f 
 
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 in 2017 with funding from 
 Getty Research Institute 
 
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 https://archive.org/details/ourenglishlakesmOOword 
 
RYDAL MOUNT, 
 
 Wordsworth’s residence,- 
 
 FRONTISPIECE. 
 
£>ur Cngltsl) SLaftcs, 
 
 MOUNTAINS, AND WATERFALLS, 
 
 AS SEEN BY 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 With Photographic Illustrations , 
 BY THOMAS OGLE. 
 
 FOURTH EDITION. 
 
 IlonDon: 
 
 PROVOST & Co., 5 BISHOPSGATE WITHOUT, E.C. 
 
VIII 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Langdale. 
 
 Blea Tarn ... ... ... ... ... ... 32 
 
 Langdale Pikes ... ... ... ... ... 34 
 
 Scene in the Valley ... ... ... ... ... 36 
 
 The Grandeur of Mountain Scenery... ... ... 39 
 
 The Idle Shephetd-Boys; or, Dungeon-Ghyll Force... 40 
 
 The Rotha. 
 
 Tofoanna ... ... ... ... ... ... 45 
 
 Rydale 
 
 Emma's Dell... ... ... ... ... ... 49 
 
 Wordfworth"s Hill ... ... ... ... ... 51 
 
 Mary WordfwortF s Nook; to M. H. ... ... 52 
 
 Written with a Slate-pencil upon a Stone , the largejl 
 of a Heap lying near a Deferted Quarry, upon 
 one of the Ifands at Rydale ... ... . . 53 
 
 To my Sifter ... . ... ... ... ... 55 
 
 Grafmere. 
 
 On approaching Home after a Tour in Scotland, 1803 5 $ 
 
 A Walk hy the Lake ... ... ... ... 59 
 
 Helm Crag ... ... ... ... . . ... 62 
 
 Written with a Pencil upon a Stone in the Wall of the 
 
 Houfe (an Out-houfe) on the If and at Grafmere 63 
 Michael ... ... ... ... ... ... 64 
 
 A Farewell ... ... ... ... ... ... 83 
 
CONTENTS. ix 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Helvellyn. 
 
 Fidelity ... ... ... ... .. ... 87 
 
 ’Fis Jaid that fome have died for Love ... ... 90 
 
 Derwent-water. 
 
 Sonnet to Skiddaw ... .. ... ... ... 93 
 
 The Childlefs Father... ... ... ... ... 94 
 
 Infcription for the Spot where the Hermitage food 
 
 on St. Herbert's If and, Derwent-water ... 95 
 
 Brougham Caftle. 
 
 Song, at the Feaf of Brougham Cafle, upon the 
 Ref oration of Lord Clifford, the Shepherd, to 
 the Efates and Honours of his Ancefors ... 97 
 
 Black Comb. 
 
 Written with a Slate-pencil, on a Stone, on the fide 
 
 of the Mountain of Black Comb, Cumberland ... 105 
 
 View from the Top of Black Comb, Cumberland ... 106 
 
 To the River Duddon ... ... ... ... 108 
 
 The Brothers . 109 
 
X 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Defcriptions of Scenery. 
 
 Influence of Natural Objects in calling forth and 
 Jlrengthening the Imagination in Boyhood and 
 Early Touth. ... ... ... ... ... 130 
 
 A Summer Forenoon ... ... ... ... ... 133 
 
 Lines written while Sailing in a Boat at Evening ... 134 
 
 A Night-piece ... ... ... ... ... 135 
 
 Nutting ... ... ... ... ... ... 136 
 
 Lines written in early Spring ... ... ... 138 
 
 My Heart leaps up ... ... ... ... ... 139 
 
 Yew-Trees ... ... ... ... ... ... 140 
 
 Sonnet to a Brook ... .... ... ... ... 141 
 
 Admonition , intended more particularly for the perufal 
 of thofe who may have happened to be enamoured 
 of fome beautiful Place of Retreat in the Country 
 of the Lakes ... ... ... ... ... 142 
 
 Sonnets ... ... ... ... ... ... 142 
 
 It is a beauteous Evening ... ... ... ... 145 
 
 Calm is all nature as a Refting IF heel ... ... 146 
 
 Domeftic Poems. 
 
 The Pet Lamb ... ... ... ... ... 147 
 
 Lucy Gray; or , Solitude .. ... ... ... 150 
 
 Three years /he grew in Sun and Shower 153 
 
 She was a Phantom of Delight ... . 155 
 
CONTENTS. XI 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Poems on Flowers. 
 
 To the Daify ... ... ... ... ... ... 157 
 
 To the fame Flower ... ... ... ... ... 160 
 
 To thefmall Celandine ... ... ... ... 162 
 
 To the fame Flower ... ... ... ... ... 165 
 
 Daffodils ... ... ... ... ... 167 
 
 To the Rock in the Orchard... ... ... 168 
 
 The Waterfall and the Eglantine ... ... . 169 
 
 The Oak and the Broom ... ... ... ... 172 
 
 Poems on Birds. 
 
 The Green Linnet ... ... ... ... ... 177 
 
 To a Skylark... ... ... .. ... ... 179 
 
 To the Cuckoo ... ... ... ... ... 180 
 
 To a Nightingale ... ... ... ... ... 181 
 
 The Sparrow’s Ne/l ... ... ... ... ... 182 
 
 184 
 
 Intimations of Immortality ... 
 
Lift of Photographs. 
 
 ^>0 
 
 RYDAL MOUNT: WORDSWORTH'S RESIDENCE .... Frontifpiece ■ 
 
 DUNGEON-GHYLL . Page 40 
 
 VIEW ON THE ROTH A . 46 
 
 R YD ALE FALLS . 50 
 
 RYDALE WATER, AND NAB SCAR . 54 
 
 GRASMERE ; FROM RED BANK .. 63 
 
 ULLESWATER; FROM GOWBARROW . 101 
 
 STOCK-GHYLL FORCE; NEAR AMBLESIDE . 169 
 
EXTRACT FROM THE CONCLUSION OF A POEM ,, 
 COMPOSED UPON LEAVING SCHOOL . 
 
 EAR native regions, I foretell, 
 
 From what I feel at this farewell, 
 That, wherefoc’er my fteps fhall tend, 
 And whenfoe’er my courfe fhall end, 
 If in that hour a fingle tie 
 Survive of local fympathy, 
 
 My foul will caft the backward view, 
 The longing look alone on you. 
 
 Thus, when the fun, prepared for reft, 
 Hath gained the precin<fts of the weft, 
 Though his departing radiance fail 
 To illuminate the hollow vale, 
 
 A lingering light he fondly throws 
 On the dear hills where firft he rofe. 
 
 n 
 
Winandermere 
 
 
 AN EVENING WALK . 
 
 AR from my deareft Friend, ’tis mine to rove 
 Through bare grey dell, high wood, and pafloral 
 cove ; 
 
 His wizard courfe where hoary Derwent takes, 
 
 Thro’ crags and foreft glooms and opening lakes, 
 Staying his filent waves, to hear the roar 
 That Runs the tremulous cliffs of.high Lodore ; 
 Where peace to Grafmere’s lonely ifland leads, 
 
 To willowy hedge-rows, and to emerald meads : 
 
 Leads to her bridge, rude church, and cottaged grounds, 
 Her rocky fheepwalks, and her woodland bounds ; 
 
 Where, bofom’d deep, the fhy Winander peeps 
 ’Mid cluftering ifles, and holly-fprinkled fteeps : 
 
 Where twilight glens endear my Efthwaite’s fhore, 
 
 And memory of departed pleafures more. 
 
4 
 
 WINANDERMERE. 
 
 Fair fcenes, erewhile, I taught, a happy child, 
 The echoes of your rocks my carols wild : 
 
 Then did no ebb of cheerfulnefs demand 
 Sad tides of joy from melancholy’s hand, 
 
 In youth’s wild eye the livelong day was bright, 
 The fun at morning, and the ftars at night, 
 
 Alike, when firft the vales the bittern fills 
 
 Or the firft woodcocks roamed the moonlight hills. 
 
 In thoughtlefs gaiety I courfed the plain, 
 
 And hope itfelf was all I knew of pain ; 
 
 For then, even then, the little heart would beat 
 At times, while young Content forfook her feat, 
 
 And wild Impatience, pointing upward, fhowed, 
 Where, tipp’d with gold, the mountain fummits glowed. 
 Alas ! the idle tale of man is found 
 Depicted in the dial’s moral round ; 
 
 With hope reflection blends her focial rays 
 To gild the total tablet of his days ; 
 
 Yet ftill, the fport of fome malignant power, 
 
 He knows but from its flhade the prefent hour. 
 
 But why, ungrateful, dwell on idle pain ? 
 To fhow her yet fome joys to me remain, 
 Say, will my Friend, with foft affeClion’s car, 
 The hiftory of a poet’s evening hear ? 
 
AN EVENING WALK. 
 
 When, in the fouth, the wan noon, brooding frill, 
 Breathed a pale fteam around the glaring hill, 
 
 And fhades of deep-embattled clouds were feen, 
 Spotting the northern cliffs with lights between ; 
 Gazing the tempting fhades to them denied, 
 
 When flood the fhortened herds amid the tide, 
 Where from the barren wall’s unfheltered end 
 Long rails into the fhallow lake extend. 
 
 When fchool-boys ftretched their length upon the 
 green ; 
 
 And round the humming elm, a glimmering fcene, 
 
 In the brown park, in flocks the troubled deer 
 Shook the frill-twinkling tail and glancing ear; 
 
 When horfes in the wall-girt intake flood, 
 
 Unfhaded, eying far below the flood, 
 
 Crowded behind the fwain, in mute diftrefs. 
 
 With forward neck the clofing gate to prefs — 
 
 Then, as I wandered where the huddling rill 
 Brightens with water-breaks the hollow ghyll, 
 
 To where, while thick above the branches clofe, 
 
 In dark brown bafon its wild waves repofe, 
 
 Inverted fhrubs, and mofs of darkefr green, 
 
 Cling from the rocks, with pale wood-weeds between 
 Save that aloft the fubtile funbeams fhine 
 On withered briars that o’er the crags recline ; 
 
 Sole light admitted here, a fmall cafcade, 
 
 Illumines with fparkling foam the twilight friade ; 
 
6 
 
 WINANDERMERE. 
 
 Beyond, along the villa of the brook, 
 
 Where antique roots its buttling path o’erlook, 
 
 The eye repofes on a fecret bridge, 
 
 Half grey, half fhagged with ivy to its ridge. 
 
 Sweet rill, farewell ! To-morrow’s noon again 
 Shall hide me, wooing long thy wild wood {train; 
 
 But now the fun has gained his weflern road, 
 
 And eve’s mild hour invites my Heps abroad. 
 
 While, near the midway cliff, the filvered kite 
 In many a whirling circle wheels her flight; 
 
 Slant watery lights, from parting clouds, apace 
 Travel along the precipice’s bale : 
 
 Cheering its naked wafte of fcattered Hone, 
 
 By lichens grey, and fcanty mofs, o’ergrown ; 
 
 Where fcarce the foxglove peeps, or thiflle’s beard; 
 And reftlefs flone-chat all day long is heard. 
 
 How pleafant, as the yellowing fun declines, 
 
 And with long rays and {hades the landfcape fhines ; 
 To mark the birches’ items all golden light, 
 
 That lit the dark flant woods with filvery white ; 
 
 The willow’s weeping trees, that twinkling hoar, 
 Glanced oft upturned along the breezy fhore, 
 
 Low bending o’er the coloured water, fold 
 
 Their movelefs boughs and leaves like threads of gold ; 
 
AN EVENING WALK. 
 
 7 
 
 The fkiffs with naked malls at anchor laid, 
 
 Before the boat-houfe peeping through the lhade ; 
 The unwearied glance of woodman’s echoed ftroke ; 
 And curling from the trees the cottage fmoke. 
 
 Their panniered train a group of potters goad. 
 Winding from fide to fide up the fleep road ; 
 
 The peafant, from yon cliff of fearful edge 
 Shot, down the headlong path darts with his fledge ; 
 Bright beams the lonely mountain-horfe illume 
 Feeding ’mid purple heath, green rings, and broom ; 
 While the lharp Hope the flackened team confounds, 
 Downward the ponderous timber-wain refounds ; 
 
 In foamy breaks the rill, with merry fong, 
 
 Dalhed down the rough rock, lightly leaps along; 
 From lonefome chapel, at the mountain’s feet, 
 
 Three humble bells their ruftic chime repeat; 
 
 Sounds from the waterfide the hammered boat ; 
 
 And blafted quarry thunders, heard remote! 
 
 Even here, amid the fweep of endlefs woods, 
 
 Blue pomp of lakes, high cliffs, and falling floods, 
 Not undelightful are the fimplefl: charms, 
 
 Found by the graffy door of mountain-farms. 
 
 Sweetly ferocious, round his native walks, 
 
 Pride of his filler-wives, the monarch ftalks ; 
 
8 
 
 WINANDERMERE. 
 
 Spur-clad his nervous feet, and firm his tread ; 
 
 A creff of purple tops his warrior head ; 
 
 Bright fparks his black and rolling eye-ball hurls 
 Afar, his tail he clofes and unfurls ; 
 
 On tiptoe reared, he {trains his clarion throat, 
 Threatened by faintly-anfwering farms remote. 
 
 Bright’ning the cliffs between where fombrous pine 
 And yew-trees o’er the filver rocks recline ; 
 
 I love to mark the quarry’s moving trains, 
 
 Dwarf panniered fteeds, and men, and numerous wains; 
 How bufy the enormous hive within, 
 
 While Echo dallies with the various din ! 
 
 Some (hardly heard their chifels’ clinking found) 
 
 Toil, (mail as pigmies in the gulf profound ; 
 
 Some, dim between th’ aerial cliffs defcried, 
 
 O’erwalk the {lender plank from fide to fide ; 
 
 Thefe, by the pale-blue rocks that ceafelefs ring, 
 
 Glad from their airy balkets hang, and fing. 
 
 Hung o’er a cloud above the ffeep that rears 
 Its edge all flame, the broadening fun appears ; 
 A long blue bar its aegis orb divides, 
 
 And breaks the fpreading of its golden tides ; 
 And now it touches on the purple ffeep 
 That flings his fhadow on the pidlured deep. 
 
AN EVENING WALK. 
 
 9 
 
 ’Crofs the calm lake’s blue fhades the cliffs afpire, 
 With towers and woods, a cc profpedf all on fire; ” 
 The coves and fecret hollows, through a ray 
 Of fainter gold, a purple gleam betray. 
 
 The gilded turf arrays in richer green 
 
 Each fpeck of lawn the broken rocks between, 
 
 Deep yellow beams the fcattered boles illume, 
 
 Far in the level forefl’s central gloom. 
 
 Waving his hat, the fhepherd, in the vale, 
 
 Diredfs his winding dog the cliff's to fcale,—- 
 That barking, bufy, ’mid the glittering rocks, 
 Hunts, where he points, the intercepted flocks. 
 Where oaks o’erhang the road the radiance fhoots 
 On tawny earth, wild weeds, and twiffed roots : 
 The druid-ffones their lighted fane unfold ; 
 
 And all the babbling brooks are liquid gold ; 
 
 Sunk to a curve, the day-ffar leffens ffill, 
 
 Gives one bright glance, and drops behind the hill. 
 
 In thefe lone vales, if aught of faith may claim, 
 Their filver hairs, and ancient hamlet fame. 
 
 When up the hills, as now, retreats the light, 
 Strange apparitions mock the village fight. 
 
 A defperate form appears, that fpurs his ffeed 
 Along the midway cliffs with violent fpeed ; 
 
 c 
 
io 
 
 WINANDERMERE. 
 
 Unhurt purfues his lengthened flight, while all 
 Attend, at every ftretch, his headlong fall. 
 
 Anon, in order mounts, a gorgeous fhow 
 Of horfemen-fhadows moving to and fro ; 
 
 And now the van is gilt with evening’s beam ; 
 
 The rear through iron brown betrays a fullen gleam, 
 While fllent Hands the admiring crowd below, 
 
 Lofl: gradual o’er the heights in pomp they go, 
 
 Till, but the lonely beacon, all is fled 
 
 That tips with eve’s lateft gleam his fpiry head. 
 
 Now, while the folemn evening fhadows fail, 
 
 On red flow-waving pinions, down the vale ; 
 
 How pleafant near the tranquil lake to ftray, 
 
 Where winds the road along a fecret bay, 
 
 In all the majefty of eafe divides, 
 
 And glorying looks around the fiient tides ; 
 
 Along the tc wild meandering Ihore” to view, 
 Obfequious grace the winding fwan purfue; 
 
 He fwells his lifted chefl: and backward flings 
 His bridling neck between his tow’ring wings ; 
 
 On as he floats, the filvered waters glow, 
 
 Proud of the varying arch and movelefs form of fnow, 
 While tender cares and mild domeftic loves 
 With furtive watch purfue her as Ihe moves, 
 
 The female with a meeker charm fucceeds, 
 
 And her brown little-ones around her leads, 
 
AN EVENING WALK. 
 
 I 
 
 Nibbling the water lilies as they pafs, 
 
 Or playing wanton with the floating grafs. 
 
 She, in a mother’s care, her beauty’s pride 
 Forgets, unwearied watching every fide ; 
 
 Alternately they mount her back, and reft 
 Clofe by her mantling wings’ embraces preft. 
 
 Long may they roam thefe hermit waves, that fleep 
 In birch-befprinkled cliffs embofomed deep, 
 
 Thefe fairy holms untrodden, ft ill, and green, 
 
 Whofe (hades protect the hidden wave ferene. 
 Whence fragrance fcents the water’s defert gale, 
 
 The violet and lily of the vale ! 
 
 Where, though her far-off twilight ditty fteal, 
 
 They not the trip of harmlefs milk-maid feel ; 
 
 Yon tuft conceals their home, their cottage bower ; 
 Frefh water-rufhes ftrew the verdant floor; 
 
 Long grafs and willows form the woven wall, 
 
 And fwings above the roof the poplar tall. 
 
 Thence iffuing oft unwieldy as they ftalk, 
 
 They crufli with broad black feet their flowery walk ; 
 Safe from your door ye hear at breezy morn 
 The hound, the horfe’s tread, and mellow horn ; 
 
 No ruder found your defert haunts invades 
 Than waters dafhing wild, or rocking (hades, 
 
 Ye ne’er, like haplefs human wanderers, throw 
 Your young on winter’s winding-fheet of fnow. 
 
12 
 
 WINANDERMERE. 
 
 Fair Swan ! by all a mother’s joys carefled, 
 
 Haply fome wretch has eyed, and called thee 
 blefled ; 
 
 I fee her now, denied to lay her head, 
 
 On cold blue nights, in hut or draw-built fhed, 
 Turn to a filent fmile their fleepy cry, 
 
 By pointing to a ftiooting dar on high. 
 
 —When low-hung clouds each dar of fuminer hide, 
 And firelefs are the valleys far and wide, 
 
 Where the brook brawls along the public road 
 Dark with bat-haunted afhes dretching broad, 
 
 Oft has fhe taught them on her lap to play 
 Delighted with the glowworm’s harmlefs ray, 
 
 Tofs light from hand to hand, while on the ground 
 Small circles of green radiance gleam around. 
 
 Oh ! when the bitter fhowers her path aflail, 
 And roars between the hills the torrent gale ; 
 
 No more her breath can thaw their fingers cold, 
 Their frozen arms her neck no more can fold ; 
 Weak roof a cowering form two babes to fhield, 
 And faint the fire a dying heart can yield ! 
 
 Prefs the fad kifs, fond mother ! vainly fears 
 Thy flooded cheek to wet them with its tears ; 
 
 No tears can chili them, and no bofom warms, 
 Thy bread their death-bed, coffined in thine arms ! 
 
AN EVENING WALK. 
 
 3 
 
 Sweet are the founds that mingle from afar, 
 
 Heard by calm lakes, as peeps the folding ftar, 
 
 Where the duck dabbles ’mid the ruftling fedge, 
 
 And feeding pike ftarts from the water’s edge, 
 
 Or the fwan ftirs the reeds, his neck and bill 
 Wetting, that drip upon the water ft ill; 
 
 And heron, as refounds the trodden fhore, 
 
 Shoots upward, darting his long neck before. 
 
 Now, with religious awe, the farewell light 
 Blends with the folemn colouring of night ; 
 
 ’Mid groves of clouds that creft the mountain’s brow, 
 And round the weft’s proud lodge their fhadows throw, 
 Like Una fhining on her gloomy way, 
 
 The half-feen form of Twilight roams aftray ; 
 
 Shedding, through paly loop-holes mild and fmall, 
 Gleams that upon the lake’s ftill bofom fall ; 
 
 Soft o’er the furface creep thofe luftres pale 
 Tracking the fitful motions of the gale. 
 
 With reftlefs interchange at once the bright 
 Wins on the fhade, the fhade upon the light. 
 
 No favoured eye was e’er allowed to gaze 
 On lovelier fpedfacle in fairy days ; 
 
 When gentle Spirits urged a fportive chafe, 
 
 Brulhing with lucid wands the water’s face ; 
 
 While mufic, ftealing round the glimmering deeps, ~ 
 Charmed the tall circle of the enchanted fteeps. 
 
WINANDERMERE. 
 
 
 —The lights are vanifhed from the watery plains : 
 No wreck of all the pageantry remains. 
 
 Unheeded, night has overcome the vales : 
 
 On the dark earth the baffled vifion fails ; 
 
 The lateft lingerer of the foreft train, 
 
 The lone black fir, forfakes the faded plain ; 
 
 Lafi: evening fight, the cottage fmoke, no more, 
 
 Loft in the thickened darknefs, glimmers hoar ; 
 
 And, towering from the fullen dark-brown mere, 
 Like a black wall, the mountain fteeps appear. 
 
 —Now o’er the foothed accordant heart we feel 
 A fympathetic twilight flowly fteal, 
 
 And ever, as we fondly mufe, we find 
 
 The foft gloom deepening on the tranquil mind. 
 
 Stay ! penfive fadly-pleafing vifions, ftay ! 
 
 Ah no ! as fades the vale, they fade away : 
 
 Yet (till the tender, vacant gloom remains ; 
 
 Still the cold cheek its (huddering tear retains. 
 
 The bird, who ceafed, with fading light, to thread 
 Silent the hedge or fieamy rivulet’s bed, 
 
 From his grey re-appearing tower (hall foon 
 Salute with boding note the rifing moon, 
 
 Frofting with hoary light the pearly ground, 
 
 And pouring deeper blue to iEther’s bound; 
 
 And pleafed, her folemn pomp of clouds to fold 
 In robes of azure, fleecy-white, and gold. 
 
AN EVENING WALK. 
 
 15 
 
 See o’er the eaftern hill, where darknefs broods 
 O’er all its vanifhed dells, and lawns, and woods ; 
 Where but a mafs of {hade the fight can trace, 
 
 She lifts in filence up her lovely face : 
 
 Above the gloomy valley flings her light, 
 
 Far to the weftern Hopes with hamlets white: 
 
 And gives, where woods the chequered upland ftrew, 
 To the green corn of fummer, autumn’s hue. 
 
 Thus Hope, firfl: pouring from her blefled horn 
 Her dawn, far lovelier than the moon’s own morn, 
 ’Till higher mounted, ftrives in vain to cheer 
 The weary hills, impervious, blackening near; 
 
 Yet does {he {till, undaunted throw the while 
 On darling fpots remote her tempting fmile. 
 
 Even now {lie decks for me a diftant fcene, 
 
 (For dark and broad the gulf of time between,) 
 Gilding that cottage with her fondefl: ray, 
 
 (Sole bourn, foie wifh, foie objedt of my way; 
 
 How fair its lawns and {heltering woods appear ; 
 How fweet its ftreamlet murmurs in mine ear !) 
 Where we, my Friend, to happy days {hall rife, 
 
 ’Till our fmall {hare of hardly-paining fighs 
 (For fighs will ever trouble human breath) 
 
 Creep hulhed into the tranquil breaft of death. 
 
i6 
 
 WINANDERMERE. 
 
 But now the clear bright Moon her zenith gains, 
 And, rimy without fpeck, extend the plains : 
 
 The deepeft cleft the mountain’s front difplays 
 Scarce hides a ftiadow from her fearching rays ; 
 From the dark-blue faint filvery threads divide 
 The hills, while gleams below the azure tide ; 
 
 The fcene is wakened, yet its peace unbroke 
 By filvered wreaths of quiet charcoal fmoke, 
 
 'That o’er the ruins of the fallen wood 
 Steal down the hill, and fpread along the flood. 
 
 The fong of mountain-ftreams, unheard by day, 
 Now hardly heard, beguiles my homeward way. 
 All air is like the fleeping water, ftill, 
 
 Lift’ning the aerial mufic of the hill, 
 
 Broke only by the flow clock tolling deep, 
 
 Or (bout that wakes the ferry-man from fleep, 
 The echoed hoof approaching the far fhore, 
 
 Soon followed by his hollow parting oar; 
 
 Sound of clofed gate acrofs the water borne, 
 Hurrying the feeding hare through ruftling corn ; 
 The tremulous fob of the complaining owl; 
 
 And at long intervals the mill-dog’s howl; 
 
 The diftant forge’s fwinging thump profound ; 
 
 Or yell, in the deep woods, of lonely hound. 
 
BRATHAY CHURCH AND VALLEY OF WINANDER. 
 
 l 7 
 
 BRAT HAT CHURCH . 
 
 . . . So we defcend, and winding round a rock, 
 
 Attain a point that fhowed the valley—ftretched 
 In length before us ; and, not diftant far. 
 
 Upon a riling ground a grey Church-tower, 
 
 Whofe battlements were fcreened by tufted trees. 
 
 And towards a cryftal Mere, that lay beyond 
 Among fteep hills and woods embofomed, flowed 
 A copious ftream with boldly-winding courfe ; 
 
 Here traceable, there hidden—there again 
 To fight reftored, and glittering in the fun. 
 
 On the ftream’s bank, and everywhere, appeared 
 Fair dwellings, fingle, or in focial knots ; 
 
 Some fcattered o’er the level, others perched 
 On the hill-fides, a cheerful quiet fcene, 
 
 Now in its morning purity arrayed. 
 
 From u The Excurfion ,” Book F, 
 
 THE VALLET OF WINANDER AND BRATHAT 
 CHURCH. 
 
 .Right acrofs the lake 
 
 Our pinnace moves ; then, coafting creek and bay, 
 Glades we beheld, and into thickets peeped, 
 
 D 
 
8 
 
 WINANDERMERE. 
 
 Where couch the fpotted deer ; or raifed our eyes 
 To fhaggy fteeps on which the carelefs goat 
 Browfed by the fide of dafhing waterfalls ; 
 
 Thus did the bark, meandering with the fhore, 
 Purfue her voyage, till a point was gained 
 Where a projecting line of rock, that framed 
 A natural pier, invited us to land. 
 
