); But who, as
　　he adds, "dare promise any thing temperate of himself in the heat of
　　martial fury? chiefly, when it was resolved not to leave any branch
　　of the York line standing; for so one maketh this Lord to speak."
　　This, no doubt, I would observe by the bye, was an action
　　sufficiently in the vindictive spirit of the times, and yet not
　　altogether so bad as represented; for the Earl was no child, as
　　some writers would have him, but able to bear arms, being sixteen or
　　seventeen years of age, as is evident from this (say the Memoirs of
　　the Countess of Pembroke, who was laudably anxious to wipe away, as
　　far as could be, this stigma from the illustrious name to which she
　　was born); that he was the next Child to King Edward the Fourth,
　　which his mother had by Richard Duke of York, and that King was then
　　eighteen years of age: and for the small distance betwixt her
　　Children, see Austin Vincent in his book of Nobility, page 622,
　　where he writes of them all. It may further be observed, that Lord
　　Clifford, who was then himself only twenty-five years of age, had
　　been a leading Man and Commander, two or three years together in the
　　Army of Lancaster, before this time; and, therefore, would be less
　　likely to think that the Earl of Rutland might be entitled to mercy
　　from his youth.--But, independent of this act, at best a cruel and
　　savage one, the Family of Clifford had done enough to draw upon them
　　the vehement hatred of the House of York: so that after the Battle
　　of Towton there was no hope for them but in flight and concealment.
　　Henry, the subject of the Poem, was deprived of his estate and
　　honours during the space of twenty-four years; all which time he
　　lived as a shepherd in Yorkshire, or in Cumberland, where the estate
　　of his Father-in-law (Sir Lancelot Threlkeld) lay. He was restored
　　to his estate and honours in the first year of Henry the Seventh. It
　　is recorded that, "when called to parliament, he behaved nobly and
　　wisely; but otherwise came seldom to London or the Court; and rather
　　delighted to live in the country, where he repaired several of his
　　Castles, which had gone to decay during the late troubles." Thus far
　　is chiefly collected from Nicholson and Burn; and I can add, from my
　　own knowledge, that there is a tradition current in the village of
　　Threlkeld and its neighbourhood, his principal retreat, that, in the
　　course of his shepherd life, he had acquired great astronomical
　　knowledge. I cannot conclude this note without adding a word upon
　　the subject of those numerous and noble feudal Edifices, spoken of
　　in the Poem, the ruins of some of which are, at this day, so great an
　　ornament to that interesting country. The Cliffords had always been
　　distinguished for an honorable pride in these Castles; and we have
　　seen that after the wars of York and Lancaster they were rebuilt; in
　　the civil Wars of Charles the First, they were again laid waste, and
　　again restored almost to their former magnificence by the celebrated
　　Lady Anne Clifford, Countess of Pembroke, &c. &c. Not more than 25
　　years after this was done, when the Estates of Clifford had passed
　　into the family of Tufton, three of these Castles, namely Brough,
　　Brougham, and Pendragon, were demolished, and the timber and other
　　materials sold by Thomas Earl of Thanet. We will hope that, when
　　this order was issued, the Earl had not consulted the text of Isaiah,
　　58th Chap. 12th Verse, to which the inscription placed over the
　　gate of Pendragon Castle, by the Countess of Pembroke (I believe his
　　Grandmother) at the time she repaired that structure, refers the
　　reader. "_And they that shall be of thee shall build the old waste
　　places; thou 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 Estates, with a due respect for the memory of his ancestors, and
　　a proper sense of the value and beauty of these remains of antiquity,
　　has (I am told) given orders that they shall be preserved from all
　　depredations.
　　
　　
　　NOTE VI.
　　
　　PAGE 130 (304); line 2.--"Earth helped him with the cry of blood."
　　This line is from The Battle of Bosworth Field by Sir John Beaumont
　　(Brother to the Dramatist), whose poems are written with so much
　　spirit, elegance, and harmony, that it is supposed, as the Book is
　　very scarce, a new edition of it would be acceptable to Scholars and
　　Men of taste, and, accordingly, it is in contemplation to give one.
　　
　　
　　NOTE VII.
　　
　　PAGE 135 (309); line 15.--
　　
　　 "And both the undying Fish that swim
　　 Through Bowscale-Tarn," &c.
　　
　　It is imagined by the people of the Country that there are two
　　immortal Fish, Inhabitants of this Tarn, which lies in the mountains
　　not far from Threlkeld.--Blencathara, mentioned before, is the old
　　and proper name of the mountain vulgarly called Saddle-back.
　　
　　
　　NOTE VIII.
　　
　　PAGE 136 (310); lines 17 and 18.--
　　
　　 "Armour rusting in his Halls
　　 On the blood of Clifford calls."
　　
　　The martial character of the Cliffords is well known to the readers
　　of English History; but it may not be improper here to say, by way of
　　comment on these lines and what follows, that, besides several
　　others who perished in the same manner, the four immediate
　　Progenitors of the person in whose hearing this is supposed to be
　　spoken, all died in the Field.
　　
　　
　　NOTE IX.
　　
　　PAGE 140 (314).--
　　
　　 "Importunate and heavy load!"
　　
　　 * * * * *
　　
　　 _'Importuna e grave salma_.'
　　 --MICHAEL ANGELO.