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BEAUTIES

ENGLISH LANDSCAPE

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BEAUTIES

ENGLISH LANDSCAPE

DRAWN BY

BIRKET FOSTER

KNCKAVKl) nv
DALZItL BROTHl'.KS. J. COOI'IiR. i;. F.VANS. H. HARRAL

LONDON AND NEW YORK

GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS

1874

• •

■t''^ .

CONTENTS AND ILLUSTRATIONS.

Towards the Church -yard he had turned aside .

Go staggering throu«;h the fords
Bearing his Brother on his back ....

Yon precipice ; — it almost looks
Like some vast building ma<le of many crags

Where \dllage statesmen talk'd with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round

At a short distance from my cottage stands

A stately Fir-grove ......

In a cottaged vale she dwells,

Listening to the Sabbath l)ells ! . . . .

*Cross the calm lake's blue shades the cliffs aspire.
With towers and woods, a "prospect all on fire"

We met in secret, in the depth of night

When there was none to watch us ...

Alas ! how changed from the fair scene,
When birds sang out their mellow lay

I could not pray : — through tears that fell in shower*^
I saw my own dear home, that was no longer ours

TTiose fraternal Four of Borrowdale,
Joined in one solemn and capacious grove

His wizard course where hoary Dement takes.
Through crags and forest glooms and oi>ening lakes

On Christmas Eve the bells were rung ;
On Christmas Eve the mass was sung

This sea that bares her bosom to the moon

As mine own shadow was this child to me,
A second self, far dearer and more fair

And in the weedy moat the heron, fond

Of sohtude, alighte<l ....

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook .

My hettt leaps up when I behold

A rainbow in the sky ....

A sky of rose smd gold was o'er us glowing.
Around us was the morning breath of May

Yon castled steep,
Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower

And on a summit, distant a short space,

A single mountain cottage might be seen

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CONTENTS AND ILLUSTRATIONS.

Far dearer to me yon humble broom bowers,
Where the bluebell and gowan hirk lowly unseen

Haste, leave them a*, wi' me to sped

The braes *yont Stirling brig, lassie ....

Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour I

Giant-like their shadows grow,

Lengthened o'er the level ground ....

But sidelang we look'd on

Ilk ither in turn .......

Cold fear no mow the songster's voice is sealing ;
Down in the thick dark grove is heard l\i>. song .

And flocks whicli cluster to iheir bell.

Recline alun^^ thy brink ......

When, by the margin (»f the trembling lake,
Beneath the gloomy hill>, 1 homeward went

And still new beauties meet his lonely walk

Fnjm those i^reen banks I turn now, heart-broken and dreary.
As the sun sets, to weep o'er the grave of my bride.

rpon the forest-side in Grasmere Wale

There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name

Hi> Helpmate was a comely matron, old -
Though younger than himself full twenty years

He as a watchman oftentimes was placed
At gate or gaj), to stem or turn the flock

And all the neighl)Ours, as he passed their doors,
Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers

There by the Sheepfold, sometimes was he seen
Sitting alone, with that his faithful dog .

Her beauty seemed not of a mortal birth

Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours
Of winters past, or coming, void of care

And Lucy, at her wheels shall sing,

In russet gown and apron blue ....

.How glorious is thy girdle cast
0*er mountain, tower, and town

Now wbo is he that bounds with joy
On Carrock's side, a shepherd boy?

While to my fond words she listened

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CONTENTS AND ILLUSTRATIONS.

Now let us, as we float along,
For him suspend the dashing oar

Lash*d into foam, the fierce conflicting brine
Seems o'er a thousand raging waves to burn

Come forth, my lord, and see the cart
Drest up with all the country art .

He, as through an instrument.
Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls

The gleaners spread around, and here and there.
Spike after spike, their sparing harvest pick

Which made me look a thousand ways

In bush, and tree, and sky. ....

There, rapt in gratitude, in joy, and love.
The man of God will pass the Sabbath noon

And coming to the Banks of Tone,

There did she rest

She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree,
And other home hath none

Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy

A love that shall be new and fresh each hour
As is the golden mystery of sunset

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail

Admiring, sees her in her ev*ry shape,
Feels all her sweet emotions at his heart

Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs

On the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together

The downy feather on the cordage hung
Moves not ; the flat sea shines like yellow gold

With thee, my friend, I oftentimes have sped.
To see the sun rise from his healthy bed .

The clouds that gather round the setting sun .