 Alert to follow as the Paflor led, 
 
 We clomb a green hill’s fide ; and thence obtained 
 
 Slowly, a lefs and lefs obflru&ed fight 
 
 Of the flat meadows and indented coaft 
 
 Of the whole lake, in compafs feen : far off 
 
 And yet confpicuous, flood the old Church-tower, 
 
 In majefly prefiding o’er the vale 
 
 And all her dwellings; feemingly preferved 
 
 From the intrufion of a refllefs world 
 
 By rocks impaflable and mountains huge. 
 
 Soft heath this elevated fpot fupplied, 
 
 Wiih refling-place of mofly flone; and there 
 
 We fate reclined ; admiring quietly 
 
 The frame and general afpeCl of the fcene ; 
 
 And each not feldom eager to make known 
 His own difcoveries ; or to favourite points 
 Dire&ing notice, merely from a wifh 
 To impart a joy, imperfeCt while unfhared. 
 
BRATHAY CHURCH AND VALLEY OF WINANDER. 
 
 *9 
 
 That rapturous moment ne’er fhall I forget, 
 
 When thefe particular interefts were effaced 
 From every mind !—already had the fun, 
 
 Sinking with lefs than ordinary ftate, 
 
 Attained his weftern bound ; but rays of light— 
 Now fuddenly diverging from the orb 
 Retired behind the mountain tops or veiled 
 By the denfe air—(hot upwards to the crown 
 Of the blue firmament—-aloft, and wide : 
 
 And multitudes of little floating clouds, 
 
 Pierced through their thin ethereal mould—ere we, 
 Who faw, of change were confcious—had become 
 Vivid as fire : clouds feparately poifed,— 
 Innumerable multitude of forms 
 Scattered through half the circle of the fky; 
 
 And giving back, and fhedding each on each, 
 
 With prodigal communion, the bright hues 
 Which from the unapparent fount of glory 
 They had imbibed, and ceafed not to receive, 
 
 That which the heavens difplayed, the liquid deep 
 Repeated ; but with unity fublime ! 
 
 From cc The Excurfion ,” Book IX. 
 
20 
 
 WINANDERMERE. 
 
 IMAGE IN THE STREAM. 
 
 . . . . * Forth we went, 
 
 And down the valley on the ftreamlet’s bank 
 Purfued our way, a broken company, 
 
 Mute or converfing, Angle or in pairs. 
 
 Thus having reached a bridge, that overarched 
 The hafty rivulet where it lay becalmed 
 In a deep pool, by happy chance we faw 
 A two-fold image ; on a grafly bank 
 A fnow-white ram, and in the cryftal flood 
 Another and the fame ! Moft beautiful, 
 
 On the green turf, with his imperial front 
 Shaggy and bold, and wreathed horns fuperb, 
 The breathing creature {food ; as beautiful 
 Beneath him, fhowed his fhadowy counterpart. 
 Each had his glowing mountains, each his Iky, 
 And each feemed centre of his own fair world : 
 Antipodes unconfcious of each other. 
 
 Yet, in partition, with their feveral fpheres, 
 Blended in perfect {filiness to our fight! 
 
 From ‘ c The Excurfion ,” Book IX. 
 
ISLAND ON THE LAKE. 
 
 21 
 
 ISLAND ON THE LAKE . 
 
 . . . . Grateful talk !—to me 
 
 Pregnant with recolledtions of the time 
 When on thy bofom, fpacious Windermere! 
 
 A Youth, I pradtifed this delightful art; 
 
 Tolled on the waves alone, or ’mid a crew 
 Of joyous comrades. Now the reedy marge 
 Cleared, with a ftrenuous arm I dipped the oar 
 Free from obftrudtion ; and the boat advanced 
 Through cryftal water, fmoothly as a hawk, 
 
 That, difentangled from the lhady boughs 
 Of fome thick wood, her place of covert, cleaves 
 With correfponding wings the abyfs of air. 
 
 — u Obferve,” the Vicar faid, a yon rocky ille 
 With birch-trees fringed ; my hand fhall guide the helm, 
 While thitherward we bend our courfe ; or while 
 We feek that other, on the weftern fhore, 
 
 Where the bare columns of thofe lofty firs, 
 
 Supporting gracefully a mafly dome 
 Of fombre foliage, feem to imitate 
 A Grecian temple rifing from the Deep.” 
 
 From u The Excurfion ,” Book IX. 
 
22 
 
 WIN ANDERMERE, 
 
 THERE WAS A EOT. 
 
 There was a boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs 
 And iflands of Winander ! Many a time, 
 
 At evening, when the earlieft ftars began 
 To move along the edges of the hills, 
 
 Rifmg or fetting, would he ftand alone, 
 
 Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake ; 
 
 And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands 
 PrefPd clofely palm to palm, and to his mouth 
 Uplifted, he, as through an inftrument, 
 
 Blew mimic hootings to the filent owls, 
 
 That they might anfwer him. And they would fhout 
 Acrofs the watery vale, and fhout again, 
 
 Refponfive to his call,—with quivering peals, 
 
 And long halloos, and fcreams, and echoes loud 
 Redoubled and redoubled ; concourfe wild 
 Of mirth and jocund din! And, when it chanced 
 That paufes of deep filence mock’d his fkill, 
 
 Then, fometimes, in that filence, while he hung 
 Liftening, a gentle fhock of mild furprife 
 Has carried far into his heart the voice 
 Of mountain torrents ; or the vifible fcene 
 
THERE WAS A BOY. 
 
 2 3 
 
 Would enter unawares into his mind 
 With all its folemn imagery, its rocks, 
 
 Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received 
 Into the bofom of the fleady lake. 
 
 This boy was taken from his mates, and died 
 In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. 
 
 Fair are the woods, and beauteous is the fpot, 
 
 The vale where he was born ; the churchyard hangs 
 Upon a dope above the village fchool ; 
 
 And there, along that bank, when I have pafFd 
 At evening, I believe that oftentimes 
 A long half- hour together I have flood 
 Mute—looking at the grave in which he lies ! 
 
 
Esthwaite. 
 
 
 LINES 
 
 Left upon a Seat in a Yew-Tree , which Jiands near the Lake of 
 Efhwaite , on a defolate part of the Jhore commanding a beautiful 
 profpedl. 
 
 AY, Traveller! reft. This lonely Yew-tree ftands 
 Far from all human dwelling: what if here 
 No fparkling rivulet fpread the verdant herb ? 
 
 What if thefe barren boughs the bee not loves ? 
 
 Yet, if the wind breathe foft, the curling waves 
 That break againft the ftiore, fhall lull thy mind 
 By one foft impulfe faved from vacancy. 
 
 Who he was 
 
 That piled thefe ftones, and with the mofly fod 
 Firft covered o’er, and taught this aged tree 
 With its dark arms to form a circling bower, 
 
 I well remember.—He was one who owned 
 No common foul. In youth by lcience nurfed, 
 
LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT, ETC. 
 
 25 
 
 And led by Nature into a wild fcene 
 Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth 
 A favoured being, knowing no defire 
 Which genius did not hallow,—’gainft the taint 
 Of didolute tongues, and jealoufy, and hate, 
 
 And fcorn,—againft all enemies prepared, 
 
 All but negleit. The world, for fo it thought, 
 Owed him no fervice ; wherefore he at once 
 With indignation turned himfelf away, 
 
 And with the food of pride fuftained his foul 
 In folitude.—Stranger ! thefe gloomy boughs 
 Had charms for him ; and here he loved to fit, 
 
 His only vifitants a draggling fheep, 
 
 The ftone-chat, or the fand-lark, 
 
 And on thefe barren rocks, with juniper, 
 
 And heath and thiftle, thinly fprinkled o’er, 
 
 Fixing his downcaft eye, he many an hour 
 A morbid pleafure nourifhed, tracing here 
 An emblem of his own unfruitful life : 
 
 And lifting up his head, he then would gaze 
 On the more diftant fcene,—how lovely ’tis 
 Thou feed,—and he would gaze till it became 
 Far lovelier, and his heart could not fudrain 
 The beauty, dill more beauteous ! Nor, that time, 
 When Nature had fubdued him to herfelf, 
 
 Would he forget thofe beings, to whofe minds, 
 Warm from the labours of benevolence, 
 
 E 
 
26 
 
 ESTHWAITE. 
 
 The world, and man himfelf, appeared a fcenc 
 Of kindred lovelinefs : then he would figh 
 With mournful joy, to think that others felt 
 What he muft never feel: and fo, loft Man ! 
 
 On vifionary views would fancy feed, 
 
 Till his eye ftreamed with tears. In this deep vale 
 He died,—this feat his only monument. 
 
 If Thou be one whofe heart the holy forms 
 Of young imagination have kept pure, 
 
 Stranger ! henceforth be warned ; and know that pride, 
 Howe’er difguifed in his own majefty, 
 
 Is littlenefs; that he who feels contempt 
 
 For any living thing, hath faculties 
 
 Which he hath never ufed; that thought with him 
 
 Is in its infancy. The man whofe eye 
 
 Is ever on himfelf, doth look on one, 
 
 The leaft of Nature’s works, one who might move 
 The wife man to that fcorn which wifdom holds 
 Unlawful, ever. O be wifer, thou ! 
 
 Inftru&ed that true knowledge leads to love, 
 
 True dignity abides with him alone 
 Who, in the filent hour of inward thought, 
 
 Can ftill fufpedl, and ftill revere himfelf, 
 
 In lowlinefs of heart. 
 
TO HIS BROTHER. 
 
 27 
 
 TO HIS BROTHER , 
 
 When, to the attractions of the bufy world, 
 Preferring dudious leifure, I had chofen 
 A habitation in this peaceful vale, 
 
 Sharp feafon followed of continual dorm 
 In deeped Winter ; and from week to week, 
 Pathway, and lane, and public road, were clogged 
 With frequent (howers of fnow. Upon a hill, 
 
 At a fhort didance from my cottage, dands 
 A ftately fir-grove, whither I was wont 
 To haften, for I found, beneath the roof 
 Of that perennial fhade, a cloiftral place 
 Of refuge, with an unincumbered floor. 
 
 Here, in fafe covert, on the (hallow fnow, 
 
 And fometimes on a fpeck of vifible earth, 
 
 The red-bread near me hopped ; nor was I loth 
 To fy mpathize with vulgar coppice birds 
 That, for protection from the nipping blad, 
 Hither repaired.—A Angle beech-tree grew 
 Within this grove of firs ; and on the fork 
 Of that one beech, appeared a thrufh’s ned, 
 
 A lad year's ned, confpicuoufly built 
 At fuch fmall elevation from the ground 
 
28 
 
 ESTH WAITE. 
 
 As gave fure fign that they who in that houfe 
 Of nature and of love had made their home 
 Amid the fir-trees all the Summer long, 
 
 Dwelt in a tranquil fpot. And often-times 
 A few fheep, ftragglers from fome mountain-flock, 
 Would watch my motions with fufpicious flare, 
 From the remotefl outfkirts of the grove,— 
 
 Some nook where they had made their final ftand, 
 Huddling together from two fears—the fear 
 Of me and of the florm. Full many an hour 
 Here did I lofe. But in this grove the trees 
 Had been fo thickly planted, and had thriven 
 In fuch perplexed and intricate array, 
 
 That vainly did I feek, between their Items, 
 
 A length of open fpace,—where to and fro 
 My feet might move without concern or care : 
 And, baffled thus, before the ftorm relaxed, 
 
 I ceafed that fhelter to frequent,—and prized, 
 
 Lefs than I wifhed to prize, that calm recefs. 
 
 The fnows diflolved, and genial Spring returned 
 To clothe the fields with verdure. Other haunts 
 Meanwhile were mine; till, one bright April day, 
 By chance retiring from the glare of noon 
 To this forfaken covert, there I found 
 A hoary pathway traced between the tree% 
 
 And winding on with fuch an eafy line 
 
TO HIS BROTHER. 
 
 2Q 
 
 Along a natural opening, that I flood, 
 
 Much wondering at my own fimplicity, 
 
 How I could e’er have made a fruitlefs fearch 
 For what was now fo obvious. At the fight 
 Convi£lion alfo flafhed upon my mind 
 That this fame path (within the fhady grove 
 Begun and ended) by my Brother’s fleps 
 Had been imprefied.—To fojourn a fhort while 
 Beneath my roof, he from the barren feas 
 Had newly come—a cherifhed vifitant ! 
 
 And much did it delight me to perceive 
 That to this opportune recefs allured, 
 
 He had furveyed it with a finer eye, 
 
 A heart more wakeful ; that, more loth to part 
 From place fo lovely, he had worn the track 
 By pacing here, unwearied and alone, 
 
 In that habitual refllefinefs of foot 
 
 With which the failor meafures o’er and o’er 
 
 His fhort domain upon the veflel’s deck, 
 
 While fhe is travelling through the dreary fea. 
 When thou hadfl quitted Eflhwaite’s pleafant fhore, 
 And taken thy firfl leave of thofe green hills 
 And rocks that were the play-ground of thy youth, 
 Year followed year, my Brother ! and we two, 
 Converfing not, knew little in what mould 
 Each other’s minds were fafhioned ; and at length, 
 When once again we met in Grafmere Vale, 
 
ESTHWAITE. 
 
 3° 
 
 Between us there was little other bond 
 Than common feelings of fraternal love. 
 
 But thou, a fchool-boy, to the fea hadft carried 
 
 Undying recollections ; Nature there 
 
 Was with thee ; {he, who loved us both, the ftill 
 
 Was with thee ; and even fo didft thou become 
 
 A filent poet; from the folitude 
 
 Of the vaft fea didft bring a watchful heart 
 
 Still couchant, an inevitable ear, 
 
 And an eye praCtifed like a blind man’s touch. 
 Back to the joylefs ocean thou art gone ; 
 
 And now I call the pathway by thy name, 
 
 And love the fir-grove with a perfeCt love. 
 
 Thither do I withdraw when cloudlefs funs 
 Shine hot, or wind blows troublefome and ftrong: 
 And there I fit at evening, when the fteep 
 Of Silver-How, and Grafmere’s placid lake 
 And one green ifland, gleam between the ftems 
 Of the dark firs, a vifionary fcene ! 
 
 And, while I gaze upon the fpe&acle 
 Of clouded fplendour, on this dream-like fight 
 Of folemn lovelinefs, I think on thee, 
 
 My Brother, and on all which thou haft loft. 
 
 Nor feldom, if I rightly guefs,. while thou, 
 Muttering the verfes which I muttered firft 
 Among the mountains, through the midnight watch 
 Art pacing to and fro the veflel’s deck 
 
TO HIS BROTHER. 
 
 3 1 
 
 In Tome far region, here, while o’er my head, 
 
 At every impulfe of the moving breeze, 
 
 The fir-grove murmurs with a fea-like found, 
 Alone I tread this path ;—for aught I know, 
 Timing my fteps to thine ; and, with a ftore 
 Of undiftinguiftiable fympathies, 
 
 Mingling moll earnefi: wifties for the day 
 When we, and others whom we love, fhall meet 
 A fecond time in Grafmere’s happy vale. 
 
Langdale. 
 
 BLEA TARN. 
 
 HESE ferious words 
 Clofed the preparatory notices 
 With which my Fellow-traveller had beguiled 
 The way, while we advanced up that wide vale. 
 Now, fuddenly diverging, he began 
 To climb upon its weftern fide a ridge 
 Pathlefs and fmooth, a long and fteep afcent, 
 
 As if the objedt of his quefl: had been 
 Some fecret of the mountains, cavern, fall 
 Of water, or fome boaftful eminence 
 Renowned for fplendid profpedl far and wide; 
 We clomb, without a track to guide our fteps, 
 And on the fummit reached a heathy plain, 
 
 With a tumultuous wafte of huge hill-tops 
 Before us ; favage region ! and I walked 
 In wearinefs : when, all at once, behold ! 
 
BLEA TARN. 
 
 33 
 
 Beneath our feet, a little lowly vale, 
 
 A lowly vale, and yet uplifted high 
 Among the mountains ; even as if the fpot 
 Had been from elded: time by wifti of theirs 
 So placed, to be fhut out from all the world ! 
 Urn-like it was in fhape, deep as an urn ; 
 
 With rocks encompafled, fave that to the fouth 
 Was one fmall opening, where a heath-clad ridge 
 Supplied a boundary lefs abrupt and clofe ; 
 
 A quiet, treelefs nook, with two green fields, 
 
 A liquid pool that glittered in the fun, 
 
 And one bare dwelling ; one abode, no more ! 
 
 It feemed the home of poverty and toil, 
 
 Though not of want : the little fields, made green 
 By hufbandry of many thrifty years, 
 
 Paid cheerful tribute to the moorland houfe. 
 
 —There crows the cock, fingle in his domain : 
 
 The fmall birds find in fpring no thicket there 
 To fhroud them ; only from the neighbouring vales 
 The cuckoo, firaggling up to the hill-tops, 
 
 Shouteth faint tidings of fome gladder place. 
 
 Ah ! what a fweet Recefs, thought I, is here ! 
 Inftantly throwing down my limbs at eafe 
 Upon a bed of heath ;—full many a fpot 
 Of hidden beauty have I chanced to efpy 
 Among the mountains ; never one like this ; 
 
 F 
 
34 
 
 LANGDALE. 
 
 So lonefome, and To perfectly fecure j 
 Not melancholy—no, for it is green, 
 
 And bright, and fertile, furnifhed in itfelf 
 With the few needful things that life requires. 
 
 —In rugged arms how foft it feems to lie, 
 
 How tenderly protedled ! Far and near 
 We have an image of the priftine earth, 
 
 The planet in its nakednefs : were this 
 Man’s only dwelling, foie appointed feat, 
 
 Firft, laft, and fingle, in the breathing world, 
 
 It could not be more quiet : peace is here 
 Or nowhere ; days unruffled by the gale 
 Of public news or private ; years that pafs 
 Forgetfully ; uncalled upon to pay 
 The common penalties of mortal life, 
 
 Sicknefs, or accident, or grief, or pain. 
 
 From u The Excurfion ,” Book II. 
 
 LANGDALE PIKES . 
 
 . . . . . In genial mood, 
 
 While at our paftoral banquet thus we fate 
 Fronting the window of that little cell, 
 
 I could not, ever and anon, forbear 
 To glance an upward look on two huge Peaks, 
 That from fome other vale peered into this. 
 
LANGDALE PIKES. 
 
 35 
 
 cc Thofe lufty twins, on which your eyes are caft,” 
 Exclaimed our hoft, cc if here you dwelt, would be 
 Your prized companions.—Many are the notes 
 Which, in his tuneful courfe, the wind draws forth 
 From rocks, woods, caverns, heaths, and daftiing fhores ; 
 And well thofe lofty brethren bear their part 
 In the wild concert—chiefly when the ftorm 
 Rides high ; then all the upper air they fill 
 With roaring found, that ceafes not to flow, 
 
 Like fmoke, along the level of the blaft, 
 
 In mighty current; theirs, too, is the fong 
 Of ftream and headlong flood that feldom fails ; 
 
 And, in the grim and breathlefs hour of noon, 
 
 Methinks that I have heard them echo back 
 The thunder’s greeting. Nor have nature’s laws 
 Left them ungifted with the power to yield 
 Mufic of finer tone ; a harmony, 
 
 So do I call it, though it be the hand 
 
 Of filence, though there be no voice;—the clouds, 
 
 The milt, the fhadows, light of golden funs, 
 
 Motions of moonlight, all come thither—touch, 
 
 And have an anfwer—thither come, and Ihape 
 A language not unwelcome to fick hearts 
 And idle fpirits—there the fun himfelf, 
 
 At the calm clofe of fummer’s longefl: day, 
 
 Refts his fubftantial orb ; between thofe heights 
 And on the top of either pinnacle, 
 
3 6 
 
 LANGDALE. 
 
 More keenly than elfewhere in night’s blue vault 
 Sparkle the liars, as of their ftation proud. 
 
 Thoughts are not busier in the mind of man 
 Than the mute agents ftirring there.” 
 
 From cc The Excurfion ,” Book II, 
 
 SCENE IN THE VALLEY . 
 
 A Humming Bee—a little tinkling rill— 
 
 A pair of falcons wheeling on the wing, 
 
 In clamorous agitation, round the creft 
 Of a tall rock, their airy citadel— 
 
 By each and all of thefe the penfive ear 
 Was greeted in the filence that enfued, 
 
 When through the cottage-threfhold we had palled, 
 And, deep within that lonefome valley, flood 
 Once more beneath the concave of a blue 
 And cloudlefs fky.—Anon exclaimed our holt, 
 Triumphantly difperfing with the taunt 
 The {hade of difcontent which on his brow 
 Had gathered,— cc Ye have left my cell,—but fee 
 How Nature hems you in with friendly arms ! 
 
 And by her help ye are my prifoners {till. 
 
 But which way fhall I lead you ?—how contrive, 
 
 In fpot fo parfimonioufly endowed, 
 
SCENE IN THE VALLEY. 
 
 37 
 
 That the brief hours, which yet remain, may reap 
 Some recompence of knowledge or delight ? ” 
 
 So faying, round he looked, as if perplexed ; 
 
 And, to remove thofe doubts, my gray-haired Friend 
 Said— cc Shall we take this pathway for our guide ?— 
 Upward it winds, as if, in Summer heats, 
 
 Its line had firft been fafhioned by the flock 
 Seeking a place of refuge at the root 
 Of yon black Yew-tree, whofe protruded boughs 
 Darken the filver bofom of the crag, 
 
 From which it draws its meagre fuftenance. 
 
 There, in commodious fhelter, may we reft. 
 
 Or let us trace this ftreamlet to its fource ; 
 
 Feebly it tinkles with an earthy found, 
 
 And a few fteps may bring us to the fpot 
 
 Where, haply, crowned with flowerets and green herbs, 
 
 The mountain infant to the fun comes forth, 
 
 Like human life from darknefs.”—A fudden turn 
 Through a ftraight paflage of encumbered ground, 
 Proved that fuch hope was vain:—for now we ftood 
 Shut out from profpedt of the open vale, 
 
 And faw the water that compofed this rill, 
 
 Defcending, difembodied, and diffufed 
 O’er the fmooth furface of an ample crag, 
 
 Lofty, and fteep, and naked as a tower. 
 
 All further progrefs here was barred ;—And who, 
 Thought I, if mafter of a vacant hour, 
 
38 
 
 LANGDALE, 
 
 Here would not linger, willingly detained ? 
 Whether to fuch wild objects he were led 
 When copious rains have magnified the ftream 
 Into a loud and white-robed waterfall, 
 
 Or introduced at this more quiet time. 
 
 Upon a femicirque of turf-clad ground, 
 
 The hidden nook difcovered to our view 
 A mafs of rock, refembling, as it lay 
 Right at the foot cf that moifl: precipice, 
 
 A ftranded fhip, with keel upturned, that refis 
 Fearlefs of winds and waves. Three feveral ftones 
 Stood near, of fmaller fize, and not unlike 
 To monumental pillars : and, from thefe 
 Some little fpace difjoined, a pair were feen, 
 
 That with united fhoulders bore aloft 
 A fragment like an altar, flat and fmooth : 
 
 Barren the tablet, yet thereon appeared 
 A tall and fhining holly that had found 
 A hofpitable chink, and flood upright, 
 
 As if inferted by fome human hand 
 In mockery, to wither in the fun, 
 
 Or lay its beauty flat before a breeze, 
 
 The firfl: that entered. But no breeze did now 
 Find entrance ;—high or low appeared no trace 
 Of motion, fave the water that defcended, 
 
 Diffufed adown that barrier of fteep rock, 
 
THE GRANDEUR OF MOUNTAIN SCENERY. 
 
 39 
 
 And foftly creeping like a breath of air, 
 
 Such as is fometimes feen, and hardly feen, 
 
 To brulh the (till breaft of a cryftal lake. 
 
 From cc The Excurfion ,” Booklll. 
 
 THE GRANDEUR OF MOUNTAIN SCENER1. 
 
 Has not the foul, the being of your life, 
 
 Received a (hock of awful confcioufnefs, 
 
 In fome calm feafon, when thefe lofty rocks 
 At night’s approach bring down the unclouded Iky 
 To reft upon their circumambient walls ; 
 
 A temple framing of dimenfions vaft, 
 
 And yet not too enormous for the found 
 Of human anthems,—choral fong, or burft 
 Sublime of inftrumental harmony. 
 
 To glorify the Eternal! What if thefe 
 Did never break the ftillnefs that prevails 
 Here,—if the folemn nightingale be mute, 
 
 And the foft woodlark here did never chant 
 Her vefpers,—Nature fails not to provide 
 Impulfe and utterance. The whifpering air 
 Sends infpiration from the fhadowy heights 
 And blind receftes of the caverned rocks; 
 
 The little rills and waters numberlefs, 
 
40 
 
 LANGDALE. 
 
 Inaudible by daylight, blend their notes 
 With the loud ftreams : and often, at the hour 
 When iflue forth the firft pale ftars, is heard, 
 
 Within the circuit of this fabric huge, 
 
 One voice —the folitary raven, flying 
 Athwart the concave of the dark blue dome, 
 
 Unfeen, perchance above the power of flight— 
 
 An iron knell ! with echoes from afar 
 Faint—and (fill fainter—as the cry, with which 
 The wanderer accompanies her flight 
 Through the calm region, fades upon the ear, 
 
 Diminifhing by diftance till it fleemed 
 To expire ; yet from the abyfs is caught again, 
 
 And yet again recovered ! 
 
 From u The Excurfion ,” Book IF. 
 
 THE IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS; OR , DUNGEON- 
 GHTLL FORCE. 
 
 A PASTORAL. 
 
 The valley rings with mirth and joy ; 
 
 Among the hills the echoes play 
 A never, never-ending flong 
 To welcome in the May : 
 
J >U N G EON -G H Y IX. 
 
40 
 
 vox.wu;. 
 
 Vvfth rbn ; . • ' 
 
 vc---■vne.knb ,:j raven, £i;Mg 
 . d'; v i the concave of the dark blue dome, 
 i nfe n v perchance above the power of fight— 
 
 ;roa 3 : 1 : : ^k\ ' - from Tr 
 
 ■ 
 
 ; • ; . 
 
 ■ 
 
 An ' : • ■ ': ' 
 
 A The h'xcurfion” Book IV, 
 
 i E - 0 ' & 
 
 A •: ••i hi £ . 
 
 To v., ■ :he May : 
 
DUNGEON-GHYLL. 
 
 p. 40. 
 
THE IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS. 
 
 41 
 
 The magpie chatters with delight; 
 
 The mountain-raven’s youngling brood 
 Have left the mother and the neft ; 
 And they go rambling eaft and weft 
 In fearch of their own food ; 
 
 Or through the glittering vapours dart 
 In very wantonnefs of heart. 
 
 Beneath a rock, upon the grafs, 
 
 Two boys are fitting in the fun ; 
 
 It feems they have no work to do, 
 
 Or that their work is done. 
 
 On pipes of fycamore they play 
 The fragments of a Chriftmas hymn ; 
 Or with that plant which in our dale 
 We call ftag-horn or fox’s tail, 
 
 Their rufty hats they trim : 
 
 And thus, as happy as the day, 
 
 Thofe fhepherds wear the time away. 
 
 Along the river’s ftony marge 
 The fand-lark chants a joyous fong ; 
 The thrufh is bufy in the wood, 
 
 And carols loud and ftrong. 
 
 A thoufand lambs are on the rocks, 
 
 All newly-born ! both earth and fky 
 Keep jubilee ; and more than all, 
 
 G 
 
42 
 
 LANGDALE. 
 
 Thofe boys with their green coronal ; 
 They never hear the cry, 
 
 That plaintive cry ! which up the hill 
 Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll. 
 
 Said Walter, leaping from the ground, 
 u Down to the ftump of yon old yew 
 We’ll for our whiffles run a race.” 
 
 -—Away the fhepherds flew. 
 
 They leapt—they ran—and when they came 
 Right oppoflte to Dungeon-Ghyll, 
 
 Seeing that he fhould lofe the prize, 
 u Stop ! ” to his comrade Walter cries— 
 James flopped with no good will: 
 
 Said Walter then, “ Your talk is here, 
 ’Twill keep you working half a year. 
 
 u Now crofs where I fhall crofs—come on, 
 And follow me where I fhall lead.”— 
 
 The other took him at his word, 
 
 But did not like the deed. 
 
 It was a fpot which you may fee 
 If ever you to Langdale go : 
 
 Into a chafm a mighty block 
 
 Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock : 
 
 The gulf is deep below ; 
 
THE IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS. 
 
 43 
 
 And in a bafin black and fmall 
 Receives a lofty waterfall. 
 
 With ftaff in hand, acrofs the cleft 
 The challenger began his march ; 
 
 And now, all eyes and feet, hath gained 
 The middle of the arch. 
 
 When lift ! he hears a piteous moan— 
 Again !—his heart within him dies— 
 His pulfe is flopped, his breath is loft, 
 He totters, pale as any ghoft, 
 
 And looking down, he fpies 
 A lamb, that in the pool is pent 
 Within that black and frightful rent. 
 
 The lamb had Hipped into the ftream, 
 And fafe, without a bruife or wound, 
 
 The cataradt had borne him down 
 Into the gulf profound. 
 
 His dam had feen him when he fell, 
 
 She faw him down the torrent borne ; 
 
 And, while with all a mother’s love 
 She from the lofty rocks above 
 Sent forth a cry forlorn, 
 
 The lamb, ftill fwimming round and round, 
 Made anfwer to that plaintive found. 
 
44 
 
 LANGDALE. 
 
 When he had learnt what thing it was 
 That Tent this rueful cry ; I ween. 
 
 The boy recovered heart, and told 
 The fight which he had feen. 
 
 Both gladly now deferred their talk ; 
 
 Nor was there wanting other aid,— 
 
 A Poet, one who loves the brooks 
 Far better than the fages’ books, 
 
 By chance had thither ftrayed ; 
 
 And there the helplefs lamb he found, 
 
 By thofe huge rocks encompaffed round. 
 
 He drew it gently from the pool, 
 
 And brought it forth into the light : 
 
 The fhepherds met him with his charge, 
 
 An unexpected fight ! 
 
 Into their arms the lamb they took, 
 
 Said they, tc He’s neither maimed nor fcarred.” 
 Then up the fteep afcent they hied, 
 
 And placed him at his mother’s fide ; 
 
 And gently did the Bard 
 Thofe idle fhepherd-boys upbraid, 
 
 And bade them better mind their trade. 
 
The Rotha. 
 
 
 TO JOANNA. 
 
 
 MID the fmoke of cities did you pafs 
 Your time of early youth ; and there you learned, 
 From years of quiet induftry, to love 
 $ The living beings by your own fire-fide, 
 
 3 With fuch a ftrong devotion, that your heart 
 V Is flow towards the fympathies of them 
 $ Who look upon the hills with tendernefs, 
 f And make dear friendfhips with the flreams and 
 groves. 
 
 Yet we, who are tranfgreflors in this kind, 
 
 Dwelling retired in our fimplicity 
 
 Among the woods and fields, we love you well, 
 
 Joanna ! and I guefs, fince you have been 
 So diftant from us now for two long years, 
 
 That you will gladly liften to difcourfe, 
 
4 6 
 
 THE ROTHA. 
 
 However trivial, if you thence are taught 
 
 That they, with whom you once were happy, talk 
 
 Familiarly of you and of old times. 
 
 While I was feated, now fome ten days paft, 
 Beneath thofe lofty firs that overtop 
 Their ancient neighbour, the old fleeple-tower, 
 The Vicar from his gloomy houfe hard by 
 Came forth to greet me; and when he had afked, 
 u How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted maid ! 
 
 And when will fhe return to us ? ” he paufed ; 
 And, after fbort exchange of village news, 
 
 He with grave looks demanded, for what caufe, 
 Reviving obfolete idolatry, 
 
 I, like a Runic prieft, in characters 
 Of formidable fize had chifelled out 
 Some uncouth name upon the native rock, 
 
 Above the Rotha, by the foreft fide. 
 
 —Now, by thofe dear immunities of heart 
 Engendered betwixt malice and true love, 
 
 I was not loth to be fo catechifed, 
 
 And this was my reply :— u As it befel, 
 
 One Summer morning we had walked abroad 
 At break of day, Joanna and myfelf. 
 
 —’Twas that delightful feafon when the broom, 
 Full-flowered, and vifible on every fteep, 
 
 Along the copfes runs in veins of gold. 
 
VIEW ON THE ROTHA. 
 
 P 46. 
 

 
TO JOANNA. 
 
 47 
 
 Our pathway led us on to Rotha’s banks ; 
 
 And when we came in front of that tall rock 
 Which looks towards the eaft, I there {topped fhort, 
 And traced the lofty barrier with my eye 
 From bafe to fummit; fuch delight I found 
 To note in fhrub and tree, in {tone and flower, 
 
 That intermixture of delicious hues, 
 
 Along fo vaft a furface, all at once, 
 
 In one impreflion, by connecting force 
 Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart. 
 
 —When I had gazed perhaps two minutes’ fpace, 
 
 Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld 
 
 That ravifliment of mine, and laughed aloud. 
 
 The rock, like fomething {farting from a fleep, 
 Took up the lady’s voice, and laughed again : 
 
 That ancient woman feated on Helm-Crag 
 Was ready with her cavern : Hammar-Scar, 
 
 And the tall fteep of Silver-How, fent forth 
 A noife of laughter ; fouthern Loughrigg heard, 
 
 And Fairfield anfwered with a mountain tone : 
 Helvellyn far into the clear blue fky 
 Carried the lady’s voice—old Skiddaw blew 
 His fpeaking trumpet:—back out of the clouds 
 Of Glaramara fouthward came the voice ; 
 
 And Kirkftone tolled it from his mifty head. 
 
 —Now whether (faid I to our cordial friend, 
 
 Who in the hey-day of aftonilhment 
 
48 
 
 THE ROTHA. 
 
 Smiled in my face) this were in fimple truth 
 A work accompliftied by the brotherhood 
 Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched 
 With dreams and viflonary impulfes, 
 
 Is not for me to tell; but fure I am 
 That there was a loud uproar in the hills : 
 
 And, while we both were liftening, to my fide 
 The fair Joanna drew, as if fhe wifhed 
 To ftielter from fome objedt of her fear. 
 
 —And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons 
 Were wafted, as I chanced to walk alone 
 Beneath this rock, at funrife, on a calm 
 And filent morning, I fat down, and there, 
 
 In memory of affedtions old and true, 
 
 I chifelled out in thofe rude characters 
 Joanna’s name upon the living ftone. 
 
 And I, and all who dwell by my fire-fide, 
 
 Have called the lovely rock, Joanna’s Rock.” 
 
Rydale. 
 
 EMMA’S DELL. 
 
 T was an April morning : frefh and clear, 
 
 The rivulet delighting in its flrength, 
 
 Ran with a young man's fpeed ; and yet the voice 
 Of waters which the Winter had fupplied, 
 
 Was foftened down into a vernal tone. 
 
 The fpirit of enjoyment and defire, 
 
 And hopes and wifhes, from all living things 
 WTnt circling, like a multitude of founds. 
 
 The budding groves appeared as if in hafte 
 To fpur the fteps of June ; as if their fhades 
 Of various green were hindrances that flood 
 Between them and their obje£t : yet, meanwhile, 
 
 There was fuch deep contentment in the air, 
 
 That every naked afh, and tardy tree 
 
 Yet leaflefs, feemed as though the countenance 
 
 H 
 
RYDALE. 
 
 With which it looked on this delightful day 
 Were native to the Summer.—Up the brook 
 I roamed in the confufion of my heart, 
 
 Alive to all things and forgetting all. 
 
 At length I to a fudden turning came 
 In this continuous glen, where down a rock 
 The ftream, fo ardent in its courfe before, 
 
 Sent forth fuch fallies of glad found, that all 
 Which I till then had heard, appeared the voice 
 Of common pleafure : beaft and bird, the lamb, 
 
 The fhepherd’s dog, the linnet and the thrufh, 
 
 Vied with this waterfall, and made a fong 
 
 Which, while I liftened, feemed like the wild growth, 
 
 Or like fome natural produce of the air, 
 
 That could not ceafe to be. Green leaves were here 
 But 5 twas the foliage of the rocks, the birch, 
 
 The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn, 
 
 With hanging illands of refplendent furze : 
 
 And on a fummit, diftant a fhort fpace, 
 
 By any who fhould look beyond the dell, 
 
 A fingle mountain-cottage might be feen. 
 
 I gazed, and gazed, and to myfelf I faid, 
 
 cc Our thoughts at lead are ours; and this wild nook, 
 
 My Emma, I will dedicate to thee.” 
 
 -Soon did the fpot become my other home, 
 
 My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode. 
 
 And of the fhepherds who have feen me there, 
 


 .'■0 W 
 
 
 
 V’V ' ... v : , •' • 
 
 j I •' . / 
 
 A p;n I to a 
 ■ 1 litin 
 
 The flream, fo ar A rA in its courfe before, 
 benrfo .'i .'a: - ;V-i/;s of : jab f i J, that’all 
 »Vhich J \ d A ; ar-i, •. 'P the voice 
 
 ■•■/ ’ . lea r beafl ahd bird, the lamb, 
 . 
 
 ' ; a with ■ ■•.■■■■5 water fall, ana made a fb 
 
 Y\ file ■ •, while a ! - a a f - 
 
 f 
 
 ■ 
 
 V’i 1 . .-A kV‘ 
 
 t I'H ■ -■ ■ Au.:_ Cca'A 1:0 JC. 
 
 wild 
 
 Green leaves were here 
 
 pit ; twas the foliage of the rocks, the birch, 
 i/he yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn, 
 With hanging iflands of refplendent furze : 
 
 And on a fummit, diftant a ftiort fpace, 
 
 B any who fhould-dook beyond the dell, 
 ngl. , lountain-cottage might he feen. 
 
 1 gazed, and gazed, to mvfelf I laid. 
 
 • Id nook, 
 
 ■—Soon Ui,' the s" r become m 7 other horn 
 Mv dwelling, * u; •• y out-of-do,abode. 
 
 find of the iheoher 
 
 r ho have ic~i; me there, 
 
rydale falls. 
 p. 50. 
 

Wordsworth’s hill. 
 
 5i 
 
 To whom I fometimes in our idle talk 
 Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps, 
 
 Years after we are gone and in our graves, 
 
 When they have caufe to fpeak of this wild place, 
 May call it by the name of Emma’s Dell. 
 
 WORDSWORTH'S HILL . 
 
 There is an eminence,—of thefe our hills 
 The laft that parleys with the fetting fun ; 
 
 We can behold it from our orchard-feat ; 
 
 And, when at evening we purfue our walk 
 Along the public way, this cliff, fo high 
 Above us, and fo diffant in its height, 
 
 Is vifible; and often feems to fend 
 Its own deep quiet to reftore our hearts. 
 
 The meteors make of it a favourite haunt : 
 
 The flar of Jove, fo beautiful and large 
 In the mid heavens, is never half fo fair 
 As when he fhines above it. ’Tis in truth 
 The lonelieft place we have among the clouds. 
 And fhe who dwells with me, whom I have loved 
 With fuch communion, that no place on earth 
 Can ever be a folitude to me, 
 
 Hath to this lonely fummit given my Name. 
 
52 
 
 R YDALE. 
 
 MARY WORDSWORTH'S NOOK. 
 
 TO M. H. 
 
 Our walk was far among the ancient trees; 
 
 There was no road, nor any woodman’s path ; 
 
 But the thick umbrage,—checking the wild growth 
 Of weed and fapling, on the foft green turf 
 Beneath the branches,—of itfelf had made 
 A track, which brought us to a flip of lawn, 
 
 And a fmall bed of water in the woods. 
 
 All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink 
 On its firm margin, even as from a well, 
 
 Or fome ftone bafin which the herdfinan’s hand 
 Had fhaped for their refrefliment; nor did fun, 
 
 Or wind from any quarter, ever come, 
 
 But as a blefling, to this calm recefs, 
 
 This glade of water, and this one green field. 
 
 The fpot was made by Nature for herfelf. 
 
 The travellers know it not, and ’twill remain 
 Unknown to them : but it is beautiful ; 
 
 And if a man fhould plant his cottage near, 
 
 Should fleep beneath the Ihelter of its trees, 
 
 And blend its waters with his daily meal, 
 
WRITTEN WITH A SLATE-PENCIL, ETC. 
 
 53 
 
 He would fo love it, that in his death-hour 
 Its image would furvive among his thoughts : 
 And therefore, my fweet Mary, this ftill nook, 
 With all its beeches, we have named from you. 
 
 WRITTEN WITH A SLATE-PENCIL 
 
 a Stone , the largejl of a Heap lying near a Dejerted Efuarry, 
 upon one of the Ifands at Rydale. 
 
 Stranger ! this hillock of misfhapen {tones 
 Is not a Ruin of the ancient time, 
 
 Nor, as perchance thou rafhly deem’d:, the Cairn 
 Of fome old Britifh chief: ’tis nothing more 
 Than the rude embryo of a little dome 
 Or pleafure-houfe, once deftined to be built 
 Among the birch* trees of this rocky ifle. 
 
 But, as it chanced, Sir William having learned 
 That from the fhore a full-grown man might wade, 
 
 And make himfelf a freeman of this fpot 
 At any hour he chofe, the knight forthwith 
 Defifted, and the quarry and the mound 
 Are monuments of his unfinifhed tafk.-- 
 
54 
 
 RYDALE. 
 
 The block on which thefe lines are traced, perhaps, 
 Was once fele£ted as the corner-ftone 
 Of the intended pile, which would have been 
 Some quaint odd play-thing of elaborate (kill, 
 
 So that, I guefs, the linnet and the thrufli, 
 
 And other little builders who dwell here, 
 
 Had wondered at the work. But blame him not, 
 For old Sir William was a gentle knight 
 Bred in this vale, to which he appertained 
 With all his anceflry. Then peace to him, 
 
 And for the outrage which he had devifed 
 
 Entire forgivenefs !-But if thou art one 
 
 On fire with thy impatience to become 
 An inmate of thefe mountains,—if, difturbed 
 By beautiful conceptions, thou haft hewn 
 Out of the quiet rock the elements 
 Of thy trim manfion defiined foon to blaze 
 in fnow-white fplendour,—think again, and, taught 
 By old Sir William and his quarry, leave 
 Thy fragments to the bramble and the rofe ; 
 
 There let the vernal flow-worm fun himfelf, 
 
 And let the red-breafl hop from (tone to (lone. 
 
RYDALE WATER, AND NAB SCAR 
 P< 54* 
 
54 
 
 
 Wr* .. w/<md . - . '. .. f; . /n . • i>ir , 
 
 ^ ' : 1 '-•.■•'■■ : "i'. •• • h?,\ . 
 
 : : v ' u - £ i u ^ nt odd p:ay~thmg of elaborate fkilj, 
 
 ' 
 
 And other little builders who dwell here, 
 
 Had wondered at the work. But blame him not, 
 bor old Sir William v>v,s a gentle knight 
 Bred in this vale, to which he appertained 
 With all Ins anceftry. Then pum to him. 
 
 And ,v* ::Hc engage which he had devifH’ 
 
 ( -*n lire were thy impatience to become 
 ' 
 
 By beautiful conceptions, thou hail: hewn 
 •Hut of the quiet rock the elements 
 Of thy trim manfion defined foon to, blaze 
 ui fnow-white fplendour,—think again, and, taught 
 Sir William and his quarry, leave 
 i hy fragments to the bramble and ' he role ; 
 r Fhei e let the vernal flow-worm fun himfelf, 
 vd'-n let the rea-breaii hop from if on- to ftone. 
 
RYDALE WATER, AND NAB SCAR. 
 P- 54- 
 
 . i. 
 

 
TO MY SISTER. 
 
 55 
 
 TO MY SISTER. 
 
 JVritien at a fmall diftance from my Houfe , 
 and fent by my little Boy . 
 
 It is the firft mild day of March : 
 
 Each minute Tweeter than before, 
 
 The red-breaft fings from the tall larch 
 That Hands befide our door. 
 
 There is a blefling in the air, 
 
 Which feems a fenfe of joy to yield 
 To the bare trees, and mountains bare, 
 And grafs in the green field. 
 
 My Sifter ! (’tis a wifti of mine) 
 
 Now that our morning meal is done, 
 Make hafte, your morning talk refign ; 
 Come forth and feel the fun. 
 
56 
 
 RYDALE. 
 
 Edward will come with you ; and pray, 
 Put on with fpeed your woodland drefs ; 
 And bring no book: for this one day 
 We’ll give to idlenefs. 
 
 No joylefs forms fhall regulate 
 Our living calendar : 
 
 We from to-day, my friend, will date 
 The opening of the year. 
 
 Love, now an univerfal birth, 
 
 From heart to heart is ftealing, 
 
 From earth to man, from man to earth : 
 —It is the hour of feeling. 
 
 One moment now may give us more 
 Than fifty years of reafon : 
 
 Our minds fhall drink at every pore 
 The fpirit of the feafon. 
 
 Some filent laws our hearts may make, 
 Which they fhall long obey : 
 
 We for the year to come may take 
 Our temper from, to-day. 
 
TO MY SISTER. 
 
 57 
 
 
 And from the blefled power that rolls 
 About, below, above, 
 
 We’ll frame the meafure of our fouls : 
 They ftiall be tuned to love. 
 
 Then come, my Sifter ! come, I pray, 
 With fpeed put on your woodland drefs ; 
 And bring no book : for this one day 
 We’ll give to idlenefs. 
 
 i 
 
Grafmere. 
 
 
 ON APPROACHING HOME AFTER A TOUR IN 
 SCOTLAND , 1803. 
 
 LY, fome kind fpirit, fly to Grafmere Vale ! 
 
 Say that we come, and come by this day’s light: 
 Glad tidings ! —fpread them over field and height; 
 But chiefly let one cottage hear the tale ; 
 
 There let a myftery of joy prevail. 
 
 The kitten frolic with unruly might, 
 
 And Rover whine, as at a fecond fight 
 Of near-approaching good that fhall not fail;— 
 And from that infant’s face let joy appear ; 
 
 Yea, let our Mary’s one companion child, 
 
 That hath her fix weeks’ folitude beguiled 
 With intimations manifold and dear, 
 
 While we have wandered over wood and wild, 
 
 Smile on his Mother now with bolder cheer. 
 
 
WALK BY THE LAKE. 
 
 59 
 
 A WALK BY THE LAKE . 
 
 A narrow girdle of rough ftones and crags, 
 
 A rude and natural caufeway interpofed 
 Between the water and a winding hope 
 Of copfe and thicket, leaves the eaftern fhore 
 Of Grafmere fafe in its own privacy. 
 
 And there, myfelf and two beloved Friends, 
 
 One calm September morning, ere the mill 
 Had altogether yielded to the fun, 
 
 Sauntered on this retired and difficult way. 
 
 -Ill fuits the road with one in hafte, but we 
 
 Played with our time; and, as we ftrolled along, 
 It was our occupation to obferve 
 Such objedls as the waves had tolled alhore, 
 Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough, 
 Each on the other heaped, along the line 
 Of the dry wreck. And, in our vacant mood, 
 Not feldom did we Hop to watch fome tuft 
 Of dandelion feed or thiftle’s beard, 
 
 That fkimmed the furface of the dead calm lake, 
 Suddenly halting now—a lifelefs Hand ! 
 
 And llarting off again with freak as fudden; 
 
 In all its fportive wanderings, all the while, 
 Making report of an invifible breeze, 
 
6o 
 
 GRASMERE. 
 
 That was its wings, its chariot, and its horfe, 
 
 Its very playmate, and its moving foul. 
 
 -And often, trifling with a privilege 
 
 Alike indulged to all, we paufed, one now, 
 
 And now the other, to point out, perchance 
 To pluck, fome flower or water-weed, too fair 
 Either to be divided from the place 
 On which it grew, or to be left alone 
 To its own beauty. Many fuch there are. 
 
 Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall fern 
 So {lately, of the Queen Ofmunda named, 
 
 Plant lovelier in its own retired abode 
 On Grafmere’s beach, than Naiad by the fide 
 Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere, 
 Sole-fitting by the fhores of old Romance. 
 
 —So fared we that fweet morning: from the fields 
 Meanwhile a noife was heard, the bufv mirth 
 Of reapers, men and women, boys and girls. 
 Delighted much to liften to thofe founds, 
 
 And, in the fafhion which I have defcribed, 
 Feeding unthinking fancies, we advanced 
 Along the indented fhore ; when fuddenly, 
 Through a thin veil of glittering haze, we (aw 
 Before us, on a point of jutting land, 
 
 The tall and upright figure of a man 
 Attired in peafant’s garb, who ftood alone, 
 
 Angling befide the margin of the lake. 
 
WALK BY THE LAKE. 
 
 6l 
 
 That way we turned our fteps ; nor was it long 
 Ere, making ready comments on the fight 
 Which then we faw, with one and the fame voice 
 Did all cry out, that he muft be indeed 
 An idler, he who thus could lofe a day 
 Of the mid-harveft, when the labourer’s hire 
 Is ample, and fome little might be ftored 
 Wherewith to cheer him in the winter-time. 
 Thus talking of that peafant, we approached 
 Clofe to the fpot where with his rod and line 
 He flood alone ; whereat he turned his head 
 To greet us—and we faw a man worn down 
 By ficknefs, gaunt and lean, with funken cheeks 
 And wafted limbs, his legs fo long and lean. 
 
 That for my fingle felf I looked at them, 
 Forgetful of the body they fuftained.— 
 
 Too weak to labour in the harveft field, 
 
 The man was ufing his beft fkill to gain 
 A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake 
 That knew not of his wants. I will not fay 
 What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how 
 The happy idlenefs of that fweet morn, 
 
 With all its lovely images, was changed 
 To ferious mufing and to felf-reproach. 
 
 Nor did we fail to fee within ourfelves 
 What need there is to be referved in fpeech, 
 
 And temper all our thoughts with charity. 
 
GRASMERE. 
 
 -—Therefore, unwilling to forget that day, 
 
 My friend, myfelf, and {he who then received 
 The fame admonifhment, have called the place 
 By a memorial.name, uncouth indeed 
 As e’er by mariner was given to bay 
 Or foreland, on a new-difcovered coaft ; 
 
 And Point Rash Judgment is the name it bears. 
 
 HELM CRAG . 
 
 The road is black before his eyes, 
 Glimmering faintly where it lies; 
 
 Black is the fky—and every hill. 
 
 Up to the fky, is blacker ftill-— 
 
 Sky, hill, and dale, one difmal room, 
 Hung round and overhung with gloom ; 
 Save that above a fingle height 
 Is to be feen a lurid light, 
 
 Above Helm Crag—a {freak half dead, 
 
 A burning of portentous red ; 
 
 And near that lurid light, full well 
 The Aftrologer, fage Sidrophel, 
 
 Where at his defk and book he fits, 
 Puzzling aloft his curious wits; 
 
 He whofe domain is held in common 
 With no one but the Ancient Woman, 
 
■' 
 
 
 / 
 
GRASMERE, 
 
 FROM RED BANK. 
 
 p. 63. 
 
WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, ETC. 
 
 6 3 
 
 Cowering bdSde her cell, 
 
 J \ r intenr • :• p ; - - 
 
 ; ■:... s\ ■' ■ ■ ... .■' ■>•; • , 
 
 hull ■ ' : T 1 * ' r 
 
 7 
 
 WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL 
 
 Upon a Stone in the Wall of the Houfe (an Out-IIoufe) on the 
 I (land at Grafmere, 
 
 R >de h this edifice, and thou hart fcen 
 ttuildifctn- -Atbvj.. rode, that hrw ? maintained 
 
 .Praportw.--. 
 
 m morn hiurmcnNe. 
 
 « ' ■ ' ^ 
 
 X O km-i t '> 
 
 dru w r .. ••• ->cr wV 
 
 
 
 K*.v 1 " IC'C • \ t‘t- 
 
 
 
 ■ m v. wad par? .a 
 
 
 ' 
 
 lit' our village had 
 
 no help 
 
 From the 
 
 great city j never, 
 
 on the leaves 
 
 Of red morocco folio, faw difplayed 
 The fkeletons and pre-exifting ghosts 
 Of beauties yet unborn,—the ruftic box, 
 
 Snug cot, with coach-houfe, filed, and hermitag 
 ; hou feed a homely pile, yet to thefe walls 
 I b* heifer comes in the fnow-ftorm, and he 
 
WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, ETC. 
 
 6 3 
 
 Cowering befide her rifted cell, 
 
 As if intent on magic fpell ;— 
 
 Dread pair, that fpite of wind and weather, 
 
 Still fit upon Helm Crag together ! 
 
 From u The Waggoner f Canto I. 
 
 WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL 
 
 Upon a Stone in the Wall of the Houfe {an Out-Houfe ) on the 
 If and at Grafmere. 
 
 Rude is this edifice, and thou haft feen 
 Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained 
 Proportions more harmonious, and approached 
 To fomewhat of a clofer fellowfhip 
 With the ideal grace. Yet, as it is, 
 
 Do take it in good part:—alas, the poor 
 Vitruvius of our village had no help 
 From the great city; never, on the leaves 
 Of red morocco folio, faw difplayed 
 The fkeletons and pre-exifting ghosts 
 Of beauties yet unborn,—the ruftic box, 
 
 Snug cot, with coach-houfe, fhed, and hermitage. 
 
 Thou feeft a homely pile, yet to thefe walls 
 The heifer comes in the fnow-ftorm, and here 
 
6 4 
 
 GRASMERE. 
 
 The new-dropped lamb finds fhelter from the wind. 
 And hither does one Poet fometimes row 
 His pinnace, a fmall vagrant barge, up-piled 
 With plenteous ftore of heath and withered fern 
 (A lading which he with his fickle cuts 
 Among the mountains), and beneath this roof 
 He makes his Summer couch, and here at noon 
 Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unihorn, the (heep, 
 Panting beneath the burden of their wool, 
 
 Lie round him, even as if they were a part 
 Of his own houfehold; nor, while from his bed, 
 
 He through that door-place looks towards the lake 
 And to the fiirring breezes, does he want 
 Creations lovely as the work of deep, 
 
 Fair fights and vifions of romantic joy I 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 A PASTORAL POEM. 
 
 If from the public way you turn your fteps 
 Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll, 
 You will fuppofe that with an upright path 
 Your feet mull: ftruggle ; in fuch bold afcent 
 The paftoral mountains front you, face to face. 
 But, courage ! for around that boifterous brook 
 
MICHAEL. 
 
 65 
 
 The mountains have all opened out themfelves, 
 And made a hidden valley of their own. 
 
 No habitation there is feen ; but fuch 
 As journey thither find themfelves alone 
 With a few dieep, with rocks and (tones, and kites 
 That overhead are failing in the fky. 
 
 It is, in truth, an utter folitude; 
 
 Nor (hould I have made mention of this dell, 
 
 But for one objeCt which you might pafs by, 
 
 Might fee and notice not. Befide the brook 
 There is a draggling heap of unhewn dones j 
 And to that place a dory appertains, 
 
 Which, though it be ungarnifhed with events, 
 
 Is not unfit, I deem, for the fire-fide, 
 
 Or for the Summer (hade. It was the fird, 
 
 The earlied of thofe tales that fpake to me 
 Of (hepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men 
 Whom I already loved ;—not verily 
 For their own fakes, but for the fields and hills 
 Where was their occupation and abode. 
 
 And hence this tale,—while I was yet a boy 
 Carelefs of books, yet having felt the power 
 Of Nature ,—-by the gentle agency 
 Of natural obje&s, led me on to feel 
 For pafiions that were not my own, and think 
 (At random, and imperfectly-indeed) 
 
 On man, the heart of man, and human life. 
 
 K 
 
GRASMERE. 
 
 Therefore, although it be a hiftory 
 Homely and rude, I will relate the fame 
 For the delight of a few natural hearts ; 
 
 And, with yet fonder feeling, for the fake 
 Of youthful poets, who among thefe hills 
 Will be my fecond felf when I am gone. 
 
 Upon the foreff-flde in Grafmere Vale 
 There dwelt a fhepherd, Michael was his name 
 An old man, ftout of heart, and ftrong of limb. 
 His bodily frame had been from youth to age 
 Of an unufual ffrength : his mind was keen, 
 Intenfe and frugal, apt for all affairs, 
 
 And in his Ihepherd’s calling he was prompt 
 And watchful more than ordinary men. 
 
 Hence he had learned the meaning of all winds 
 Of blafts of every tone ; and, oftentimes, 
 When others heeded not, he heard the fouth 
 Make fubterraneous mufic, like the noife 
 Of bagpipers on diftant Highland hills. 
 
 The fhepherd, at fuch warning, of his flock 
 Bethought him, and he to himfelf would fay, 
 cc The winds are now deviling work for me ! ” 
 And, truly, at all times, the ftorm, that drives 
 The traveller to a fhelter, fummoned him 
 Up to the mountains : he had been alone 
 Amid the heart of many thoufand mills, 
 
MICHAEL. 
 
 6 7 
 
 That came to him and left him on the heights. 
 
 So lived he till his eightieth year was paft; 
 
 And groffly that man errs, who fhould fuppofe 
 That the green valleys, and the ftreams and rocks, 
 Were things indifferent to the fhepherd’s thoughts. 
 Fields, where with cheerful fpirits he had breathed 
 The common air; the hills, which he fo oft 
 Had climbed with vigorous fteps ; which had imprelfed 
 So many incidents upon his mind 
 Of hardfhip, fkill, or courage, joy or fear; 
 
 Which, like a book, preferved the memory 
 Of the dumb animals whom he had faved, 
 
 Had fed or fheltered, linking to fuch a£ts, 
 
 So grateful in themfelves, the certainty 
 Of honourable gain ; thefe fields, thefe hills, 
 
 Which were his living being, even more 
 Than his own blood—what could they lefs ? had laid 
 Strong hold on his affedlions, were to him 
 A pleafurable feeling of blind love, 
 
 The pleafure which there is in life itfelf. 
 
 His days had not been palfed in finglenefs. 
 
 His helpmate was a comely matron, old— 
 
 Though younger than himfelf full twenty years. 
 
 She was a woman of a ftirring life, 
 
 Whofe heart was in her houfe : two wheels fhe had 
 Of antique form ; this large, for fpinning wool ; 
 
68 
 
 GRASMERE. 
 
 That fmal], for flax ; and if one wheel had reft, 
 
 It was becaufe the other was at work. 
 
 The pair had but one inmate in their houfe, 
 
 An only child, who had been born to them 
 When Michael, telling o’er his years, began 
 To deem that he was old,—in fhepherd’s phrafe, 
 With one foot in the grave. This only fon, 
 
 With two brave fheep-dogs tried in many a ftorm, 
 The one of an ineftimable worth, 
 
 Made all their houfehold. I may truly fay, 
 
 That they were as a proverb in the vale 
 For endlefs induftry. When day was gone, 
 
 And from their occupations out of doors 
 The fon and father were come home, even then 
 Their labour did not ceafe ; unlefs when all 
 Turned to the cleanly fupper-board, and there, 
 
 Each with a mefs of pottage and fkimmed milk, 
 
 Sat round their bafket piled with oaten cakes, 
 
 And their plain home-made cheefe. Yet when their 
 meal 
 
 Was ended, Luke (for fo the fon was named) 
 
 And his old father both betook themfelves 
 To fuch convenient work as might employ 
 Their hands by the fire-fide ; perhaps to card 
 Wool for the houfewife’s fpindle, or repair 
 Some injury done to fickle, flail, or fcythe, 
 
 Or other implement of houfe or field. 
 
MICHAEL. 
 
 69 
 
 Down from the ceiling, by the chimney’s edge, 
 Which in our ancient uncouth country ftyle 
 Did with a huge projection overbrow 
 Large fpace beneath, as duly as the light 
 Of day grew dim, the houfewife hung a lamp ; 
 
 An aged utenfil, which had performed 
 Service beyond all others of its kind. 
 
 Early at evening did it burn, and late, 
 
 Surviving comrade of uncounted hours, 
 
 Which going by from year to year had found 
 And left the couple neither gay perhaps 
 Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes, 
 Living a life of eager induftry. 
 
 And now, when Luke was in his eighteenth year, 
 There by the light of this old lamp they fat, 
 Father and fon, while late into the night 
 The houfewife plied her own peculiar work, 
 Making the cottage through the filent hours 
 Murmur as with the found of fummer flies. 
 
 This light was famous in its neighbourhood, 
 
 And was a public fymbol of the life 
 
 The thrifty pair had lived. For, as it chanced, 
 
 Their cottage on a plot of rifing ground 
 
 Stood Angle, with large profpecSt, north and fouth, 
 
 High into Eafedale, up to Dunmail-Raife, 
 
 And weftward to the village near the lake ; 
 
 And from this conftant light, fo regular 
 
;o 
 
 GRASMERE. 
 
 And fo far feen, the houfe itfelf, by all 
 Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, 
 
 Both old and young, was named the Evening £tar. 
 
 Thus living on through fuch a length of years, 
 
 The fhepherd, if he loved himfelf, muft needs 
 Have loved his helpmate ; but to Michael’s heart 
 This fon of his old age was yet more dear— 
 
 Effe£d which might perhaps have been produced 
 By that inftindBve tendernefs, the fame 
 Blind fpirit, which is in the blood of all— 
 
 Or that a child, more than all other gifts, 
 
 Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, 
 And ftirrings of inquietude, when they 
 By tendency of nature needs muff fail. 
 
 From fuch and other caufes, to the thoughts 
 Of the old man his only fon was now 
 The deareft obje£t that he knew on earth. 
 
 Exceeding was the love he bare to him, 
 
 His heart and his heart’s joy ! For oftentimes 
 Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, 
 
 Had done him female fervice, not alone 
 For dalliance and delight, as is the ufe 
 Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced 
 To adds of tendernefs; and he had rocked 
 His cradle with a woman’s gentle hand. 
 
MICHAEL, 
 
 7 1 
 
 And, in a later time, ere yet the boy 
 Had put on boy’s attire, did Michael love, 
 
 Albeit of a ftern unbending mind, 
 
 To have the young one in his fight, when he 
 Had work by his own door, or when he fat, 
 
 With (heep before him, on his fhepherd’s ftool, 
 Beneath that large old oak, which near their door 
 Stood,—and, from its enormous breadth of {hade, 
 Chofen for the {hearer’s covert from the fun, 
 
 Thence in our ruftic dialed was called 
 
 The Clipping Tree, a name which yet it bears. 
 
 There, while they two were fitting in the fhade, 
 With others round them, earneft all and blithe, 
 
 Would Michael exercife his heart with looks 
 Of fond corredtion and reproof beftowed 
 Upon the child, if he difturbed the fheep 
 By catching at their legs, or with his fhouts 
 Scared them, while they lay {fill beneath the {hears. 
 
 And when by Heaven’s good grace the boy grew up 
 A healthy lad, and carried in his cheek 
 Two heady rofes that were five years old, 
 
 Then Michael from a winter coppice cut 
 With his own hand a fapling, which he hooped 
 With iron, making it throughout in all 
 Due requifites a perfect fhepherd’s ftafF, 
 
GRASMERE. 
 
 And gave it to the boy ; wherewith equipt 
 He as a watchman oftentimes was placed 
 At gate or gap, to ftein or turn the flock ; 
 
 And, to his office prematurely called, 
 
 There flood the urchin, as you will divine, 
 
 Something between a hindrance and a help ; 
 
 And for this caufe, not always, I believe. 
 
 Receiving from his father hire of praife ; 
 
 Though nought was left undone which ftafF, or voice, 
 Or looks, or threatening geftures, could perform. 
 
 Rut foon as Luke, full ten years old, could ftand 
 Against the mountain blafts and to the heights, 
 
 Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, 
 
 He with his father daily went, and they 
 Were as companions, why fhould I relate 
 That objedts which the fhepherd loved before 
 Were dearer now ? that from the boy there came 
 Feelings and emanations—things which were 
 Light to the fun and mufic to the wind; 
 
 And that the old man’s heart feemed born again ? 
 
 Thus in his father’s fight the boy grew up; 
 
 And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year, 
 He was his comfort and his daily hope. 
 
 While in this fort the Ample houfehold lived 
 From day to day, to Michael’s ear there came 
 
MICHAEL. 
 
 73 
 
 Diftrefsful tidings. Long before the time 
 Of which I fpeak, the fhepherd had been bound 
 In furety for his brother’s fon, a man 
 Of an induftrious life, and ample means,— 
 
 But unforefeen misfortunes fuddenly 
 
 Had prefted upon him,—and old Michael now 
 
 Was fiimmoned to difcharge the forfeiture, 
 
 A grievous penalty, but little lefs 
 
 Than half his fubftance. This unlooked-for claim, 
 
 At the firft hearing, for a moment took 
 
 More hope out of his life than he fuppofed 
 
 That any old man ever could have loft. 
 
 As foon as he had gathered fo much ftrength 
 That he could look his trouble in the face, 
 
 It feemed that his foie refuge was to fell 
 A portion of his patrimonial fields. 
 
 Such was his firft refolve; he thought again, 
 
 And his heart failed him. “ Ifabel,” faid he, 
 
 Two evenings after he had heard the news, 
 cc I have been toiling more than feventy years, 
 
 And in the open funfhine of God’s love 
 Have we all lived ; yet if thefe fields of ours 
 Should pafs into a ftranger’s hand, I think 
 That I could not lie quiet in my grave. 
 
 Our lot is a hard lot ; the fun himfelf 
 Has fcarcely been more diligent than I, 
 
 And I have lived to be a fool at laft 
 
 L 
 
74 
 
 GRASMERE. 
 
 To my own family. An evil man 
 That was, and made an evil choice, if he 
 Were falfe to us ; and, if he were not falfe, 
 
 There are ten thoufand to whom lofs like this 
 Had been no forrow. I forgive him ;—but 
 ’Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus. 
 
 tc When I began, my purpofe was to fpeak 
 Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. 
 
 Our Luke {hall leave us, Label y the land 
 Shall not go from us, and it fhall be free; 
 
 He {hall poflefs it, free as is the wind 
 That pafl'es over it. We have, thou know’ft, 
 Another kinfman—he will be our friend 
 In this diftress. He is a profperous man, 
 
 Thriving in trade—and Luke to him {hall go, 
 
 And with his kinfman’s help and his own thrift, 
 
 He quickly will repair this lofs, and then 
 May come again to us. If here he {lay, 
 
 What can be done ? Where every one is poor 
 What can be gained ? ” At this the old man paufed, 
 And Ifabel fat filent, for her mind 
 Was bufy, looking back into paft times. 
 
 There’s Richard Bateman, thought {he to herfelf, 
 
 He was a parilh-boy—at the church-door 
 They made a gathering for him, {hillings, pence, 
 
 And half-pennies, wherewith the neighbours bought 
 
MICHAEL. 
 
 75 
 
 A bafket, which they filled with pedlar’s wares ; 
 And, with this bafket on his arm, the lad 
 Went up to London, found a mafter there, 
 
 Who out of many chofe the trufty boy 
 To go and overlook his merchandize 
 Beyond the feas ; where he grew wondrous rich, 
 And left efiates and moneys to the poor, 
 
 And at his birth-place built a chapel floored 
 With marble, which he fent from foreign lands. 
 Thefe thoughts, and many others of like fort, 
 
 PalTed quickly through the mind of Tfabel, 
 
 And her face brightened. The old man was glad, 
 And thus refumed :— tc Well, Ifabel! this fcheme 
 Thefe two days has been meat and drink to me. 
 
 Far more than we have lofl: is left us yet. 
 
 —We have enough—I wifh, indeed, that I 
 Were younger ;—but this hope is a good hope. 
 
 —Make ready Luke’s belt garments, of the belt 
 Buy for him more, and let us fend him forth 
 To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night: 
 
 —If he could go, the boy fhould go to-night.” 
 
 Here Michael ceafed, and to the fields went forth 
 With a light heart. The houfewife for five days 
 Was reftlefs morn and night, and all day long 
 Wrought on with her belt fingers to prepare 
 Things needful for the journey of her fon. 
 
7 6 
 
 GRASMERE. 
 
 But Ifabel was glad when Sunday came 
 To flop her in her work : for, when fhe lay 
 By Michael’s fide, fhe through the two laft nights 
 Heard him, how he was troubled in his fleep : 
 And when they rofe at morning fhe could fee 
 That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon 
 She faid to Luke, while they two by themfelves 
 Were fitting at the door, tc Thou mull not go : 
 We have no other child but thee to lofe, 
 
 None to remember—do not go away, 
 
 For if thou leave thy father he will die.” 
 
 The youth made anfwer with a jocund voice ; 
 And Ifabel, when fhe had told her fears, 
 Recovered heart. That evening her befl fare 
 Did file bring forth, and all together fat 
 Like happy people round a Chriftmas fire. 
 
 Next morning Ifabel refumed her work; 
 
 And all the enfuing week the houfe appeared 
 As cheerful as a grove in Spring : at length 
 The expedled letter from their kinfman came, 
 With kind afTurances that he would do 
 His utmoft for the welfare of the boy ; 
 
 To which requefls were added that forthwith 
 He might be fent to him. Ten times or more 
 The letter was read over; Ifabel 
 Went forth to fhow it to the neighbours round ; 
 
MICHAEL. 
 
 77 
 
 Nor was there at that time on Englifti land 
 A prouder heart than Luke’s. When Ifabel 
 Had to her houfe returned, the old man faid, 
 cc He {hall depart to-morrow.” To this word 
 The houfewife anfwered, talking much of things 
 Which, if at fuch fhort notice he {hould go, 
 
 Would furely be forgotten. But at length 
 She gave confent, and Michael was at eafe. 
 
 Near the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll, 
 In that deep valley, Michael had defigned 
 To build a fheepfold ; and, before he heard 
 The tidings of his melancholy lofs, 
 
 For this fame purpofe lie had gathered up 
 A heap of {tones, which by the ftreamlet’s edge 
 Lay thrown together, ready for the work. 
 
 With Luke that evening thitherward he walked ; 
 And foon as they had reached the place, he Hopped, 
 And thus the old man fpake to him :— <c My fon, 
 To-morrow thou wilt leave me : with full heart 
 I look upon thee, for thou art the fame 
 That wert a promife to me ere thy birth, 
 
 And all thy life haft been my dady joy. 
 
 I will relate to thee fome little part 
 Of our two hiftories ; ’t will do thee good 
 When thou art from me, even if I fhould fpeak 
 Of things thou canft not know of.-After thou 
 
7 « 
 
 GRASMERE. 
 
 Firft cam’ft into the world—as oft befals 
 To new-born infants—thou didft fleep away 
 Two days, and bleftings from thy father’s tongue 
 Then fell upon thee. Day by day pafted on, 
 
 And {fill I loved thee with increafing love. 
 
 Never to living ear came fweeter founds 
 Than when I heard thee by our own firefide 
 Firft uttering, without words, a natural tune ; 
 
 When thou, a feeding babe, didft in thy joy 
 
 Sing at thy mother’s breaft. Month followed month, 
 
 And in the open fields my life was pafted, 
 
 And on the mountains, elfe I think that thou 
 Hadft been brought up upon thy father’s knees. 
 
 But we were playmates, Luke : among thefe hills. 
 
 As well thou know’ft, in us the old and young 
 Have played together, nor with me didft thou 
 Lack any pleafure which a boy can know.” 
 
 Luke had a manly heart: but at thefe words 
 He fobbed aloud. The old man grafped his hand, 
 And faid, <c Nay, do not take it fo—I fee 
 That thefe are things of which I need not fpeak. 
 
 —Even to the utmoft I have been to thee 
 A kind and a good father : and herein 
 I but repay a gift which I myfelf 
 Received at other’s hands ; for, though now old 
 Beyond the common life of man, I ftill 
 Remember them who loved me in my youth. 
 
MICHAEL. 
 
 79 
 
 Both of them deep together: here they lived, 
 
 As all their forefathers had done; and when 
 At length their time was come, they were not loth 
 To give their bodies to the family mould. 
 
 I wifhed that thou fhouldfl live the life they lived. 
 But ’tis a long time to look back, my fon, 
 
 And fee fo little gain from fixty years. 
 
 Thefe fields were burthened when they came to me ; 
 Till I was forty years of age, not more 
 Than half of my inheritance was mine. 
 
 I toiled and toiled ; God blefied me in my work, 
 
 And till thefe three weeks pad: the land was free. 
 
 —It looks as if it never could endure 
 Another mafter. Heaven forgive me, Luke, 
 
 If I judge ill for thee, but it feems good 
 That thou fhouldfl go.” 
 
 At this the old man paufed; 
 Then pointing to the flones near which they flood, 
 Thus, after a fhort filence, he refumed : 
 u This was a work for us ; and now, my fon, 
 
 It is a work for me. But, lay one flone— 
 
 Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. 
 Nay, boy, be of good hope ;—we both may live 
 To fee a better day. At eighty-four 
 I flill am flrong and flout;—do thou thy part, 
 
 I will do mine.—I will begin again 
 
8o 
 
 GRASMERE, 
 
 With many talks that were refigned to thee ; 
 
 Up to the heights, and in among the ftorms, 
 
 Will I without thee go again, and do 
 All works which I was wont to do alone, 
 
 Before I knew thy face.—Heaven blefs thee, boy ! 
 Thy heart thefe two weeks has been beating fall 
 With many hopes ; it fhould be fo—yes—yes— 
 
 I knew that thou couldft never have a wifh 
 To leave me, Luke : thou haft been bound to me 
 Only by links of love : when thou art gone, 
 
 What will be left to us !—But, I forget 
 My purpofes. Lay now the corner-ftone, 
 
 As I requefted ; and hereafter, Luke, 
 
 When thou art gone away, fhould evil men 
 Be thy companions, think of me, my fon, 
 
 And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts, 
 And God will ftrengthen thee : amid all fear 
 And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou 
 Mayft bear in mind the life thy fathers lived, 
 
 Who, being innocent, did for that caufe 
 Beftir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well — 
 When thou return’d:, thou in this place wilt fee 
 A work which is not here : a covenant 
 
 v r will be between us-But, whatever fate 
 
 Befal thee, I fhall love thee to the laft, 
 
 And bear thy memory with me to the grave.” 
 
MICHAEL. 
 
 81 
 
 The fhepherd ended here: and Luke ftooped down, 
 And as his father had requeued, laid 
 The firft done of the fheepfold. At the fight 
 The old man’s grief broke from him, to his heart 
 He prelfed his fon, he killed him and wept: 
 
 And to the houfe together they returned. 
 
 —Hulhed was that houfe in peace, or feeming peace, 
 Ere the night fell :—with morrow’s dawn the boy 
 Began his journey, and when he had reached 
 The public way, he put on a bold face; 
 
 And all the neighbours, as he pafled their doors, 
 
 Came forth with wilhes and with farewell prayers, 
 That followed him till he was out of fight. 
 
 A good report did from their kinfman come, 
 
 Of Luke and his well-doing: and the boy 
 Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, 
 
 Which, as the houfewife phrafed it, were throughout 
 u The prettied; letters that were ever feen.” 
 
 Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. 
 
 So, many months pafled on: and once again 
 The fhepherd went about his daily work 
 With confident and cheerful thoughts ; and now 
 Sometimes when he could find a leifure hour, 
 
 He to that valley took his way, and there 
 Wrought at the fheepfold. Meantime Luke began 
 To flacken in his duty ; and at length 
 
 M 
 
82 
 
 GRASMERE. 
 
 He in the diflolute city gave himfelf 
 To evil courfes : ignominy and fhame 
 Fell on him, fo that he was driven at laid 
 To feek a hiding-place beyond the Teas. 
 
 There is a comfort in the ftrength of love ; 
 ’Twill make a thing endurable, which elfe 
 Would break the heart:—old Michael found it lo. 
 
 I have converfed with more than one who well 
 Remembered the old man, and what he was 
 Years after he had heard this heavy news. 
 
 His bodily frame had been from youth to age 
 Of an unufual ftrength. Among the rocks 
 He went, and ftill looked up upon the fun, 
 
 And liflened to the wind and as before 
 Performed all kinds of labour for his fheep, 
 
 And for the land, his fmall inheritance. 
 
 And to that hollow dell from time to time 
 Did he repair, to build the fold of which 
 His flock had need. ’Tis not forgotten yet, 
 
 The pity which was then in every heart 
 For the old man—and ’tis believed by all 
 That many and many a day he thither went, 
 
 And never lifted up a Angle ftone. 
 
 There, by the fheepfold, fometimes was he l'een 
 Sitting alone, or with his faithful dog, 
 
A FAREWELL. 
 
 83 
 
 Then old, befide him, lying at his feet. 
 
 The length of full feven years, from time to time, 
 
 He at the building of this fheepfold wrought, 
 
 And left the work unfinifhed when he died. 
 
 Three years, or little more, did Ifabel 
 Survive her hufband : at her death the eflate 
 Was fold, and went into a ftranger’s hand. 
 
 The cottage which was named the Evening Star 
 Is gone—the ploughfhare has been through the ground 
 On which it flood; great changes have been wrought 
 In all the neighbourhood :—yet the oak is left 
 That grew befide their door ; and the remains 
 Of the unfinifhed fheepfold may be feen 
 Befide the boifterous brook of Greenhead Ghyll. 
 
 A FAREWELL. 
 
 (Written when going to bring home his Bride.') 
 
 Farewell, thou little nook of mountain-ground, 
 Thou rocky corner in the lowefl flair 
 Of that magnificent temple which doth bound 
 One fide of our whole vale with grandeur rare ; 
 Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair, 
 
8 4 
 
 GRASMERE. 
 
 The lovelieft fpot that man hath ever found, 
 Farewell!—We leave thee to Heaven’s peaceful care, 
 Th ee, and the cottage which thou doft furround. 
 
 Our boat is fafely anchored by the fhore, 
 
 And fafely {he will ride when we are gone ; 
 
 The flowering fhrubs that decorate our door 
 Will profper, though untended and alone : 
 
 Fields, goods, and far-ofF chattels we have none ; 
 Thefe narrow bounds contain our private {lore 
 Of things earth makes, and fun doth fhine upon ; 
 Here are they in our fight—we have no more. 
 
 Sunfhine and {bower be with you, bud and bell ! 
 
 For two months now in vain we {hall be fought: 
 
 We leave you here in folitude to dwell 
 With thefe our latefl: gifts of tender thought ; 
 
 Thou, like the morning, in thy faffron coat, 
 
 Bright go wan, and marfli-marigold, farewell ! 
 
 Whom from the borders of the lake we brought, 
 
 And placed together near our rocky well. 
 
 We go for one to whom you will be dear ; 
 
 And {he will prize this bower, this Indian {bed, 
 
 Our own contrivance, building without peer ! 
 
 —A gentle maid, whofe heart is lowly bred, 
 
 Whofe pleafures are in wild fields gathered, 
 
A FAREWELL. 
 
 85 
 
 With joyoufnefs, and with a thoughtful cheer, 
 
 She ’ll come to you,—to you herfelf will wed,— 
 
 And love the blefled life which we lead here. 
 
 Dear fpot ! which we have watched with tender heed, 
 Bringing thee chofen plants and blolToms blown 
 Among the diftant mountains, flower and weed, 
 Which thou haft taken to thee as thy own, 
 
 Making all kindnefs regiftered and known ; 
 
 Thou for our fakes, though Nature’s child indeed, 
 
 Fair in thyfelf and beautiful alone, 
 
 Haft taken gifts which thou doft little need. 
 
 And O mo ft conftant, yet mo ft fickle place, 
 
 Thou haft thy wayward moods, as thou doft ftiow 
 To them who look not daily on thy face; 
 
 Who, being loved, in love no bounds doft know, 
 
 And fay’ft when we forfake thee, u Let them go ! ” 
 Thou eafy-hearted thing, with thy wild race 
 Of weeds and flowers, till we return be flow,— 
 
 And travel with the year at a foft pace. 
 
 Help us to tell her tales of years gone by, 
 
 And this fweet fpring, the beft beloved and beft ; 
 
 Joy will be flown in its mortality; 
 
 Something muft ftay to tell us of the reft. 
 
 Here, thronged with primrofes, the fteep rock’s breaft 
 
86 
 
 GRASMERE. 
 
 Glittered at evening like a ftarry fky; 
 
 And in this bufh our fparrow built her neft. 
 
 Of which I fang one fong that will not die. 
 
 O happy Garden ! whofe feclufion deep 
 Hath been fo friendly to induftrious hours ; 
 
 And to foft flumbers, that did gently fteep 
 Our fpirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers, 
 And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers ! 
 Two burning months let Summer overleap, 
 
 And, coming back with her who will be ours, 
 
 Into thy bofom we again fhall creep. 
 
Helvellyn. 
 
 FIDELITY. 
 
 BARKING found the fhepherd hears, 
 A cry as of a dog or fox ; 
 
 He halts, and fearches with his eyes 
 ^ Among the fcattered rocks : 
 
 And now at diflance can difcern 
 A ftirring in a brake of fern ; 
 
 And inftantly a dog is feen, 
 
 Glancing from that covert green. 
 
 The dog is not of mountain breed ; 
 
 Its motions, too, are wild and fhy ; 
 
 With fomething, as the fhepherd thinks, 
 Unufual in its cry : 
 
88 
 
 HELVELLYN. 
 
 Nor is there any one in fight 
 All round, in hollow or on height; 
 
 Nor fhout, nor whiffle flrikes his ear ; 
 What is the creature doing here ? 
 
 It was a cove, a huge recefs, 
 
 That keeps, till June, December’s fnow; 
 A lofty precipice in front, 
 
 A filent tarn below ! 
 
 Far in the bofom of Helvellyn, 
 
 Remote from public road or dwelling, 
 Pathway, or cultivated land ; 
 
 From trace of human foot or hand. 
 
 There fometimes doth a leaping fifh. 
 
 Send through the tarn a lonely cheer ; 
 The crags repeat the raven’s croak, 
 
 In fymphony auftere; 
 
 Thither the rainbow comes—the cloud—• 
 And mills that fpread the flying fhroud ; 
 And funbeams ; and the founding blaft, 
 That, if it could, would hurry pall, 
 
 But that enormous barrier binds it fall. 
 
 Not free from boding thoughts, a while 
 The Ihepherd flood : then makes his way 
 
FIDELITY. 
 
 89 
 
 Towards the dog, o’er rocks and ftones, 
 
 As quickly as he may ; 
 
 Nor far had gone, before he found 
 A human fkeleton on the ground ; 
 
 The appalled difcoverer, with a figh 
 Looks round, to learn the hiftory. 
 
 From thofe abrupt and perilous rocks 
 The man had fallen, that place of fear ! 
 
 At length upon the fhepherd’s mind 
 It breaks, and all is clear: 
 
 He inftantly recalled the name, 
 
 And who he was, and whence he came ; 
 Remembered, too, the very day 
 On which the traveller palled this way. 
 
 But hear a wonder, for whofe fake, 
 
 This lamentable tale I tell ! 
 
 A lafting monument of words 
 This wonder merits well. 
 
 The dog, which Hill was hovering nigh, 
 Repeating the fame timid cry, 
 
 This dog had been through three months’ fpace 
 A dweller in that favage place. 
 
 Yes, proof was plain that fince the day 
 On which the traveller thus had died, 
 
 N 
 
9° 
 
 HELVELLYN. 
 
 The dog had watched about the fpot, 
 
 Or by his mailer’s fide ; 
 
 How nourilhed here through fuch long time 
 He knows, who gave that love fublime, 
 
 And gave that ftrength of feeling, great 
 Above all human eftimate. 
 
 “’27*9 SAID THAT SOME HAVE DIED FOR LOVE.” 
 
 ’Tis faid that fome have died for love : 
 
 And here and there a churchyard grave is found 
 In the cold North’s unhallowed ground,— 
 
 Becaufe the wretched man himfelf had flain, 
 
 His love was fuch a grievous pain. 
 
 And there is one whom I five years have known j 
 He dwells alone 
 Upon Helvellyn’s fide : 
 
 He loved.—The pretty Barbara died, 
 
 And thus he made his moan : 
 
 Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid, 
 
 When thus his moan he made : — 
 
 “ Oh, move, thou cottage, from behind that oak ! 
 
 Or let the aged tree uprooted lie, 
 
ci ’tis said that some have died for love.” 
 
 That in fome other way yon fmoke 
 May mount into the fky ! 
 
 The clouds pafs on; they from the heavens depart. 
 
 I look—the fky is empty fpace ; 
 
 I know not what I trace ; 
 
 But, when I ceafe to look, my hand is on my heart. 
 
 “ O, what a weight is in thefe {hades I ye leaves, 
 When will that dying murmur be fupprefPd ? 
 
 Your found my heart of peace bereaves, 
 
 It robs my heart of reft. 
 
 Thou thrufh, that fingeft loud—and loud and free, 
 Into yon row of willows flit, 
 
 Upon that alder fit, 
 
 Or fing another fong, or choofe another tree. 
 
 u Roll back, fweet rill! back to thy mountain bounds, 
 And there for ever be thy waters chain’d ! 
 
 For thou doft haunt the air with founds 
 That cannot be fuftain’d ; 
 
 If ftill beneath that pine-tree’s ragged bough 
 Headlong yon waterfall muft come, 
 
 Oh let it then be dumb !— 
 
 Be anything, fweet rill, but that which thou art now. 
 
 cc Thou eglantine, whofe arch fo proudly towers 
 (Even like a rainbow fpanning half the vale), 
 
92 
 
 HELVELLYN. 
 
 Thou one fair fhrub—oh, fhed thy flowers, 
 
 And ftir not in the gale ! 
 
 For thus to fee thee nodding in the air,— 
 
 To fee thy arch thus ftretch and bend, 
 
 Thus rife and thus defcend,— 
 
 Difturbs me, till the fight is more than I can bear.” 
 
 The man who makes this feverifh complaint 
 Is one of giant ftature, who could dance 
 Equipp’d from head to foot in iron mail. 
 
 Ah gentle love ! if ever thought was thine 
 To {tore up kindred hours for me, thy face 
 Turn from me, gentle love ! nor let me walk 
 Within the found of Emma’s voice, or know 
 Such happinefs as I have known to-day. 
 
Derwent-water. 
 
 
 SONNET TO SKIDDAW. 
 
 ELION and OlTa flourifh fide by fide, 
 Together in immortal books enrolled : 
 
 His ancient dower Olympus hath not fold ; 
 
 And that infpiring hill, which cc did divide 
 Into two ample horns his forehead wide,” 
 Shines with poetic radiance as of old ; 
 
 While not an Englifh mountain we behold 
 By the celeftial mufes glorified. 
 
 Yet round our fea-girt fhore they rife in crowds 
 What was the great Parnaflus’ felf to thee, 
 Mount Skiddaw ? In his natural fovereignty 
 Our Britifh hill is fairer far: he Ihrouds 
 His double-fronted head in higher clouds, 
 
 And pours forth ftreams more fweet than Caftaly. 
 
94 
 
 DERWENT-WATER. 
 
 “ THE CHILDLESS FATHER: 9 
 
 cc Up, Timothy, up, with your ftafF, and away ! 
 
 Not a foul in the village this morning will ftay ; 
 The hare has juft ftarted from Hamilton’s grounds, 
 And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds.” 
 
 —Of coats and of jackets, grey, fcarlet, and green, 
 
 On the dopes of the paftures all colours were feen; 
 With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as fnow, 
 The girls on the hills made a holiday fhow. 
 
 The bafin of boxwood, juft fix months before, 
 Had ftood on the table at Timothy’s door. 
 
 A coffin through Timothy’s threfhold had paff’d ; 
 One child did it bear, and that child was his laft. 
 
 Now faft up the dell came the noife and the fray, 
 
 The horfe and the horn, and the cc hark ! hark away ! ” 
 Old Timothy took up his ftafF, and he fhut, 
 
 With a leifurely motion, the door of his hut. 
 
INSCRIPTION. 
 
 95 
 
 Perhaps to himfelf at that moment he faid, 
 u The key I muft take, for my Helen is dead.” 
 
 But of this in my ears not a word did he fpeak, 
 
 And he went to the chafe with a tear on his cheek. 
 
 INSCRIPTION 
 
 For the Spot where the Hermitage Stood 
 
 ON ST. HERBERTS ISLAND , DERWENT-WATER. 
 
 This ifland, guarded from profane approach 
 By mountains high, and waters widely fpread, 
 
 Is that recefs to which St. Herbert came 
 In life’s decline: a felf-fecluded man, 
 
 After long exercife in focial cares 
 And offices humane, intent to adore 
 The Deity, with undiftra£ted mind, 
 
 And meditate on everlafting things. 
 
 —Stranger! this fhapelefs heap of ftones and earth 
 (Long be its mofly covering undifturbed ! ) 
 
 Is reverenced as a veftige of the abode 
 
9 6 
 
 DERWENT-WATER. 
 
 In which, through many feafons, from the world 
 Removed, and the affedlions of the world, 
 
 He dwelt in folitude.—But he had left 
 A fellow-labourer, whom the good man loved 
 As his own foul. And when within his cave 
 Alone he knelt before the crucifix, 
 
 While o’er the Lake the cataradt of Lodore 
 Pealed to his orifons, and when he paced 
 Along the beach of this fmall ifie, and thought 
 Of his companion, he would pray that both 
 (Now that their earthly duties were fulfilled) 
 Might die in the fame moment. Nor in vain 
 So prayed he : as our chronicles report, 
 
 Though here the Hermit numbered his laft day, 
 Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved friend, 
 
 Thofe holy men both died in the fame hour. 
 
Brougham Caftle. 
 
 &&& 
 
 SONG, 
 
 AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE, 
 
 Upon the restoration of Lord Clifford , the Shepherd , to the Ejiates 
 and Honours of his Ancefors . 
 
 
 IGH in the breathlefs hall the minftrel fate, 
 
 And Emont’s murmur mingled with the fong,— 
 
 The words of ancient time I thus tranflate, 
 A feftal ftrain that hath been filent long:— 
 
 <c From town to town, from tower to tower, 
 The red rofe is a gladfome flower. 
 
 Her thirty years of winter paft, 
 
 The red rofe is revived at laft \ 
 
 She lifts her head for endlefs fpring, 
 
 For everlafting blofloming: 
 
 Both rofes flouriih, red and white ; 
 
 In love and fifterly delight, 
 
 o 
 
9 8 
 
 BROUGHAM CASTLE. 
 
 The two that were at ftrife are blended, 
 
 And all old troubles now are ended.— 
 
 Joy ! joy to both ! but molt to her 
 Who is the flower of Lancafter ! 
 
 Behold her how fhe fmiles to-day 
 On this great throng, this bright array ! 
 
 Fair greeting doth fhe fend to all 
 From every corner of the hall; 
 
 But, chiefly, from above the board 
 Where fits in ftate our rightful lord, 
 
 A Clifford to his own reftored ! 
 
 “They came with banner, fpear, and fhield, 
 And it was proved in Bofworth-field. 
 
 Not long the avenger was withftood — 
 
 Earth helped him with the cry of blood ; 
 
 St. George was for us, and the might 
 Of bleffed angels crowned the right. 
 
 Loud voice the land hath uttered forth, 
 
 We loudefl: in the faithful North : 
 
 Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring, 
 
 Our ftreams proclaim a welcoming; 
 
 Our ftrong abodes and caftles fee 
 The glory of their loyalty. 
 
 How glad is Skipton at this hour— 
 
 Though fhe is but a lonely tower ! 
 
 Silent, deferted of her belt, 
 
SONG, ETC. 
 
 99 
 
 Without an inmate or a gueft, 
 
 Knight, fquire, or yeoman, page or groom ; 
 We have them at the feaft of Brough’m, 
 How glad Pendragon—though the deep 
 Of years be on her!—She {hall reap 
 A tafte of this great pleafure, viewing 
 As in a dream her own renewing. 
 
 Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem, 
 Befide her little humble ftream ; 
 
 And fhe that keepeth watch and ward, 
 
 Her ftatelier Eden’s courfe to guard ; 
 
 They both are happy at this hour, 
 
 Though each is but a lonely tower:— 
 
 But here is perfect joy and pride 
 For one fair houfe by Emont’s fide, 
 
 This day diftinguiflied without peer ; 
 
 To fee her mailer, and to cheer 
 Him and his lady mother dear ! 
 
 u Oh! it was a time forlorn, 
 
 When the fatherlefs was born— 
 
 Give her wings that {he may fly, 
 
 Or {he fees her infant die ! 
 
 Swords that are with {laughter wild 
 Hunt the mother and the child. 
 
 Who will take them from the light ? 
 
 —Yonder is a man in fight— 
 
100 
 
 BROUGHAM CASTLE. 
 
 Yonder is a houfe- but where ? 
 
 No, they muft not enter there. 
 
 To the caves, and to the brooks, 
 
 To the clouds of heaven fhe looks ; 
 
 She is fpeechlefs, but her eyes 
 Pray in ghoftly agonies. 
 
 Blifsful Mary, mother mild, 
 
 Maid and mother undefiled, 
 
 Save a mother and her child ! 
 
 u Now who is he that bounds with joy 
 On Carrock’s fide, a fhepherd-boy ? 
 
 No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pafs 
 Light as the wind along the grafs. 
 
 Can this be he who hither came 
 In fecret like a fmothered flame ? 
 
 O’er whom fuch thankful tears were fhed 
 For fhelter, and a poor man’s bread ! 
 
 God loves the child ; and God hath willed 
 That thofe dear words fhould be fulfilled, 
 The lady’s words, when forced away, 
 
 The laft fhe to her babe did fay, 
 
 My own, my own, thy fellow-gueft 
 I may not be ; but reft thee, reft, 
 
 For lowly fhepherd’s life is beft! ’ 
 u Alas ! when evil men are ftrong, 
 
 No life is good, no pleafure long. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
ULLESWATER. 
 
 FROM GOWBARROW. 
 p. TOI. 
 
SONG, ETC. 
 
 The hoy mi:ft -v' t «.4V M -c la].?> proves. 
 And leave H •: .' •* * re 
 
 And quit Vk w . 
 
 . 
 
 . 
 
 Vh: ’■■er re> ; ,, f:...,r> 
 
 ' - t live : : ;i l Threlkchf nnn; • ; 
 ue.ii k, ; man, old in days l 
 Thou tree of covert and of reft 
 For this young bird that is diftreft ; 
 
 Among' thy branches fafe he lay, 
 
 'And he was free to fport and play 
 When falcons were abroad for prey 
 
 u * ;• r: r ; h*rp, that finec *.i , 
 
 . 
 
 A rd cowaully imuuik ■ 
 
 ' ■■ Hr ( 'rr -.rd was a happy youth, 
 
 <Wi ifvarikfv j i through a weary time, . 
 
 Aphu brought him up to manhood’s prime. 
 
 • Again he wanders forth at will. 
 
 And tends a dock from hill to hill : 
 
 1’As ■ i b is humble; ne’er was feen 
 Such garb with fuch a noble mien . 
 
 Among the fhepherd-grooms no mate 
 

 
 
SONG, ETC. 
 
 IOI 
 
 The boy muff part from Mofedale’s groves, 
 And leave Blencathara’s rugged coves, 
 
 And quit the flowers that Summer brings 
 To Glenderamakin’s lofty fprings ; 
 
 Muft vanifh, and his carelefs cheer 
 Be turned to heavinefs and fear. 
 
 — Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praife; 
 Hear it, good man, old in days ! 
 
 Thou tree of covert and of reft 
 For this young bird that is diftrefl; 
 
 Among thy branches fafe he lay, 
 
 And he was free to fport and play 
 When falcons were abroad for prey. 
 
 tc A recreant harp, that fings of fear 
 And heavinefs in Clifford’s ear ! 
 
 I laid, when evil men are ftrong, 
 
 No life is good, no pleafure long,— 
 
 A weak and cowardly untruth ! 
 
 Our Clifford was a happy youth, 
 
 And thankful through a weary time, 
 
 That brought him up to manhood’s prime. 
 —Again he wanders forth at will, 
 
 And tends a flock from hill to hill : 
 
 His garb is humble; ne’er was feen 
 Such garb with fuch a noble mien ; 
 
 Among the fhepherd-grooms no mate 
 
102 
 
 BROUGHAM CASTLE. 
 
 Hath he, a child of ftrength and ftate ! 
 Yet lacks not friends for folemn glee, 
 And a cheerful company, 
 
 That learned of him fubmiffive ways, 
 And comforted his private days. 
 
 To his fide the fallow-deer 
 Came, and refted without fear ; 
 
 The eagle, lord of land and fea, 
 
 Stooped down to pay him fealty ; 
 
 And both the undying fifh that fwim 
 Through Bowfcale-Tarn did wait on him 
 The pair were fervants of his eye 
 In their immortality ; 
 
 They moved about in open fight, 
 
 To and fro, for his delight. 
 
 He knew the rocks which angels haunt 
 On the mountains vifitant; 
 
 He hath kenned them taking wing : 
 
 And the caves where fairies fing 
 He hath entered ; and been told 
 By voices how men lived of old. 
 
 Among the heavens his eye can fee 
 Face of thing that is to be ; 
 
 And, if men report him right, 
 
 He can whifper words of might. 
 
 —Now another day is come, 
 
 Fitter hope and nobler doom : 
 
SONG, ETC. 
 
 103 
 
 He hath thrown afide his crook, 
 
 And hath buried deep his book ; 
 
 Armour rufting in his halls 
 On the blood of Clifford calls ;— 
 c Ouell the Scot,’ exclaims the Lance— 
 
 Bear me to the heart of France, 
 
 Is the longing of the Shield— 
 
 Tell thy name, thou trembling Field ; 
 
 Field of death, where’er thou be, 
 
 Groan thou with our victory ! 
 
 Happy day, and mighty hour, 
 
 When our fhepherd, in his power, 
 
 Mailed and horfed, with lance and fword, 
 
 To his anceftors reftored, 
 
 Like a re appearing {tar, 
 
 Like a glory from afar, 
 
 Firft fhall head the flock of war!” 
 
 Alas ! the fervent harper did not know 
 
 That for a tranquil foul the lay was framed, 
 
 Who, long compelled in humble walks to go, 
 Was foftened into feeling, foothed, and tamed. 
 
 Love had he found in huts where poor men lie, 
 His daily teachers had been woods and rills, 
 
 The filence that is in the (tarry (ky, 
 
 The deep that is among the lonely hills. 
 
104 BROUGHAM CASTLE. 
 
 In him the favage virtue of the race, 
 
 Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts, were dead: 
 Nor did he change ; but kept in lofty place 
 The wifdom which adverfity had bred. 
 
 Glad were the vales, and every cottage hearth ; 
 
 The Shepherd-lord was honoured more and more : 
 And, ages after he was laid in earth, 
 
 u The Good Lord Clifford” was the name he bore. 
 
Black Comb. 
 
 WRITTEN WITH A SLATE-PENCIL 
 On a Stone , on the fide of the Mountain of Black Comb , Cumberland . 
 
 DTAY, bold adventurer ! reft awhile thy limbs 
 On this commodious feat; for much remains 
 Of hard afcent before thou reach the top 
 Of this huge eminence,—from blacknefs named, 
 And, to far-travelled ftorms of fea and land, 
 
 A favourite fpot of tournament and war ! 
 
 But thee may no fuch boifterous vifitants 
 Moleft ; may gentle breezes fan thy brow ; 
 
 And neither cloud conceal, nor mifty air 
 Bedim the grand terraqueous fpecftacle, 
 
 From centre to circumference unveiled ! 
 
 Know, if thou grudge not to prolong thy reft, 
 
 That, on the fuinmit whither thou art bound, 
 
 A geographic labourer pitched his tent, 
 
 p 
 
BLACK COMB. 
 
 With books fupplied and inftruments of art, 
 
 To meafure height and diftance ; lonely talk, 
 
 Week after week purfued !—To him was given 
 
 Full many a glimpfe (but fparingly bellowed 
 
 On timid man) of Nature’s proceffes 
 
 Upon the exalted hills. He made report 
 
 That once, while there he plied his fludious work 
 
 Within that canvas dwelling, fuddenly 
 
 The many-coloured map before his eyes 
 
 Became invifible : for all around 
 
 Had darknefs fallen—unthreatened, unproclaimed— 
 
 As if the golden day itfelf had been 
 
 Extinguifhed in a moment; total gloom, 
 
 In which he fate alone, with unclofed eyes, 
 
 Upon the blinded mountain’s filent top ! 
 
 VIEW FROM THE TOP OF BLACK COMB. 
 
 This height a miniflering angel might feledt: 
 
 For from the fummit of Black Comb (dread name 
 Derived from clouds and ftorms !) the amplefl range 
 Of unobflrudled profpedl may be seen 
 That Britifh ground commands :—low dulky tradls 
 Where Trent is nurfed, far fouthward! Cambrian Hill 
 To the fouth-wefl, a multitudinous fhow ; 
 
 And, in a line of eye-fight linked with thefe, 
 
VIEW FROM THE TOP OF BLACK COMB. 
 
 The hoary peaks of Scotland that give birth 
 To Teviot’s ftream, to Annan, Tweed, and Clyde 
 Crowding the quarter whence the fun comes forth, 
 Gigantic mountains rough with crags; beneath, 
 Right at the imperial Ration’s weftern bafe, 
 
 Main ocean, breaking audibly, and ftretched 
 Far into filent regions, blue and pale ; 
 
 And vifibly engirding Mona’s Ifle 
 That, as we left the plain, before our fight 
 Stood like a lofty mount, uplifting flowly 
 (Above the convex of the watery globe) 
 
 Into clear view the cultured fields that ftreak 
 Its habitable fhores ; but now appears 
 A dwindled object, and fubmits to lie 
 At the fpe&ator’s feet.—Yon azure ridge, 
 
 Is it a perilhable cloud—or there 
 Do we behold the frame of Erin’s coafl: ? 
 
 Land fometimes by the roving ftiepherd fwain 
 (Like the bright confines of another world) 
 
 Not doubtfully perceived.—Look homeward now ! 
 
 In depth, in height, in circuit, how ferene 
 
 The fpe&acle, how pure !—Of Nature’s works, 
 
 In earth, and air, and earth-embracing fea, 
 
 A revelation infinite it feems ; 
 
 Difplay augufl: of man’s inheritance, 
 
 Of Britain’s calm felicity and power. 
 
BLACK COMB. 
 
 TO THE RIVER DUDDON. 
 
 O mountain ftream ! the fhepherd and his cot 
 Are privileged inmates of deep folitude: 
 
 Nor would the niceft anchorite exclude 
 A field or two of brighter green, or plot 
 Of tillage-ground, that feemeth like a fpot 
 Of ftationary funfhine : thou hafi: viewed 
 Thefe only, Duddon ! with their paths renewed 
 By fits and ftarts, yet this contents thee not. 
 Thee hath fome awful fpirit impelled to leave, 
 Utterly to defert the haunts of men. 
 
 Though fimple thy companions were and few ; 
 And through this wildernefs a paflage cleave, 
 Attended but by thy own voice, fave when 
 The clouds and fowls of the air thy way purfue. 
 
The Brothers. 
 
 
 HESE tourifts, heaven preferveus! needs muft live 
 A profitable life : fome glance along, 
 
 Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air, 
 
 And they were butterflies to wheel about 
 Long as the Summer lafted: fome, as wife, 
 Upon the forehead of a jutting crag 
 Sit perched, with book and pencil on their knee, 
 And look and fcribble, fcribble on and look, 
 Until a man might travel twelve ftout miles, 
 
 Or reap an acre of his neighbour’s corn. 
 
 But for that moping fon of idlenefs, 
 
 Why can he tarr y yonder ?—In our churchyard 
 Is neither epitaph nor monument, 
 
 Tombftone nor name—only the turf we tread 
 And a few natural graves.” To Jane, his wife. 
 Thus fpake the homely Priefl: of Ennerdale. 
 
 It was a July evening ; and he fate 
 
I 10 
 
 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 Upon the long flone-feat beneath the eaves 
 Of his old cottage,—as it chanced, that day, 
 
 Employed in winter’s work. Upon the flone 
 His wife fate near him, teafing matted wool, 
 
 While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering wire. 
 He fed the fpindle of the youngefl child, 
 
 Who turned her large round wheel in the open air 
 With back and forward fleps. Towards the field 
 In which the parifh chapel flood alone, 
 
 Girt round with a bare ring of mofly wall, 
 
 While half an hour went by, the Priefl had fent 
 Many a long look of wonder : and at lafl, 
 
 Rifen from his feat, befide the fnow-white ridge 
 Of carded wool which the old man had piled, 
 
 He laid his implements with gentle care. 
 
 Each in the other locked j and, down the path 
 Which from his cottage to the churchyard led, 
 
 He took his way, impatient to accofl 
 
 The Stranger, whom he faw flill lingering there. 
 
 ’T was one well known to him in former days, 
 
 A fhepherd-lad :—who ere his fixteenth year 
 Had left that calling, tempted to entrufl 
 His expectations to the fickle winds 
 And perilous waters,—with the mariners 
 A fellow-mariner,—and fo had fared 
 Through twenty feafons ; but he had been reared 
 
THE BROTHERS. 
 
 I 
 
 Among the mountains, and he in his heart 
 Was half a fhepherd on the ftormy Teas. 
 
 Oft in the piping fhrouds had Leonard heard 
 The tones of waterfalls, and inland founds 
 Of caves and trees :—and, when the regular wind 
 Between the tropics filled the fteady fail, 
 
 And blew with the fame breath through days and weeks 
 
 Lengthening invifibly its weary line 
 
 Along the cloudlefs main, he, in thofe hours 
 
 Of tirefome indolence, would often hang 
 
 Over the veflel’s fide, and gaze and gaze ; 
 
 And, while the broad green wave and fparkling foam 
 Flafhed round him images and hues that wrought 
 In union with the employment of his heart, 
 
 He, thus by feverifh paffion overcome, 
 
 Even with the organs of his bodily eye, 
 
 Below him, in the bofom of the deep, 
 
 Saw mountains—faw the forms of fheep that grazed 
 On verdant hills—with dwellings among trees, 
 
 And fhepherds clad in the fame country grey 
 Which he himfelf had worn. 
 
 And now at lafi: 
 
 From perils manifold, with fome fmall wealth 
 Acquired by traffic in the Indian Ifles, 
 
 To his parental home he is returned, 
 
I 12 
 
 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 With a determined purpofe to refume 
 The life which he lived there; both for the fake 
 Of many darling pleafures, and the love 
 Which to an only brother he has borne 
 In all his hardfhips, fince that happy time 
 When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two 
 Were brother-fhepherds on their native hills. 
 
 —They were the laft of all their race : and now, 
 
 When Leonard had approached his home, his heart 
 Failed in him ; and, not venturing to inquire 
 Tidings of one whom he fo dearly loved, 
 
 Towards the churchyard he had turned afide,— 
 
 That, as he knew in what particular fpot 
 His family were laid, he thence might learn 
 If ftill his Brother lived, or to the file 
 Another grave was added.—He had found 
 Another grave,—near which a full half-hour 
 He had remained ; but, as he gazed, there grew 
 Such a confufion in his memory, 
 
 That he began to doubt; and he had hopes 
 That he had feen this heap of turf before,— 
 
 That it was not another grave ; but one 
 He had forgotten. He had loft his path, 
 
 As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked 
 Through fields which once had been well known to him 
 And oh ! what joy the recollection now 
 Sent to his heart ! he lifted up his eyes, 
 
THE BROTHERS. 
 
 And, looking round, imagined that he faw 
 Strange alteration wrought on every fide, 
 Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks 
 And the eternal hills themfelves were changed. 
 
 By this the Prieft, who down the field had come 
 Unfeen by Leonard, at the churchyard gate 
 Stopped ftiort,—and thence, at leifure, limb by limb 
 Perufed him with a gay complacency. 
 
 Ay, thought the Vicar, finding to himfelf, 
 
 ’Tis one of thofe who needs muft leave the path 
 Of the world’s bufinefs to go wild alone : 
 
 His arms have a perpetual holiday; 
 
 The happy man will creep about the fields, 
 Following his fancies by the hour, to bring 
 Tears down his cheeks, or folitary fmiles 
 Into his face, until the fetting fun 
 Write fool upon his forehead. Planted thus 
 Beneath a filed that over-arched the gate 
 Of this rude churchyard, till the ftars appeared 
 The good man might have communed with himfelf, 
 But that the Stranger, who had left the grave, 
 Approached; he recognifed the Priefi: at once, 
 
 And, after greetings interchanged, and given 
 By Leonard to the Vicar as to one 
 Unknown to him, this dialogue enfued. 
 
 Q 
 
THE BROTHERS. 
 
 IX 4 
 
 Leonard. 
 
 You live, Sir, in thefe dales, a quiet life : 
 
 Your years make up one peaceful family; 
 
 And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come 
 And welcome gone, they are fo like each other, 
 They cannot be remembered ? Scarce a funeral 
 Comes to this churchyard once in eighteen months 
 And yet, fome changes mull take place among you 
 And you who dwell here, even among thefe rocks 
 Can trace the finger of mortality, 
 
 And fee, that with our threefcore years and ten 
 We are not all that perifh.——I remember, 
 
 For many years ago I pafled this road, 
 
 There was a foot-way all along the fields 
 By the brook-fide—Yis gone—and that dark cleft! 
 To me it does not feem to wear the face 
 Which then it had. 
 
 Priest. 
 
 Nay, Sir, for aught I know, 
 That chafm is much the fame— 
 
 Leonard. 
 
 But, furely, yonder- 
 
THE BROTHERS. 
 
 115 
 
 Priest. 
 
 Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend 
 That does not play you falfe.—On that tall pike 
 (It is the lonelieft place of all thefe hills) 
 
 There were two fprings which bubbled fide by fide, 
 As if they had been made that they might be 
 Companions for each other : ten years back, 
 
 Clofe to thofe brother fountains, the huge crag 
 Was rent with lightning, one is dead and gone, 
 
 The other, left behind, is flowing Hill.- 
 
 For accidents and changes fuch as thefe, 
 
 We want not ftore of them ;—a waterfpout 
 Will bring down half a mountain ; what a feafl: 
 
 For folks that wander up and down like you, 
 
 To fee an acre’s breadth of that wide cliff 
 One roaring cataradf!—A fharp May ftorm 
 Will come with loads of January fnow, 
 
 And in one night fend twenty fcore of fheep 
 To feed the ravens; or a fhepherd dies 
 By fome untoward death among the rocks: 
 
 The ice breaks up and fweeps away a bridge— 
 
 A wood is felled :—and then for our own homes ! 
 
 A child is born or chriftened, a field ploughed, 
 
 A daughter fent to fervice, a web fpun, 
 
 The old houfe-clock is decked with a new face ; 
 And hence, fo far from wanting fadts or dates 
 To chronicle the time, we all have here 
 
THE BROTHERS. 
 
 I 16 
 
 A pair of diaries, one ferving, Sir, 
 
 For the whole dale, and one for each fire-fide— 
 Yours was a ftranger’s judgment : for hiftorians, 
 Commend me to thefe valleys ! 
 
 Leonard. 
 
 Yet your churchyard 
 
 Seems, if fuch freedom may be ufed with you, 
 
 To fay that you are heedlefs of the paft : 
 
 An orphan could not find his mother’s grave : 
 Here’s neither head nor foot-ftone, plate of brafs, 
 Crofsbones nor fkull,—type of our earthly {fate, 
 
 Or emblem of our hopes : the dead man’s home 
 Is but a fellow to that pafture-field. 
 
 Priest. 
 
 Why, there, Sir, is a thought that’s new to me ! 
 The ftone-cutters, ’tis true, might beg their bread 
 If every Englifti churchyard were like ours ; 
 
 Yet ycur conclufion wanders from the truth : 
 
 We have no need of names and epitaphs; 
 
 We talk about the dead by our fire-fides. 
 
 And then, for our immortal part ! we want 
 No fymbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale: 
 
 The thought of death fits eafy on the man 
 Who has been born and dies among the mountains. 
 
THE BROTHERS. 
 
 Leonard. 
 
 Your dalefmen, then, do in each other’s thoughts 
 PolTefs a kind of fecond life : no doubt 
 You, Sir, could help me to the hiftory 
 Of half thefe graves ? 
 
 Priest. 
 
 For eight-fcore winters paft, 
 With what I’ve witnelTed, and with what I’ve heard, 
 Perhaps I might; and, on a winter’s evening, 
 
 If you were feated at my chimney’s nook, 
 
 By turning o’er thefe hillocks one by one, 
 
 We two could travel, Sir, through a ftrange round ; 
 Yet all in the broad highway of the world. 
 
 Now there’s a grave—your foot is half upon it— 
 
 It looks juft like the reft; and yet that man 
 Died broken-hearted. 
 
 Leonard. 
 
 ’Tis a common cafe. 
 
 We’ll take another: who is he that lies 
 Beneath yon ridge, the laft of thofe three graves ? 
 
 It touches on that piece of native rock 
 Left in the churchyard wall. 
 
THE BROTHERS. 
 
 Priest. 
 
 That’s Walter Ewbank. 
 
 He had as white a head and frefh a cheek 
 As ever were produced by youth and age 
 Engendering in the blood of hale fourfcore. 
 
 Through five long generations had the heart 
 Of Walter’s forefathers o’erflowed the bounds 
 Of their inheritance, that fingle cottage— 
 
 You fee it yonder!—and thofe few green fields. 
 They toiled and wrought, and ftill, from fire to fon. 
 Each ftruggled, and each yielded as before 
 A little—yet a little—and old Walter, 
 
 They left to him the family heart, and land, 
 
 With other burthens than the crop it bore. 
 
 Year after year the old man ftill kept up 
 A cheerful mind,—and buffeted with bond, 
 
 Intereft, and mortgages; at laft he fank, 
 
 And went into his grave before his time. 
 
 Poor Walter ! whether it was care that fpurred him, 
 God only knows, but to the very laft 
 He had the lighteft foot in Ennerdale : 
 
 His pace was never that of an old man : 
 
 I almoft fee him tripping down the path 
 With his two grandfons after him : — but you, 
 
 Unlefs our landlord be your hoft to-night, 
 
 Have far to travel,—and on thefe rough paths 
 Even in the longeft day of midfummer— 
 
THE BROTHERS. 
 
 I IQ 
 
 Leonard. 
 
 But thofe two orphans ! 
 
 Priest. 
 
 Orphans !—Such they were — 
 
 Yet not while Walter lived:—for, though their parents 
 Lay buried fide by fide as now they lie, 
 
 The old man was a father to the boys, 
 
 Two fathers in one father : and if tears, 
 
 Shed when he talked of them where they were not, 
 And hauntings from the infirmity of love, 
 
 Are aught of what makes up a mother’s heart, 
 
 This old man, in the day of his old age, 
 
 Was half a mother to them.—If you weep, Sir, 
 
 To hear a ftranger talking about ftrangers, 
 
 Heaven blefs you when you are among your kindred! 
 Ay—you may turn that way—it is a grave 
 Which will bear looking at. 
 
 Leonard. 
 
 Thefe boys—I hope 
 They loved this good old man ?— 
 
 Priest. 
 
 They did—and truly : 
 
 But that was what we almoft overlooked, 
 
120 
 
 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 They were fuch darlings of each other. For, 
 
 Though from their cradles they had lived with Walter, 
 The only kinfman near them, and though he 
 Inclined to them by reafon of his age. 
 
 With a more fond familiar tendernefs, 
 
 They, notwithftanding, had much love to fpare, 
 
 And it all went into each other’s hearts. 
 
 Leonard, the elder by juft eighteen months, 
 
 Was two years taller : ’twas a joy to fee, 
 
 To hear, to meet them!—From their houfe the fchool 
 Was diftant three fhort miles—and in the time 
 Of ftorm and thaw, when every water-courfe 
 And unbridged ftream, fuch as you may have noticed 
 Crofting our roads at every hundred fteps, 
 
 Was fwollen into a noily rivulet. 
 
 Would Leonard then, when elder boys perhaps 
 Remained at home, go ftaggering through the fords, 
 Bearing his Brother on his back. I’ve feen him, 
 
 On windy days, in one of thofe ftray brooks, 
 
 Ay, more than once, I’ve feen him mid-leg deep. 
 
 Their two books lying both on a dry ftone 
 Upon the hither fide : and once I faid, 
 
 As I remember, looking round thefe rocks 
 And hills on which we all of us were born, 
 
 That God who made the great book of the world 
 Would blefs fuch piety— 
 
THE BROTHERS. 
 
 121 
 
 Leonard. 
 
 It may be then— 
 
 Priest. 
 
 Never did worthier lads break Englilh bread; 
 
 The fined: Sunday that the Autumn faw, 
 
 With all its mealy clufters of ripe nuts, 
 
 Could never keep thofe boys away from church, 
 
 Or tempt them to an hour of Sabbath breach. 
 
 Leonard and James ! I warrant, every corner 
 Among thefe rocks, and every hollow place 
 Where foot could come, to one or both of them 
 Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there. 
 Like roebucks they went bounding o’er the hills : 
 They played like two young ravens on the crags : 
 Then they could write—ay, and fpeak too, as well 
 As many of their betters ; and for Leonard ! 
 
 The very night before he went away, 
 
 In my own houfe I put into his hand 
 A Bible, and I’d wager twenty pounds 
 That, if he is alive, he has it yet. 
 
 Leonard. 
 
 It feems, thefe Brothers have not lived to be 
 A comfort to each other.— 
 r 
 
122 
 
 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 Priest. 
 
 That they might 
 
 Live to fuch end, is what both old and young, 
 
 In this our valley, all of us have wifhed, 
 
 And what, for my part, I have often prayed : 
 
 But Leonard— 
 
 Leonard. 
 
 Then James ftill is left among you ? 
 Priest. 
 
 ’Tis of the elder Brother I am fpeaking : 
 
 They had an uncle;—he was at that time 
 A thriving man, and trafficked on the feas : 
 
 And, but for that fame uncle, to this hour 
 Leonard had never handled rope or fhroud. 
 
 For the boy loved the life which we lead here ; 
 
 And, though of unripe years, a {tripling only, 
 
 His foul was knit to this his native foil. 
 
 But, as I faid, old Walter was too weak 
 To flrive with fuch a torrent; when he died, 
 
 The eftate and houfe were fold ; and all their fheep, 
 A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know, 
 
 Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thoufand years :— 
 Well—all was gone, and they were deftitute; 
 
THE BROTHERS. 
 
 123 
 
 And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother’s fake, 
 
 Refolved to try his fortune on the feas. 
 
 ’Tis now twelve years fince we had tidings from him. 
 If there was one among us who had heard 
 That Leonard Ewbank was come home again, 
 
 From the great Gavel, down by Leeza’s banks, 
 
 And down the Enna, far as Egremont, 
 
 The day would be a very feftival; 
 
 And thofe two bells of ours, which there you fee— 
 Hanging in the open air—but, O good Sir! 
 
 This is fad talk—they’ll never found for him— 
 
 Living or dead.—When laft we heard of him, 
 
 He was in flavery among the Moors 
 
 Upon the Barbary coaft.—’T was not a little 
 
 That would bring down his fpirit; and, no doubt, 
 
 Before it ended in his death, the youth 
 
 Was fadly eroded—Poor Leonard! when we parted. 
 
 He took me by the hand, and faid to me, 
 
 If ever the day came when he was rich, 
 
 He would return, and on his father’s land 
 He would grow old among us. 
 
 Leonard. 
 
 If that day 
 
 Should come, ’twould needs be a glad day for him ; 
 
 He would himfelf, no doubt, be happy then 
 As any that fhould meet him— 
 
124 
 
 THE BROTHERS, 
 
 Priest. 
 
 Happy! Sir-— 
 
 Leonard. 
 
 You Paid his kindred all were in their graves, 
 
 And that he had one Brother— 
 
 Priest. 
 
 That is but 
 
 A fellow tale of forrow. From his youth 
 James, though not fickly, yet was delicate; 
 
 And Leonard being always by his fide 
 Had done fo many offices about him, 
 
 That, though he was not of a timid nature, 
 
 Yet ftill the fpirit of a mountain boy 
 
 In him was fomewhat checked; and, when his Brother 
 
 Was gone to fea, and he was left alone, 
 
 The little colour that he had was foon 
 
 Stolen from his cheek; he drooped, and pined, and pined— 
 
 Leonard. 
 
 But thefe are all the graves of full-grown men ! 
 
 Priest. 
 
 Ay, Sir, that pafled away: we took him to us; 
 
 He was the child of all the dale—he lived 
 
 Three months with one, and fix months with another; 
 
THE BROTHERS. 
 
 125 
 
 And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love : 
 
 And many, many happy days were his. 
 
 But, whether blithe or fad, ’tis my belief 
 His abfent Brother Hill was at his heart. 
 
 And, when he lived beneath our roof, we found 
 (A practice till this time unknown to him) 
 
 That often, riling from his bed at night, 
 
 He in his deep would walk about, and lleeping 
 He fought his Brother Leonard.—You are moved ! 
 Forgive me, Sir: before I fpoke to you, 
 
 I judged you molt unkindly. 
 
 Leonard. 
 
 But this youth, 
 
 How did he die at laft ? 
 
 Priest. 
 
 One fweet May morning, 
 
 (It will be twelve years fince when Spring returns,) 
 
 He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs, 
 With two or three companions, whom it chanced 
 Some further bulinefs fummoned to a houfe 
 Which Hands at the dale-head. James, tired perhaps, 
 Or from fome other caufe, remained behind. 
 
 You fee yon precipice ;—it almoft looks 
 Like fome vaft building made of many crags ; 
 
 And in the midft is one particular rock 
 
126 
 
 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 That rifes like a column from the vale, 
 
 Whence by our fhepherds it is called The Pillar. 
 James pointed to its fummit, over which 
 They all had purpofed to return together, 
 
 And told them that he there would wait for them ; 
 They parted, and his comrades pafled that way 
 Some two hours after, but they did not find him 
 Upon the fummit—at the appointed place. 
 
 Of this they took no heed : but one of them, 
 
 Going by chance at night into the houfe 
 
 Which at that time was James’s home, there learned 
 
 That nobody had feen him all that day : 
 
 The morning came, and ftill he was unheard of: 
 
 The neighbours were alarmed, and to the brook 
 Some went, and fome towards the lake : ere noon 
 They found him at the foot of that fame rock— 
 Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after 
 I buried him, poor youth, and there he lies ! 
 
 Leonard. 
 
 And that, then, is his grave ?—Before his death 
 You fay that he faw many happy years ? 
 
 Priest. 
 
 Ay, that he did— 
 
 Leonard. 
 
 And all went well with him— 
 
THE BROTHERS. 
 
 12 7 
 
 Priest. 
 
 If he had one, the youth had twenty homes. 
 
 Leonard. 
 
 And you believe, then, that his mind was eafy ?— 
 Priest. 
 
 Yes, long before he died, he found that time 
 
 Is a true friend to forrow; and unlefs 
 
 His thoughts were turned on Leonard’s lucklefs fortune, 
 
 He talked about him with a cheerful love. 
 
 Leonard. 
 
 He could not come to an unhallowed end! 
 
 Priest. 
 
 Nay, God forbid !—You recoiled! I mentioned 
 A habit which difquietude and grief 
 Had brought upon him; and we all conjedlured 
 That, as the day was warm, he had lain down 
 Upon the grafs,—and, waiting for his comrades, 
 
 He there had fallen afleep ; that, in his fleep, 
 
 He to the margin of the precipice 
 
 Had walked, and from the fummit had fallen headlong. 
 And fo no doubt he perifhed : at the time 
 We guefs that in his hands he muft have had 
 His fhepherd’s ftaff; for midway in the cliff 
 
128 
 
 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 It had been caught ; and there for many years 
 It hung—and mouldered there. 
 
 The Prieft here ended— 
 
 The Stranger would have thanked him, but he felt 
 A gufhing from his heart, that took away 
 The power of fpeech. Both left the fpot in filence ; 
 And Leonard, when they reached the churchyard gate. 
 As the Prieft lifted up the latch, turned round,— 
 
 And looking at the grave, he faid, C£ My Brother.’’ 
 
 The Vicar did not hear the words : and now, 
 
 Pointing towards the cottage, he entreated 
 That Leonard would partake his homely fare : 
 
 The other thanked him with a fervent voice ; 
 
 But added, that, the evening being calm, 
 
 He would purfue his journey. So they parted. 
 
 It was not long ere Leonard reached a grove 
 That overhung the road : he there flopped fhort, 
 
 And, fitting down beneath the trees, reviewed 
 All that the Prieft had faid : his early years 
 Were with him in his heart: his cherifhed hopes, 
 
 And thoughts which had been his an hour before, 
 
 All prefled on him with fuch a weight, that now, 
 
 This vale where he had been fo happy, feemed 
 A place in which he could not bear to live: 
 
 So he relinquifhed all his purpofes. 
 
 He travelled on to Egremont: and thence, 
 
THE BROTHERS. 
 
 129 
 
 That night he wrote a letter to the Prieft, 
 Reminding him of what had pafTed between them ; 
 And adding, with a hope to be forgiven, 
 
 That it was from the weaknefs of his heart 
 He had not dared to tell him who he was. 
 
 This done, he went on fhipboard, and is now 
 A feaman, a grey-headed mariner. 
 
 s 
 
Defcriptions of Scenery. 
 
 INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS 
 
 In calling forth and Jlrengthening the Imagination in Boyhood and 
 
 Early Youth. 
 
 ISDOM and fpirit of the univerfe ! 
 
 Thou foul, that art the eternity of thought! 
 
 And giv’ft to forms and images a breath 
 And everlafting motion ! not in vain, 
 
 By day or ftar-light, thus from my firft dawn 
 Of childhood didft thou intertwine for me 
 The paffions that build up our human foul; 
 
 Not with the mean and vulgar works of man,— 
 But with high objedts, with enduring things, 
 With life and nature ; purifying thus 
 The elements of 
 And fan£tifying by fuch difcipline 
 Both pain and fear,—until we recognize 
 A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. 
 
 feeling and of thought, 
 
INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS. 
 
 I 3 I 
 
 Nor was this fellowlhip vouchfafed to me 
 With ftinted kindnefs. In November days, 
 
 When vapours rolling down the valleys made 
 A lonely fcene more lonefome ; among woods 
 At noon ; and mid the calm of Summer nights, 
 When, by the margin of the trembling lake, 
 Beneath the gloomy hills, I homeward went 
 In folitude, fuch intercourfe was mine : 
 
 ’Twas mine among the fields both day and night, 
 And by the waters all the Summer long. 
 
 And in the frofty feafon, when the fun 
 Was fet, and, vifible for many a mile, 
 
 The cottage windows through the twilight blazed, 
 
 I heeded not the fummons :—happy time 
 
 It was, indeed, for all of us ; for me 
 
 It was a time of rapture !—Clear and loud 
 
 The village clock tolled fix—I wheeled about, 
 
 Proud and exulting like an untired horfe 
 
 That cares not for its home.—All fhod with fteel 
 
 We hilled along the polifhed ice, in games 
 
 Confederate, imitative of the chafe 
 
 And woodland pleafures,—the refounding horn, 
 
 The pack loud-bellowing and the hunted hare. 
 
 So through the darknefs and the cold we flew, 
 
 And not a voice was idle : with the din 
 Meanwhile the precipices rang aloud; 
 
 The leaflefs trees and every icy crag 
 
132 
 
 DESCRIPTIONS OF SCENERY. 
 
 Tinkled like iron ; while the diftant hills 
 Into the tumult fent an alien found 
 Of melancholy, not unnoticed, while the ftars, 
 Eaftward, were fparkling clear, and in the weft 
 The orange fky of evening died away. 
 
 Not feldom from the uproar I retired 
 Into a filent bay, or fportively 
 Glanced fideway, leaving the tumultuous throng, 
 To cut acrofs the image of a ftar, 
 
 That gleamed upon the ice; and oftentimes, 
 When we had given our bodies to the wind. 
 
 And all the fhadowy banks on either fide 
 Came fweeping through the darknefs, fpinning ftill 
 The rapid line of motion, then at once 
 Have I, reclining back upon my heels, 
 
 Stopped ftiort; yet ftill the folitary cliffs 
 Wheeled by me—even as if the earth had rolled 
 With vihble motion her diurnal round ! 
 
 Behind me did they ftretch in folemn train, 
 Feebler and feebler, and I ftood and watched, 
 
 Till all was tranquil as a Summer fea. 
 
A SUMMER FORENOON. 
 
 J 33 
 
 A SUMMER FORENOON. 
 
 ’Twas Summer, and the fun had mounted high : 
 Southward the landfcape indiftindHy glared 
 Through a pale fleam; but all the northern downs, 
 
 In cleareft air afcending, fhowed far off 
 A furface dappled o’er with fhadows flung 
 From many a brooding cloud, far as the fight 
 Could reach, thofe many fhadows lay in fpots 
 Determined and unmoved, with fteady beams 
 Of bright and pleafant funfhine interpofed ; 
 
 Pleafant to him who on the foft cool mofs 
 Extends his carelefs limbs along the front 
 Of fome huge cave, whofe rocky ceiling cafts 
 A twilight of its own, an ample fhade, 
 
 Where the wren warbles, while the dreaming man, 
 
 Half confcious of the foothing melody, 
 
 With fidelong eye looks out upon the fcene, 
 
 By that impending covert made more foft, 
 
 More low and diftant! Other lot was mine, 
 
 Yet with good hope that foon I fhould obtain 
 As grateful refting-place and livelier joy. 
 
 From cc The Ex cur ft on” Book I. 
 
i34 
 
 DESCRIPTIONS OF SCENERY. 
 
 LINES 
 
 Written while Sailing in a Boat at Evening . 
 
 How richly glows the water’s breaft 
 Before us, tinged with Evening hues, 
 
 While, facing thus the crimfon weft, 
 
 The Boat her filent courfe purfues! 
 
 And fee how dark the backward ftream ! 
 
 A little moment paft fo fmiling ! 
 
 And ftill, perhaps, with faithlefs gleam, 
 
 Some other loiterers beguiling. 
 
 Such views the youthful Bard allure; 
 
 But, heedlefs of the following gloom, 
 
 He deems their colours fhall endure 
 Till peace go with him to the tomb. 
 
 And let him nurfe his fond deceit, 
 
 And what if he muft die in forrow ! 
 
 Who would not cherifh dreams fo fweet, 
 
 Though grief and pain may come to-morrow ? 
 
A NIGHT-PIECE. 
 
 *35 
 
 A NIGHT-PIECE . 
 
 -The Iky is overcaft 
 
 With a continuous cloud of texture clofe, 
 
 Heavy and wan, all whitened by the moon, 
 
 Which through that vale is indiftin&ly feen, 
 
 A dull, contracted circle, yielding light 
 So feebly fpread that not a fhadow falls, 
 
 Chequering the ground—from rock, plant, tree, or tower. 
 
 At length a pleafant inftantaneous gleam 
 
 Startles the penfive traveller as he treads 
 
 His lonefome path, with unobferving eye 
 
 Bent earthwards ; he looks up—the clouds are fplit 
 
 Afunder,—and above his head he fees 
 
 The clear moon, and the glory of the heavens. 
 
 There in a black blue vault {he fails along, 
 
 Followed by multitudes of bars, that, fmall 
 And fharp, and bright, along the dark abyfs 
 Drive as fhe drives ;—how fall they wheel away, 
 
 Yet vanilh not!—the wind is in the tree, 
 
 But they are blent;—bill they roll along 
 Immeafurably dibant;—and the vault, 
 
 Built round by thofe white clouds, enormous clouds, 
 
 Still deepens its unfathomable depth. 
 
"3 6 
 
 DESCRIPTIONS OF SCENERY. 
 
 At length the vifion clofes ; and the mind, 
 Not undifturbed by the delight it feels, 
 Which llowly fettles into peaceful calm, 
 
 Is left to mufe upon the folemn fcene. 
 
 A JUTTING. 
 
 -It feems a day, 
 
 (I fpeak of one from many fingled out,) 
 
 One of thofe heavenly days that cannot die ; 
 
 When forth I fallied from our cottage-door, 
 
 With a huge wallet o’er my fhoulders flung, 
 
 A nutting-crook in hand, and turn’d my fteps 
 Towards the diftant woods, a figure quaint, 
 
 Tricked out in proud dilguife of caft-ofF weeds 
 Which for that fervice had been hufbanded, 
 
 By exhortation of my frugal dame. 
 
 Motley accoutrement, of power to fmile 
 At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,—and, in truth, 
 More ragged than need was. Among the woods, 
 And o’er the pathlefs rocks, I forced my way, 
 
 Until, at length, I came to one dear nook 
 
 Unvifited, where not a broken bough 
 
 Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious fign 
 
 Of devaftation, but the hazels rofe 
 
 Tall and eredt, with milk-white clufters hung, 
 
NUTTING. 
 
 *37 
 
 A virgin fcene!—A little while I flood, 
 
 Breathing with fuch fuppreflion of the heart 
 As joy delights in ; and with wife reflraint 
 Voluptuous, fearlefs of a rival, eyed 
 The banquet,—or beneath the trees I fat 
 Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played; 
 
 A temper known to thofe, who, after long 
 And weary expectation, have been blefled 
 With fudden happinefs beyond all hope.— 
 
 Perhaps it was a bower beneath whofe leaves 
 The violets of five feafons re-appear 
 And fade, unfeen by any human eye ; 
 
 Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on 
 For ever,—and I faw the fparkling foam, 
 
 And with my cheek on one of thofe green flones 
 That, fleeced with mofs, beneath the fhady trees, 
 
 Lay round me, fcattered like a flock of fheep,— 
 
 I heard the murmur and the murmuring found, 
 
 In that fweet mood when pleafure loves to pay 
 Tribute to eafe \ and of its joy fecure, 
 
 The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, 
 
 Wafting its kindlinefs on flocks and flones, 
 
 And on the vacant air. Then up I rofe, 
 
 And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crafh 
 And mercilefs ravage ; and the fhady nook 
 Of hazels, and the green and mofly bower, 
 
 Deformed and fullied, patiently gave up 
 
 T 
 
DESCRIPTIONS OF SCENERY. 
 
 Their quiet being; and, unlefs I now 
 Confound my prefent feelings with the paft, 
 Even then, when from the bower I turned away 
 Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, 
 
 I felt a fenfe of pain when I beheld 
 The filent trees and the intruding Iky.— 
 
 Then, deareft maiden! move along thefe fhades 
 In gentlenefs of heart; with gentle hand 
 Touch—for there is a fpirit in the woods. 
 
 LINES 
 
 Written in Early Spring. 
 
 I heard a thoufand blended notes, 
 
 While in a grove I fat reclined, 
 
 In that fweet mood when pleafant thoughts 
 Bring fad thoughts to the mind. 
 
 To her fair works did Nature link 
 
 The human foul that through me ran ; 
 
 And much it grieved my heart to think 
 What man has made of man. 
 
 Through primrofe tufts, in that fweet bower, 
 The periwinkle trailed its wreaths ; 
 
 And ’tis my faith that every flower 
 Enjoys the air it breathes. 
 
MY HEART LEAPS UP. 
 
 *39 
 
 The birds around me hopped and played, 
 Their thoughts I cannot meafure :— 
 
 But the leaf! motion which they made, 
 
 It feemed a thrill of pleafure. 
 
 The budding twigs fpread out their fan, 
 To catch the breezy air; 
 
 And I muft think, do all I can, 
 
 That there was pleafure there. 
 
 If I thefe thoughts may not prevent, 
 
 If fuch be of my creed the plan, 
 
 Have I not reafon to lament 
 What man has made of man ? 
 
 Mr HEART LEAPS UP. 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold 
 A rainbow in the Iky: 
 
 So was it when my life began ; 
 
 So is it now I am a man ; 
 
 So be it when I fhall grow old, 
 Or let me die ! 
 
 The child is father of the man; 
 
 And I could wifh my days to be 
 Bound each to each by natural piety. 
 
140 
 
 DESCRIPTIONS OF SCENERY. 
 
 TEW-TREES. 
 
 There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, 
 
 Which to this day flands fingle, in the midfl 
 Of its own darknefs, as it flood of yore, 
 
 Not loth to furnifh weapons for the bands 
 Of Umfraville or Percy, ere they marched 
 To Scotland’s heaths ; or thofe that croffed the sea, 
 And drew their founding bows at Azincour, 
 
 Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poidliers. 
 
 Of vafl circumference and gloom profound 
 This folitary tree !—a living thing 
 Produced too flowly ever to decay ; 
 
 Of form and afpe£t too magnificent 
 
 To be deflroyed. But worthier flill of note 
 
 Are thofe fraternal four of Borrowdale, 
 
 Joined in one folemn and capacious grove j 
 Huge trunks !—and each particular trunk a growth 
 Of intertwilied fibres ferpentine 
 Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved,— 
 
 Nor uninformed with phantafy, and looks 
 That threaten the profane;—a pillared fhade, 
 
 Upon whofe grafflefs floor of red-brown hue, 
 
 By fheddings from the pining umbrage tinged 
 Perennially—beneath whofe fable roof 
 Of boughs, as if for feflal purpofe, decked 
 With unrejoicing berries, ghoflly fhapes 
 
SONNET TO A BROOK. 
 
 May meet at noontide—Fear and trembling Hope, 
 Silence and Fore fight—Death the fkeleton 
 And Time the (hadow,—there to celebrate, 
 
 As in a natural temple fcattered o’er 
 With altars undifturbed of mofly {tone, 
 
 United worfhip; or in mute repofe 
 To lie, and liften to the mountain flood 
 Murmuring from Glaramara’s inmoft caves. 
 
 SONNET TO A BROOK. 
 
 Brook! whofe fociety the Poet leeks, 
 
 Intent his wafted fpirits to renew; 
 
 And whom the curious painter doth purfue 
 Through rocky pafles, among flowery creeks, 
 
 And tracks thee dancing down thy water-breaks ; 
 If I fome type of thee did wifh to view, 
 
 Thee,—and not thee thyfelf, I would not do 
 Like Grecian artifts, give thee human cheeks, 
 Channels for tears; no Naiad fhould’ft thou be, 
 Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints, nor hairs 
 It feems the eternal foul is clothed in thee 
 With purer robes than thofe of flefti and blood, 
 And hath beftowed on thee a better good ; 
 Unwearied joy, and life without its cares. 
 
142 
 
 DESCRIPTIONS OF SCENERY. 
 
 ADMONITION , 
 
 Intended more particularly for the perufal of thofe who may have 
 happened to be enamoured of fame beautiful Place of Retreat in 
 the Country of the Lakes. 
 
 Yes, there is holy pleafure in thine eye! 
 
 —The lovely cottage in the guardian nook 
 Hath ftirred thee deeply; with its own dear brook, 
 
 Its own fmall pafture, almoft its own fky! 
 
 But covet not the abode—Oh ! do not figh, 
 
 As many do, repining while they look; 
 
 Sighing a wifh to tear from Nature’s book 
 This blifsful leaf with harfh impiety. 
 
 Think what the home would be if it were thine, 
 
 Even thine, though few thy wants !—Roof, window, door, 
 The very flowers are facred to the poor, 
 
 The rofes to the porch which they entwine : 
 
 Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day 
 On which it fhould be touched, would melt, and melt 
 away ! 
 
 SONNETS . 
 
 “Beloved Vale !” I faid, “when I fhall con 
 Thofe many records of my childifti years, 
 Remembrance of myfelf and of my peers 
 Will prefs me down : to think of what is gone 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 Will be an awful thought, if life have one.” 
 
 But, when into the Vale I came, no fears 
 Diftrefled me; I looked round, I fhed no tears ; 
 Deep thought, or awful vifion, I had none. 
 
 By thoufand petty fancies I was eroded. 
 
 To fee the trees, which I had thought fo tall, 
 
 Mere dwarfs; the brooks fo narrow, fields fo fmall. 
 A juggler’s balls old Time about him tolled ; 
 
 I looked, I ftared, I fmiled, I laughed ; and all 
 The weight of fadnefs was in wonder loft. 
 
 The world is too much with us; late and foon, 
 Getting and fpending, we lay wafte our powers : 
 Little we fee in Nature that is ours; 
 
 We have given our hearts away, a fordid boon! 
 This fea that bares her bofom to the moon; 
 
 The winds that will be howling at all hours, 
 
 And are up-gathered now like fleeping flowers ; 
 For this, for everything, we are out of tune ; 
 
 It moves us not.—Great God ! I’d rather be 
 A pagan fuckled in a creed outworn ; 
 
 So might I, {landing on this pleafant lea, 
 
 Have glimpfes that would make me lefs forlorn ; 
 Have fight of Proteus rifing from the fea ; 
 
 Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 
 
144- 
 
 descriptions OF SCENERY. 
 
 How (weet it is, when mother Fancy rocks 
 The wayward brain, to faunter through a wood ! 
 
 An old place, full of many a lovely brood, 
 
 Tall trees, green arbours, and ground-flowers in flocks ; 
 And wild rofe tip-toe upon hawthorn flocks, 
 
 Like to a bonny lafs, who plays her pranks 
 At wakes and fairs with wandering mountebanks,— 
 When fhe ftands crefting the clown’s head, and mocks 
 The crowd beneath her. Verily, I think, 
 
 Such place to me is fometimes like a dream, 
 
 Or map of the whole world : thoughts, link by link, 
 Enter through ears and eyefight, with fuch gleam 
 Of all things, that at laft in fear I flirink, 
 
 And leap at once from the delicious ftream. 
 
 Mark the concentrated hazels that enclofe 
 Yon old grey Stone, protedted from the ray 
 Of noontide funs :—and even the beams that play 
 And glance, while wantonly the rough wind blows, 
 Are feldom free to touch the mofs that grows 
 Upon that roof—amid embowering gloom 
 The very image framing of a tomb, 
 
 In which fome ancient chieftain finds repofe 
 Among the lonely mountains.—Live, ye trees ! 
 
 And thou, grey Stone, the penfive likenefs keep 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 145 
 
 Of a dark chamber where the mighty deep r 
 For more than fancy to the influence bends, 
 When folitary Nature condefcends 
 To mimic Time’s forlorn humanities. 
 
 IT IS A BEAUTEOUS ETENING . 
 
 It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, 
 
 The holy time is quiet as a nun 
 Breathlefs with adoration ; the broad fun 
 Is finking down in its tranquillity; 
 
 The gentlenefs of Heaven is on the fea: 
 
 Liften ! the mighty being is awake, 
 
 And doth with his eternal motion make 
 A found like thunder everlaftingly. 
 
 Dear child ! dear girl ! that walkefl: with me here, 
 If thou appear’d: untouch’d by folemn thought, 
 Thy nature therefore is not lefs divine : 
 
 Thou lieft “in Abraham’s bofom” all the year; 
 And worfhipp’d: at the temple’s inner fhrine, 
 
 God being with thee when we know it not. 
 
 u 
 
146 
 
 DESCRIPTIONS OF SCENERY. 
 
 CALM IS ALL NATURE AS A RESTING WHEEL. 
 
 Calm is all nature as a refting wheel. 
 
 The kine are couch’d upon the dewy grafs ; 
 
 The horfe alone, feen dimly as 1 pafs, 
 
 Is cropping audibly his later meal : 
 
 Dark is the ground, a dumber Teems to fteal 
 O’er vale, and mountain, and the ftarlefs Iky, 
 
 Now, in this blank of things, a harmony. 
 
 Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal 
 That grief for which the fenfes ftill fupply 
 Frefti food ; for only then, when memory 
 Is hufh’d, am I at reft. My friends! reftrain 
 Thofe bufy cares that would allay my pain ; 
 
 Oh, leave me to myfelf! nor let me feel 
 The officious touch that makes me droop again. 
 
Domeftic Poems 
 
 THE PET LAMB. 
 
 A PASTORAL. 
 
 m 
 
 2? 
 
 HE dew was falling faft, the ftars began to blink; 
 
 I heard a voice : it faid, ec Drink, pretty creature, 
 drink ! ” 
 
 And, looking o’er the hedge, before me I efpied 
 A fnow-white mountain lamb, with a maiden at 
 its fide. 
 
 No other fheep was near, the lamb was all alone, 
 And by a {lender cord was tethered to a {tone; 
 With one knee on the grafs did the little maiden 
 kneel, 
 
 While to that mountain lamb fhe gave its evening 
 meal. 
 
 The lamb, while from her hand he thus his fupper took, 
 Seemed to feaft with head and ears, and his tail with pleafure 
 fhook. 
 
 <c Drink, pretty creature, drink,” {he faid, in fuch a tone 
 That I almoft received her heart into my own. 
 
148 
 
 DOMESTIC POEMS 
 
 ’Twas little Barbara Lewth waite, a child of beauty rare ! 
 
 I watched them with delight ; they were a lovely pair. 
 
 Now, with her empty can the maiden turned away; 
 
 But, ere ten yards were gone, her footfteps did fhe flay. 
 
 Towards the lamb fhe looked; and from that fhady place 
 I, unobferved, could fee the workings of her face : 
 
 If Nature to her tongue could meafured numbers bring, 
 Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid might fing :— 
 
 Ci What ails thee, young one ? What ? Why pull fo at thy 
 cord ? 
 
 Is it not well with thee ? Well both for bed and board ? 
 Thy plot of grafs is foft, and green as grafs can be; 
 
 Reft, little young one, reft ; what is’t that aileth thee ? 
 
 ct What is it thou would’ft feek ? What is wanting to thy 
 heart ? 
 
 Thy limbs, are they not ftrong ? And beautiful thou art : 
 This grafs is tender grafs; thefe flowers they have no peers ; 
 And that green corn, all day, is ruffling in thy ears ! 
 
 u If the fun be ftiining hot, do but ftretch thy woollen chain, 
 This beech is ftanding by, its covert thou canft gain ; 
 
 For rain and mountain ftorms ! the like thou need’ft not fear— 
 The rain and ftorm are things which fcarcely can come here. 
 
THE PET LAMB. 
 
 149 
 
 <c Reft, little young one, reft; thou haft forgot the day 
 When my father found thee firft in places far away: 
 
 Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none, 
 And thy mother from thy fide for evermore was gone. 
 
 u He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home ‘ 
 A blefled day for thee ! then whither would’ft thou roam ' 
 
 A faithful nurfe thou haft; the dam that did thee yean 
 Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could have been. 
 
 tc Thou know’ll: that twice a day I have brought thee in this 
 can 
 
 Frefh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran ; 
 
 And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with dew, 
 
 I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is, and new. 
 
 <c Thy limbs will fhortly be twice as ftout as they are now, 
 Then I’ll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough ; 
 My playmate thou fhalt be ; and, when the wind is cold. 
 Our hearth fhall be thy bed, our houfe fhall be thy fold. 
 
 “ It will not, will not reft !—Poor creature, can it be 
 That ’tis thy mother’s heart which is working fo in thee ? 
 Things that I know not of, belike to thee are dear, 
 
 And dreams of things which thou can’ft neither fee nor hear. 
 
5° 
 
 DOMESTIC POEMS. 
 
 <c Alas, the mountain-tops that look fo green and fair! 
 
 I’ve heard of fearful winds and darknels that come there; 
 The little brooks that feem all paftime and all play, 
 
 When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey. 
 
 c; Here thou need’ll: not dread the raven in the fky; 
 
 Night and day thou art fafe,—our cottage is hard by. 
 
 Why bleat fo after me ? Why pull fo at thy chain ? 
 
 Sleep—and at break of day I will come to thee again ! ” 
 
 —As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet, 
 
 This fong to myfelf did I oftentimes repeat; 
 
 And it feemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line, 
 
 That but half of it was hers, and one-half of it was mine. 
 
 Again, and once again did I repeat the fong; 
 cc Nay,” faid I, cc more than half to the damfel muft belong, 
 For {he looked with fuch a look, and fhe fpake with fuch a 
 tone, 
 
 That I almoft received her heart into my own.” 
 
 LUCY GRAY; 
 
 OR SOLITUDE. 
 
 Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray; 
 
 And when I crofted the wild, 
 I chanced to fee at break of day 
 The folitary child. 
 
LUCY GRAY. 
 
 l 5* 
 
 No mate, no comrade Lucy knew, 
 
 She dwelt on a wild moor, 
 
 The fweeteft thing that ever grew 
 Befide a human door. 
 
 You yet may fpy the fawn at play, 
 
 The hare upon the green ; 
 
 But the fweet face of Lucy Gray 
 Will never more be feen. 
 
 “ To-night will be a ftormy night— 
 You to the town mull go ; 
 
 And take a lantern, child, to light 
 Your mother through the fnow.” 
 
 “That, father, I will gladly do ; 
 
 ’Tis fcarcely afternoon— 
 
 The minfter clock has juft ftruck two, 
 And yonder is the moon.” 
 
 At this the father raifed his hook, 
 
 And fnapped a faggot-band ; 
 
 He plied his work;—and Lucy took 
 The lantern in her hand. 
 
 Not blither is the mountain roe : 
 
 With many a wanton ftroke 
 
 Her feet difperfe the powdery fnow, 
 That rifes up like fmoke. 
 
DOMESTIC POEMS. 
 
 The ftorm came on before its time : 
 
 She wandered up and down ; 
 
 And many a hill did Lucy climb ; 
 
 But never reached the town. 
 
 The wretched parents all that night 
 Went Ihouting far and wide ; 
 
 But there was neither found nor fight 
 To ferve them for a guide. 
 
 At day-break on a hill they ftood 
 That overlooked the moor; 
 
 And thence they faw the bridge of wood, 
 A furlong from their door. 
 
 And, turning homeward, now they cried, 
 u In heaven we all fhall meet!” 
 
 When in the fnow the mother fpied 
 The print of Lucy’s feet. 
 
 Then downward from the fteep hill’s edge 
 They tracked the footmarks fmall : 
 
 And through the broken hawthorn hedge, 
 And by the long ftone wall: 
 
 And then an open field they crofted : 
 
 The marks were ftill the fame ; 
 
 They tracked them on, nor ever loft ; 
 
 And to the bridge they came. 
 
THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN SUN AND SHOWER. I53 
 
 They followed from the fnowy bank 
 The footmarks one by one, 
 
 Into the middle of the plank ; 
 
 And further there were none ! 
 
 Yet fome maintain that to this day 
 She is a living child : 
 
 That you may fee fweet Lucy Gray 
 Upon the lonefome wild. 
 
 O'er rough and fmooth fhe trips along, 
 
 And never looks behind ; 
 
 And fings a folitary fong 
 That whiffles in the wind. 
 
 THREE TEARS SHE GREW IN SUN AND SHOWER . 
 
 Three years fhe grew in fun and fhower, 
 
 Then Nature faid “ a lovelier flower 
 On earth was never fown $ 
 
 This child I to inyfelf will take : 
 
 She fhall be mine, and I will make 
 A lady of my own. 
 
 x 
 
J 54 
 
 DOMESTIC POEMS. 
 
 “ Myfelf will to my darling be 
 Both law and impulfe ; and with me 
 The girl, in rock and plain, 
 
 In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 
 Shall feel an overfeeing power 
 To kindle or reftrain, 
 
 u She fhall be fportive as the fawn, 
 
 That wild with glee acrofs the lawn 
 Or up the mountain fprings ; 
 
 And hers fhall be the breathing balm, 
 
 And hers the filence and the calm 
 Of mute infenfate things. 
 
 “ The floating clouds their ftate fhall lend 
 To her ; for her the willow bend ; 
 
 Nor fhall fhe fail to fee 
 
 E’en in the motions of the ftorm 
 
 Grace that fhall mould the maiden’s form 
 
 By filent fympathy. 
 
 cc The ftars of midnight fhall be clear 
 To her ; and fhe fhall lean her ear 
 In many a fecret place 
 Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 
 And beauty born of murmuring found 
 Shall pafs into her face. 
 
SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. 
 
 155 
 
 “ And vital feelings of delight 
 Shall rear her form to ftately height, 
 
 Her virgin bofom fwell ; 
 
 Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
 While fhe and I together live 
 Here in this happy dell.” 
 
 Thus Nature fpake. The work was done— 
 How foon my Lucy’s race was run ! 
 
 She died, and left to me 
 
 This heath, this calm and quiet fcene ; 
 
 The memory of what has been. 
 
 And never more will be. 
 
 SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT 
 
 She was a phantom of delight 
 When firft fhe gleam’d upon my fight; 
 
 A lovely apparition, fent 
 To be a moment’s ornament; 
 
 Her eyes as ftars of twilight fair, 
 
 Like twilight’s, too, her dufky hair ; 
 
 But all things elfe about her drawn 
 From May-time and the cheerful dawn ; 
 
156 
 
 DOMESTIC POEMS. 
 
 A dancing fhape, an image gay, 
 
 To haunt, to ftartle, and waylay. 
 
 I faw her upon nearer view, 
 
 A fpirit, yet a woman too ! 
 
 Her houfehold motions light and free, 
 
 And fteps of virgin liberty; 
 
 A countenance in which did meet 
 Sweet records, promifes as fweet: 
 
 A creature not too bright or good 
 For human nature’s daily food, 
 
 For tranfient forrows, fimple wiles, 
 
 Praife, blame, love, kifTes, tears, and fmiles. 
 
 And now I fee with eye ferene 
 The very pulfe of the machine ; 
 
 A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
 
 A traveller betwixt life and death ; 
 
 The reafon firm, the temperate will, 
 Endurance, forefight, ftrength, and fkill; 
 
 A perfedt woman, nobly plann’d, 
 
 To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
 
 And yet a fpirit ft ill, and bright 
 With fomething of an angel light. 
 
Poems on Flowers. 
 
 
 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 N youth from rock to rock I went, 
 
 From hill to hill in difcontent, 
 
 Of pleafure high and turbulent, 
 
 Moft pleafed when moft unealy 
 ' But now my own delights I make,— 
 
 My third: at every rill can flake,— 
 
 And gladly Nature’s love partake 
 Of thee, fweet Daify ! 
 
 When foothed a while by milder airs. 
 Thee Winter in the garland wears 
 That thinly fhades his few grey hairs ; 
 
 Spring cannot fhun thee ; 
 
 While fummer fields are thine by right; 
 
 And Autumn, melancholy wight! 
 
 Doth in thy crimfon head delight, 
 
 When rains are on thee. 
 
'5» 
 
 POEMS ON FLOWERS. 
 
 In Ihoals and bands, a morrice train, 
 Thou greet’!! the traveller in the lane ; 
 If welcomed once thou count’d: it gain ; 
 
 Thou art not daunted, 
 
 Nor car’d: if thou be fet at naught: 
 
 And oft alone in nooks remote 
 We meet thee, like a pleafant thought 
 When fuch are wanted. 
 
 Be violets in their fecret mews 
 The dowers the wanton zephyrs choofe ; 
 Proud be the rofe, with rains and dews 
 Her head impearling; 
 
 Thou liv’d: with lefs ambitious aim, 
 
 Yet had: not gone without thy fame; 
 Thou art indeed by many a claim 
 The poet’s darling. 
 
 If to a rock from rains he dy, 
 
 Or, fome bright day of April Iky, 
 Imprifoned by hot funlhine lie 
 Near the green holly, 
 And wearily at length Ihould fare; 
 He need but look about, and there 
 Thou art! a friend at hand to fcare 
 His melancholy. 
 
TO THE DAISY. 
 
 59 
 
 A hundred times, by rock or bower, 
 
 Ere thus I have lain couched an hour, 
 Have I derived from thy fweet power 
 Some apprehenfion ; 
 
 Some fteady love ; fome brief delight; 
 Some memory that had taken flight; 
 Some chime of fancy, wrong or right; 
 
 Or ftray invention. 
 
 If ftately paflions in me burn, 
 
 And one chance look to thee fhould turn, 
 I drink out of an humbler urn 
 A lowlier pleafure ; 
 
 The homely fympathy that heeds 
 The common life our nature breeds ; 
 
 A wildom fitted to the needs 
 Of hearts at leifure. 
 
 When fmitten by the morning ray, 
 
 I fee thee rife, alert and gay, 
 
 Then, cheerful flower ! my fpirits play 
 With kindred gladnefs : 
 
 And when, at dufk, by dews oppreft 
 Thou fink’ft, the image of thy reft 
 Hath often eafed my penfive breaft 
 Of careful fadnefs. 
 
i6o 
 
 POEMS ON FLOWERS. 
 
 And all day long I number yet, 
 
 All feafons through, another debt. 
 
 Which I, wherever thou art met, 
 
 To thee am owing; 
 
 An inftin£t call it, a blind fenfe ; 
 
 A happy, genial influence, 
 
 Coming one knows not how, nor whence, 
 Nor whither going. 
 
 Child of the year ! that round doft run 
 Thy courfe, bold lover of the fun, 
 
 And cheerful when the day’s begun 
 As morning leveret. 
 
 Thy long-loft praife thou {halt regain : 
 Dear thou fhalt be to future men 
 As in old time ;—thou not in vain 
 Art Nature’s favourite. 
 
 TO THE SAME FLOWER, 
 
 Bright flower I whofe home is everywhere, 
 A pilgrim bold in Nature’s care, 
 
 And all the long year through, the heir 
 Of joy or forrow, 
 
TO THE SAME FLOWER. 
 
 Methinks that there abides in thee 
 Some concord with humanity. 
 Given to no other flower I fee 
 The foreft thorough ! 
 
 Is it that man is foon deprefled ? 
 
 A thoughtlefs thing ! who, once unblefled, 
 Does little on his memory reft, 
 
 Or on his reafon ; 
 
 And thou would’ft teach him how to find 
 A fhelter under every wind, 
 
 A hope for times that are unkind 
 And every feafon ? 
 
 Thou wandereft the wide world about, 
 Unchecked by bride or fcrupulous doubt, 
 With friends to greet thee, or without, 
 Yet pleafed and willing ; 
 
 Adeek, yielding to the occafion’s call, 
 
 And all things fuffering from all, 
 
 Thy function apoftolical 
 
 In peace fulfilling. 
 
 Y 
 
POEMS ON FLOWERS. 
 
 l62 
 
 TO THE SMALL CELANDINE , 
 
 OR, COMMON PILEWORT. 
 
 Panfies, lilies, kingcups, dailies, 
 
 Let them live upon their praifes ; 
 
 Long as there’s a fun that lets, 
 
 Primrofes will have their glory ; 
 
 Long as there are violets, 
 
 They will have a place in ftory : 
 
 There’s a flower that (hall be mine, 
 
 ’Tis the little Celandine. 
 
 Eyes of fome men travel far 
 For the finding of a ftar ; 
 
 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 !—PJ1 make a ftir, 
 Like a great aftronomer. 
 
TO THE SMALL CELANDINE. 
 
 163 
 
 Modeft, yet withal an elf 
 Bold, and lavifh of thyfelf : 
 
 Since we needs muft firft have met, 
 I have feen thee, high and low, 
 Thirty years or more, and yet 
 ’Twas a face I did not know ; 
 
 Thou haft now, go where I may, 
 Fifty greetings in a day. 
 
 Ere a leaf is on a bufh, 
 
 In the time before the thrufti 
 Has a thought about its neft, 
 
 Thou wilt come with half a call, 
 Spreading out thy glolTy breaft 
 Like a carelefs prodigal; 
 
 Telling tales about the fun, 
 
 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 ftirs little out of doors, 
 
 Joys to fpy thee near her home ; 
 Spring is coming, thou art come ! 
 
164 
 
 POEMS ON FLOWERS. 
 
 Comfort have thou of thy merit, 
 Kindly, unafluming fpirit ! 
 Carelefs of thy neighbourhood, 
 Thou doft fhow thy pleafant face 
 On the moor, and in the wood, 
 In the lane—there’s not a place, 
 Howfoever mean it be, 
 
 But’t is good enough for thee. 
 
 Ill befall the yellow flowers, 
 Children of the flaring hours ! 
 Buttercups, that will be feen, 
 Whether we will fee or no ; 
 Others, too, of lofty mien ; 
 
 They have done as worldlings do, 
 Taken praife that fhould be thine, 
 Little, humble Celandine ! 
 
 Prophet of delight and mirth, 
 Scorned and flighted upon earth ! 
 Herald of a mighty band, 
 
 Of a joyous train enfuing, 
 
 Singing at my heart’s command, 
 
 In the lanes my thoughts purfuing, 
 I will fing, as doth behove, 
 
 Hymns in praife of what I love ! 
 
TO THE SAME FLOWER. 
 
 l6 5 
 
 TO THE SAME FLOWER . 
 
 Pleafures newly found are fweet, 
 When they lie about our feet: 
 February laft, my heart 
 Firft at fight of thee was glad ; 
 
 All unheard of as thou art, 
 
 Thou muft needs, I think, have had, 
 Celandine ! and long ago, 
 
 Praife of which I nothing know. 
 
 I have not a doubt but he, 
 Whofoe’er the man might be, 
 
 Who the firft with pointed rays, 
 (Workman worthy to be fainted) 
 
 Set the fign-board in a blaze, 
 
 When the rifen fun he painted, 
 
 Took the fancv from a glance 
 At thy glittering countenance. 
 
 Soon as gentle breezes bring 
 News of winter’s vanilhing, 
 
 And the children build their bowers, 
 Sticking kerchief-pots of mould 
 
POEMS ON FLOWERS. 
 
 166 
 
 All about with full-blown flowers, 
 Thick as fheep in fhepherd’s fold ! 
 With the proudeft thou art there, 
 Mantling in the tiny fquare. 
 
 Often have I figh’d to meafure 
 By myfelf a lonely pleafure, 
 
 Sigh’d to think I read a book, 
 
 Only read, perhaps, by me ; 
 
 Yet I long could overlook 
 Thy bright coronet and thee, 
 
 And thy arch and wily ways, 
 
 And thy ftore of other praife. 
 
 Blithe of heart, from week to week, 
 Thou dofl: play at hide-and-feek ; 
 While the patient primrofe fits 
 Like a beggar in the cold, 
 
 Thou, a flower of wifer wits, 
 
 Slipp’d- into thy (helter’d hold ; 
 Bright as any of the train, 
 
 When ye all are out again. 
 
 Thou art not beyond the moon, 
 
 But a thing <c beneath our fhoon : ” 
 Let, as old Magellan did, 
 
 Others roam about the fea ; 
 
DAFFODILS. 
 
 167 
 
 Build who will a pyramid; 
 Praife it is enough for me, 
 
 If there be but three or four 
 Who will love my little flower. 
 
 DAFFODILS. 
 
 I wandered lonely as a cloud 
 
 That floats on high o’er vales and hills 
 When all at once I faw a crowd, 
 
 A holt of golden daffodils ; 
 
 Befide the lake, beneath the trees, 
 Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 
 
 Continuous as the liars that Ihine 
 And twinkle on the milky way, 
 
 They llretched in never-ending line 
 Along the margin of a bay : 
 
 Ten thoufand faw I at a glance. 
 
 Tolling their heads in fprightly dance. 
 
 The waves befide them danced, but they 
 Outdid the fparkling waves in glee :— 
 A Poet could not but be gay, 
 
 In fuch a jocund company : 
 
168 
 
 POEMS ON FLOWERS. 
 
 I gazed—and gazed-—but little thought 
 What wealth the fliow to me had brought: 
 
 For oft when on my couch I lie, 
 
 In vacant or in penfive mood, 
 
 They flafh. upon that inward eye 
 Which is the blifs of folitude, 
 
 And then my heart with pleafure fills. 
 
 And dances with the daffodils. 
 
 TO THE ROCK IN THE ORCHARD . 
 
 Who fancied what a pretty fight 
 This rock would be if edged around 
 With living fnowdrops—circlet bright? 
 How glorious to this orchard ground ! 
 
 Who loved the little rock, and fet 
 Upon its head this coronet ? 
 
 Was it the humour of a child ? 
 
 Or rather of fome love-fick maid, 
 
 Whofe brows, the day that fhe was ftyled 
 The Ihepherd queen, were thus array’d ! 
 Of man mature, or matron fage ! 
 
 Or old man toying with his age ? 
 

 
 
 I 
 
 
 
STOCK-GHYLL FORCE, 
 
 NEAR AMBLESIDE. 
 p. 169. 
 
THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE. 169 
 
 I a(k*d : —’twas whifp a; \i,> th i-cvace 
 To each or all might, well bek>-.y 
 It is the fpint of pat,'d*e 
 
 .* h af pfi.-inf 1 i »t•; . 1 S H': 1 ; k , . ■ p< J i 1 :■;,V|». 
 
 ; r;a p;»t:> c -is,•. . b*. > 
 
 V : -’E ■; ' • life-j$ -.' w ,i.;n .. 
 
 THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE 
 
 u Begone, thou fond prefumptuous elf,’* 
 Exclaimed a thundering voice, 
 
 Nor da- : to thr\V - 1 / ■■ foeiilli \clf 
 Between, tm *»4 - m .. ’.-hike-’ > %i 
 
 A LlUi),/ VV I WO, is. a . ; 
 
 I b*.<c* tpake ■ ■ ■ a poet / A . • • . ;: 
 
 That, ail hefpattcred v ?: '-cc hi- 
 
 And dancing high and : / ••.ny by?, 
 
 Was living, as a child • ib/T kaow. 
 
 In an unhappy' f/.nv . 
 
 c< Doll thou prefume my courfe to block ? 
 OIF, off! or, puny thing! 
 t 
 
 1 o which thy lim x cling/' 
 
THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE. 
 
 169 
 
 I afk’d—’twas whifper’d, the device 
 To each or all might well belong; 
 
 It is the fpirit of paradife 
 That prompts fuch work, a fpirit ftrong, 
 That gives to all the felf-fame bent 
 Where life is wife and innocent 
 
 THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE. 
 
 u Begone, thou fond prefumptuous elf,” 
 
 Exclaimed a thundering voice, 
 ct Nor dare to thruft thy foolifh felf 
 Between me and my choice! ” 
 
 A falling Water, fwollen with fnows, 
 
 Thus fpake to a poor Briar-rofe, 
 
 That, all befpattered with his foam, 
 
 And dancing high and dancing low, 
 
 Was living, as a child might know, 
 
 In an unhappy home. 
 
 Doft thou prefume my courfe to block ? 
 
 Off, off! or, puny thing! 
 
 I’ll hurl thee headlong with the rock 
 To which thy fibres cling.” 
 
 z 
 
170 
 
 POEMS ON FLOWERS. 
 
 The flood was tyrannous and ftrong ; 
 The patient Briar fuflered long, 
 
 Nor did he utter groan or figh, 
 Hoping the danger would be paft : 
 But, feeing no relief, at laft 
 He ventured to reply. 
 
 cc Ah ! 99 faid the Briar, cc blame me not; 
 
 Why fhould we dwell in ftrife ? 
 
 We who in this, our natal fpot, 
 
 Once lived a happy life ! 
 
 You flirred me on my rocky bed— 
 
 What pleafure through my veins you fpread ! 
 
 The Summer long, from day to day, 
 
 My leaves you frefhened and bedewed ; 
 
 Nor was it common gratitude 
 That did your cares repay. 
 
 u When Spring came on with bud and bell, 
 Among thefe rocks did I 
 Before you hang my wreaths, to tell 
 That gentle days were nigh ! 
 
 And in the fultry Summer hours, 
 
 I fheltered you with leaves and flowers ; 
 
THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE. 
 
 And in my leaves—now died and gone— 
 The linnet lodged, and for us two 
 Chaunted his pretty fongs, when you 
 Had little voice, or none. 
 
 cc But now proud thoughts are in your bread- 
 What grief is mine you fee. 
 
 Ah! would you think, even yet, how bled 
 Together we might be ! 
 
 Though of both leaf and flower bereft, 
 
 Some ornaments to me are left— 
 
 Rich dore of fcarlet hips is mine, 
 
 With which I, in my humble way. 
 
 Would deck you many a Winter’s day, 
 
 A happy Eglantine ! ” 
 
 What more he faid I cannot tell, 
 
 The Torrent thundered down the dell 
 With unabating hade; 
 
 I lidened, nor aught elfe could hear; 
 The Briar quaked—and much I fear 
 Thofe accents were his lad. 
 
172 
 
 POEMS ON FLOWERS. 
 
 THE OAK AND THE BROOM. 
 
 A PASTORAL. 
 
 His fimple truths did Andrew glean 
 Befide the babbling rills; 
 
 A careful ftudent he had been 
 Among the woods and hills. 
 
 One Winter’s night, when through the trees 
 The wind was thundering, on his knees 
 His youngeft born did Andrew hold : 
 
 And while the reft, a ruddy quire, 
 
 Were feated round their blazing fire, 
 
 This tale the fbepherd told :— 
 
 “ I faw a crag, a lofty ftone 
 As ever tempeft beat! 
 
 Out of its head an Oak had grown, 
 
 A Broom out of its feet. 
 
 The time was March, a cheerful noon—• 
 
 The thaw-wind, with the breath of June, 
 Breathed gently from the warm fouth-weft 
 When, in a voice fedate with age, 
 
 This Oak, a giant and a fage, 
 
 His neighbour thus addrefled : 
 
THE OAK AND THE BROOM. 
 
 T 73 
 
 cc Eight weary weeks through rock and clay, 
 Along this mountain’s edge, 
 
 The froft hath wrought both night and day, 
 Wedge driving after wedge. 
 
 Look up ! and think, above your head 
 What trouble, furely, will be bred ; 
 
 Laft night I heard a crafti—’tis true, 
 
 The fplinters took another road — 
 
 T fee them yonder—what a load 
 For fuch a thing as you ! 
 
 “ You are preparing, as before, 
 
 To deck your flender fhape ; 
 
 And yet, juft three years back—no more—- 
 You had a ftrange efcape. 
 
 Down from yon cliff a fragment broke ; 
 
 It came, you know, with fire and fmoke, 
 And hitherward it bent its way : 
 
 This ponderous block was caught by me, 
 And o’er your head, as you may fee, 
 
 ’T is hanging to this day ! 
 
 <c The thing had better been afleep, 
 Whatever thing it were, 
 
 Or breeze, or bird, or dog, or fheep, 
 
 That firft did plant you there. 
 
174 
 
 POEMS ON FLOWERS. 
 
 For you and your green twigs decoy 
 The little witlefs fhepherd-boy 
 
 To come and dumber in your bower ; 
 And, truft me, on fome fultry noon, 
 
 Both you and he, Heaven knows how foon 
 Will perifli in one hour. 
 
 “ From me this friendly warning take’ — 
 The Broom began to doze, 
 
 And thus, to keep herfelf awake, 
 
 Did gently interpofe : 
 c My thanks for your difcourfe are due ; 
 That it is true, and more than true, 
 
 I know, and I have known it long; 
 
 Frail is the bond by which we hold 
 Our being, be we young or old. 
 
 Wife, fooliih, weak, or ftrong. 
 
 <c Difafters, do the beft we can, 
 
 Will reach both great and fmall ; 
 
 And he is oft the wifeft man, 
 
 Who is not wife at all. 
 
 For me, why fhould I wifh to roam ? 
 
 This fpot is my paternal home, 
 
 It is my pleafant heritage ; 
 
 My father, many a happy year, 
 
 Here fpread his carelefs bloffoms, here 
 Attained a good old age. 
 
THE OAK AND THE BROOM. 
 
 *75 
 
 cc Even fuch as his may be my lot : 
 
 What caufe have I to haunt 
 My heart with terrors ? Am I not 
 In truth a favoured plant! 
 
 On me fuch bounty Summer pours, 
 
 That I am covered o’er with flowers; 
 
 And, when the froft is in the fky, 
 
 My branches are fo frefli and gay, 
 
 That you might look at me and fay, 
 
 This plant can never die. 
 
 tC The butterfly, all green and gold, 
 
 To me hath often flown, 
 
 Here in my blofloms to behold 
 Wings lovely as his own. 
 
 When grafs is chill with rain or dew, 
 Beneath my fhade the mother-ewe 
 Lies with her infant lamb ; I fee 
 The love they to each other make, 
 
 And the fweet joy which they partake, 
 
 It is a joy to me.’ 
 
 “ Her voice was blithe, her heart was light; 
 
 The Broom might have purfued 
 Her fpeech, until the ftars of night 
 Their journey had renewed : 
 
 But in the branches of the Oak 
 Two ravens now began to croak 
 
176 
 
 POEMS ON FLOWERS. 
 
 Their nuptial Tong, a gladfome air : 
 
 And to her own green bower the breeze 
 That inftant brought two {tripling bees 
 To reft and murmur there. 
 
 u One night, my children ! from the North 
 There came a furious blaft ; 
 
 At break of day I ventured forth. 
 
 And near the cliff I palled. 
 
 The ftorm had fallen upon the Oak 
 And ftruck him with a mighty ftroke, 
 
 And whirled, and whirled him far away ; 
 And in one hofpitable cleft 
 The little carelefs Broom was left 
 To live for many a day.” 
 
Poems on Birds 
 
 THE GREEN LINNET. 
 
 ENEATH thefe fruit-tree boughs that filed 
 Their fnow-white blofloms on my head, 
 With brighteft funfhine round me fpread 
 Of Spring’s unclouded weather, 
 
 In this fequeftered nook how fweet 
 To fit upon my orchard-feat! 
 
 And flowers and birds once more to greet. 
 My laft year’s friends together. 
 
 One have I marked, the happieft gueft 
 In all this covert of the bleft : 
 
 Hail to thee, far above the reft 
 In joy of voice and pinion ! 
 
 Thou, Linnet, in thy green array, 
 
 Preflding fpirit here to-day, 
 
 Doft lead the revels of the May, 
 
 And this is thy dominion. 
 
 A A 
 
i 7 8 
 
 POEMS ON BIRDS. 
 
 While birds, and butterflies, and flowers, 
 Make all one band of paramours, 
 
 Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, 
 Art foie in thy employment , 
 
 A life, a prefence like the air, 
 
 Scattering thy gladnefs without care, 
 
 Too bleft with any one to pair, 
 
 Thyfelf thy own enjoyment. 
 
 Upon yon tuft of hazel trees, 
 
 That twinkle to the gufty breeze, 
 Behold him perched in ecftacies, 
 
 Yet feeming ftill to hover ; 
 There ! where the flutter of his wings 
 Upon his back and body flings 
 Shadows and funny glimmerings, 
 
 That cover him all over. 
 
 While thus before my eyes he gleams, 
 A brother of the leaves he feems; 
 When in a moment forth he teems 
 His little fong in gufhes : 
 
 As if it pleafed him to difdain 
 And mock the form which he did feign 
 While he was dancing with the train 
 Of leaves among the bufhes. 
 
TO A SKY-LARK. 
 
 179 
 
 TO A SKT-LARK. 
 
 Up with me ! up with me into the clouds ! 
 
 For thy fong, Lark, is ftrong; 
 
 Up with me, up with me into the clouds ! 
 Singing, Tinging, 
 
 With all the heavens about thee ringing, 
 Lift me, guide me till I find 
 Thatfpot which feems fo to thy mind ! 
 
 I have walked through wildernefles dreary, 
 And to-day my heart is weary; 
 
 Had I now the wings of a faery, 
 
 Up to thee would I fly. 
 
 There is madnefs about thee, and joy divine 
 In that fong of thine : 
 
 Up with me, up with me, high and high, 
 
 To thy banqueting-place in the Iky ! 
 
 Joyous as morning, 
 
 Thou art laughing and fcorning: 
 
 Thou haft a neft for thy love and thy reft : 
 And, though little troubled with floth, 
 Drunken Lark! thou would’ft be loth 
 To be fuch a traveller as I. 
 
 Happy, happy liver ! 
 
 With a foul as ftrong as a mountain river, 
 Pouring out praife to the Almighty giver, 
 
i8o 
 
 POEMS ON BIRDS. 
 
 Joy and jollity be with us both! 
 Hearing thee, or elfe fome other, 
 
 As merry a brother, 
 
 I on the earth will go plodding on, 
 
 By myfelf, cheerfully, till the day is done. 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO . 
 
 O blithe new-comer ! I have heard, 
 
 I hear thee and rejoice : 
 
 O Cuckoo! fhall I call thee bird, 
 
 Or but a wandering voice ? 
 
 While I am lying on the grafs, 
 
 Thy loud note fmites my ear ! 
 
 From hill to hill it feems to pafs, 
 
 At once far off and near! 
 
 I hear thee babbling to the vale 
 Of funfhine and of flowers ; 
 
 And unto me thou bring’ft a tale 
 Of vifionary hours. 
 
 Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring ! 
 Even yet thou art to me 
 
 No bird, but an invifible thing, 
 
 A voice, a myftery ; 
 
TO A NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 181 
 
 The fame whom in my fchool-boy days 
 I liftened to ; that cry 
 Which made me look a thoufand ways 
 In bufh, and tree, and fky. 
 
 To feek thee did I often rove 
 
 Through woods and on the green ; 
 And thou wert ftill a hope, a love ; 
 
 Still longed for, never feen ! 
 
 And I can liften to thee yet; 
 
 Can lie upon the plain 
 And liften, till I do beget 
 That golden time again. 
 
 O blefled bird ! the earth we pace 
 Again appears to be 
 An unfubftantial, faery place; 
 
 That is fit home for thee ! 
 
 TO A NIGHTINGALE . 
 
 O Nightingale ! thou furely art 
 A creature of a fiery heart:— 
 
 Thefe notes of thine—they pierce and pierce ; 
 Tumultuous harmony and fierce ! 
 
>82 
 
 POEMS ON BIRDS. 
 
 Thou fing’ft as if the god of wine 
 Had helped thee to a valentine ; 
 
 A fong in mockery and defpite 
 Of fhades and dews and filent night, 
 And fteady blifs, and all the loves 
 Now fleeping in thefe peaceful groves. 
 
 I heard a ftock-dove ling or fay 
 His homely tale, this very day ; 
 
 His voice was buried among trees, 
 
 Yet to be come at by the breeze : 
 
 He did not ceafe ; but cooed—and cooed ; 
 And fomewhat penfively he wooed : 
 
 He fang of love with quiet blending, 
 
 Slow to begin, and never ending; 
 
 Of ferious faith and inward glee : 
 
 That was the fong—the fong for me ! 
 
 THE SPARROW'S NEST. 
 
 Behold, within the leafy fhade, 
 Thofe bright blue eggs together laid ! 
 On me the chance-difcover’d fight 
 Gleam’d like a vifion of delight.— 
 
THE SPARROW’S NEST. 
 
 >«3 
 
 I ftarted—feeming to efpy 
 The home and Ihelter’d bed,— 
 
 The fparrow’s dwelling which, hard by 
 My father’s houfe, in wet or dry, 
 
 My filler Emmeline and I 
 Together vifited. 
 
 She look’d at it as if fhe fear’d it; 
 
 Still wilhing, dreading to be near it: 
 Such heart was in her, being then 
 A little prattler among men. 
 
 The blelling of my later years 
 Was with me when a boy; 
 
 She gave me eyes, fhe gave me ears ; 
 And humble cares, and delicate fears ; 
 A heart, the fountain of fweet tears; 
 And love, and thought, and joy. 
 
Intimations of Immortality 
 
 FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLS? CHILDHOOD. 
 
 s 
 
 The child is father of the man j 
 And l could ^wifii my days to be 
 Bound each to each by natural piety. 
 
 #g 
 
 A 
 
 A > 
 
 HERE was a time when meadow, grove, and 
 ftream, 
 
 The earth, and every common fight, 
 
 To me did feem 
 Appareled in celeftial light, 
 
 The glory and the frefhnefs of a dream. 
 
 It is not now as it has been of yore ;— 
 
 Turn wherefoe’er I may. 
 
 By night or day, 
 
 The things which I have feen I now can fee no 
 more ! 
 
 The rainbow comes and goes, 
 And lovely is the rofe y — 
 
INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 
 
 185 
 
 The moon doth with delight 
 Look round her when the heavens are bare ; 
 Waters on a ftarry night 
 A re beautiful and fair; 
 
 The funfhine is a glorious birth ; 
 
 But yet I know, where’er I go, 
 
 That there hath pafled away a glory from the earth. 
 
 Now, while the birds thus fing a joyous fong, 
 
 And while the young lambs bound 
 As to the tabor’s found, 
 
 To me alone there came a thought of grief: 
 
 A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 
 
 And I again am ftrong. 
 
 The catara&s blow their trumpets from the fteep,— 
 No more fhall grief of mine the feafon wrong: 
 
 I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, 
 The winds come to me from the fields of fleep, 
 
 And all the earth is gay ; 
 
 Land and fea 
 
 Give themfelves up to jollity, 
 
 And with the heart of May 
 Doth every beaft keep holiday;— 
 
 Thou child of joy, 
 
 Shout round me, let me hear thy fhouts, thou happy 
 Shepherd-boy ! 
 
 B B 
 
186 
 
 INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 
 
 Yeblefled creatures, I have heard the call 
 Ye to each other make; I fee 
 The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee \ 
 
 My heart is at your feftival, 
 
 My head hath its coronal, 
 
 The fulnefs of your blifs I feel—I feel it all. 
 
 Oh evil day ! if I were fullen 
 While earth herfelfis adorning, 
 
 This fweet May morning; 
 
 And the children are culling, 
 
 On every fide, 
 
 In a thoufand valleys far and wide, 
 
 Frelh flowers ; while the fun Ihines warm, 
 And the babe leaps up on his mother’s arm :— 
 
 I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 
 
 —But there’s a tree, of many one, 
 
 A Angle held which I have looked upon, 
 
 Both of them fpeak of fomething that is gone : 
 The panfy at my feet 
 Doth the fame tale repeat: 
 
 Whither is fled the vifionary gleam ? 
 
 Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? 
 
 Our birth is but a fleep and a forgetting : 
 
 The foul that rifes with us, our life’s liar, 
 
 Hath had elfewhere its fetting, 
 
 And cometh from afar; 
 
INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 
 
 •»7 
 
 Not in entire forgetfulnefs, 
 
 And not in utter nakednefs, 
 
 But trailing clouds of glory do we come 
 
 From God, who is our home : 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
 
 Shades of the prifon-houfe begin to clofe 
 Upon the growing boy, 
 
 But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, 
 He fees it in his joy ; 
 
 The youth, who daily farther from the eafl 
 Muft travel, ftill is Nature’s prieft, 
 
 And by the vifion fplendid 
 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 pleafures of her own ; 
 Yearnings fhe hath in her own natural kind. 
 And, even with fomething of a mother’s mind, 
 And no unworthy aim, 
 
 The homely nurfe doth all file can 
 To make her fofter-child, her inmate man, 
 Forget the glories he hath known, 
 And that imperial palace whence he came. 
 
 Behold the child among his new-born blifles, 
 A fix years’ darling of a pigmy fize ! 
 
INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 
 
 See, where ’mid work of his own hand he lies, 
 Fretted by Tallies of his mother’s kifles, 
 
 With light upon him from his father’s eyes ! 
 
 See at his feet fome little plan or chart, 
 
 Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
 Shaped by himfelf with newly-learned art; 
 
 A wedding or a feftival, 
 
 A mourning or a funeral; 
 
 And this hath now his heart, 
 
 And unto this he frames his fong : 
 Then will he fit his tongue 
 To dialogues of bufinefs, love, or flrife; 
 
 But it will not be long 
 Ere this be thrown afide, 
 
 And with new joy and pride 
 The little adlor cons another part; 
 
 Filling from time to time his u humorous ftage ” 
 With all the perfons, down to palfied age, 
 
 That life brings with her in her equipage; 
 
 As if his whole vocation 
 Were endlefs imitation. 
 
 Thou, whofe exterior femblance doth belie 
 Thy foul’s immenfity ; 
 
 Thou beft philofopher, who yet doft keep 
 Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind, 
 
INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 
 
 189 
 
 That, deaf and filent, read’ft the eternal deep, 
 
 Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,— 
 
 Mighty Prophet! Seer bleft ! 
 
 On whom thofe truths do reft, 
 
 Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 
 
 Thou, over whom thy immortality 
 Broods like the day, a mafter o’er a Have, 
 
 A prefence which is not to be put by; 
 
 Thou little child, yet glorious in the might 
 Of heaven-born freedom, on thy being’s height, 
 
 Why with fuch earneft pains doft thou provoke 
 The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
 
 Thus blindly with thy bleftednefs at ftrife ? 
 
 Full foon thy foul fhall have her earthly freight, 
 
 And cuftom lie upon thee with a weight, 
 
 Heavy as froft, and deep almoft as life ! 
 
 O joy ! that in our embers 
 Is fomething that doth live, 
 
 That Nature yet remembers 
 What was fo fugitive ! 
 
 The thought of our paft years in me doth breed 
 
 Perpetual benedictions : not indeed 
 
 For that which is moft worthy to be bleft,— 
 
 Delight and liberty, the fimple creed 
 Of childhood, whether bufy or at reft, 
 
 With new-fledged hope ftill fluttering in his breaft:— 
 
INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 
 
 I9O 
 
 Not for thefe I raife 
 The fong of thanks and praife ; 
 
 But for thofe obftinate queftionings 
 Of fenfe and outward things. 
 
 Fallings from us, vanifhings ; 
 
 Blank mifgivings of a creature 
 Moving about in worlds not realized, 
 
 High inftinCts, before which our mortal nature 
 Did tremble like a guilty thing furprifed. 
 
 But for thofe firft affections, 
 
 Thofe fhadowy recollections, 
 
 Which, be they what they may, 
 
 Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, 
 
 Are yet a mafter-light of all our feeing ; 
 
 Uphold us, cherifh, and have power to make 
 Our noify years feem moments in the being 
 Of the eternal filence : truths that wake, 
 
 To perifh never; 
 
 Which neither liftlelTnefs, nor mad endeavour, 
 Nor man nor boy, 
 
 Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
 
 Can utterly abolifh or deftroy! 
 
 Hence, in a feafon of calm weather, 
 
 Though inland far we be, 
 
 Our fouls have fight of that immortal fea 
 Which brought us hither ; 
 
 Can in a moment travel thither, 
 
INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 
 
 J 9 
 
 And fee the children fport upon the fhore, 
 
 And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 
 
 Then fing, ye birds, fing, fing a joyous fong ! 
 
 And let the young lambs bound 
 As to the tabor’s found ! 
 
 We, in thought, will join your throng, 
 
 Ye that pipe and ye that play, 
 
 Ye that through your hearts to-day 
 Feel the gladnefs of the May ! 
 
 What though the radiance which was once fo bright 
 Be now for ever taken from my fight, 
 
 Though nothing can bring back the hour 
 Of fplendour in the grafs, of glory in the flower ; 
 We will grieve not, rather find 
 Strength in what remains behind, 
 
 In the primal fympathy 
 
 Which, having been, muft ever be, 
 
 In the foothing thoughts that fpring 
 Out of human fuffering, 
 
 In the faith that looks through death, 
 
 In years that bring the philofophic mind. 
 
 And, oh ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves. 
 Think not of any fevering of our loves! 
 
 Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 
 
 I only have relinquifhed one delight, 
 
92 
 
 INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 
 
 To live beneath your more habitual fway. 
 
 I love the brooks, which down their channels fret, 
 Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; 
 The innocent brightnefs of a new-born day 
 > Is lovely yet; 
 
 The clouds that gather round the fetting fun 
 Do take a fober colouring from an eye 
 That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality ; 
 Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
 Thanks to the human heart by which we live; 
 Thanks to its tendernefs, its joys, and fears ; 
 
 To me the meaneft flower that blows can give 
 Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.