And, rising from those lofty groves.

Behold a Ruin hoary ! ....

Short would be the summer day,
Ever loving more and more

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CONTENTS AND ILLUSTRATIONS.

And children are pulling ....

Fresh flowers .........

The gentleness of heaven is on the sea .....

Now swarms the village o'er the jovial mead ....

He was seated by the highway side,
On a low structure of rude masonry .....

Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind

And with the little birds
Share his chance-gathered meal ......

A house of stones collected on the spot,

By rude hands built, with rocky knolls in front

Walk thoil with me, and stoop to see

The glories of the lane !.......

Among the woods,
And o'er the pathless rocks, I forced my way

That cottage, \\ith its walls so white, and gabled roof so quaint

We walked along, while bright and red

Upro>e the morning sun ......

I looked at her, and looked again :

—And did not wish her mine ......

Behold the Cot I where thrives th' industrious .swain,
Source of his pride, his pleasure, and his gain

And gentle winds, and waters near,

Make music to the lonely ear ......

She has a Baby on her arm.

Or else she were alone .......

His flock the chief concern he ever knew ....

And she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place ........

'Neath thy sway to musing lie,

While around the zephyrs sigh ......

— But the greyhound in the leash hung back,

And checked him in his leap

The stately Priory was reared ......

While gently rolls the stream along
The peaceful valley's side

Safe from the stream the nearer gunwale stands,
Where playful children trail theb idle hands

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CONTENTS AND ILLUSTRATIONS.

When stood the shortened herds amid the tide

Nature around kept jubilee

When first I breathed that tale to thee !

He told me that he to this pond had come
To gather leeches, being old and poor

And soon he dropped
The treasure at my feet .....

Brook ! whose srxriety the Poet seeks

Thus reatling, hymning, all alone, unseen,
The shepherd boy the .Sabbath holy keeps

Following the fancies in his head.

He pad<llerl up anrl down ....

And then, when he was bnjught to land,
Full sure they were a happy band

Ivy-stalks are running over

Cloister wall and oriel top ....

The pliant bow he form'd, the flying ball

The whispering air
Sends inspiration from the shadowy heights
And blind recesses of the cavcmed rocks

All Nature feels her renovating sway,

The sheep-fed pasture, and the meadow gay

Down the deep, the miry lane,

Creaking comes the empty wain ....

I found its rescued inmate safely lodged.
And in serene possession of himself

Like a mast
Of gold, the Maypole shines ....

Sheep grazed the field ; some with soft bosom pressed
The herb as soft, while nibbling stray'd the rest

Close by the sea he walk'd alone and slow

The Gordon, couched behind a ihom.

Sees them and their caressing ....

For a moment the mill-wheel may waken your wrath.
And disturb the repose of your silvery path

Haunts of deer .......

On errands bound to other vales.
Leading sometimes an inexperienced child

xiv

PACE

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CONTENTS AND ILLUSTRATIONS.

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain ....

My faithful dog, let 's ha<;ie away ....

On pipes of sycamore they play
The fragments of a Christmas hymn

Oh, the grave is now its bed,

And its coverlid is snow .....

Sweet Highland girl, a very shower

Of benuty is thy earthly dower ! . . . .

A pair of friends, though T was young,

And Matthew seventy-two ....

Some twelve years old, demure, affected, sly.
Prepared the force of early powers to try

And see the Children sport upon the shore.
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore

Abnij:)t and horrid as the tempest roars.
Thunder and flash upon the steadfast shores

In this still place, remote from men.
Sleeps Ossian, in the Narrow (ilen

See the Kitten on the wall.

Sporting with the leaves that fall ....

Bring all the four into the woo<ls —

We'll set them gatherini; ]^o^ies ....

A low cottage in a sunny bay,
Where the salt sea innocuously breaks

Where new launch'd ships of infant sailors ride

Tall trees, green arbours, and ground flowers in flocks ;
And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks

W^ho played
Beneath the same green tree ( Frontispifce)

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SELECTIONS FROM BEATTIE'S "MINSTREL."

All that the genial ray of morning gilds

And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart overflow .

Here peaceful are the vales, and pure the skies ....

All that echoes the song of even

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CONTENTS AND ILLUSTRATIONS.

On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock

Or seek at noon the woodland scene remote

"Where twilight loves to linger for a while

And her alone he loved, and loved her from a child

To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led

Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine

In darkness and in storm he found delight

And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb

Is yonder wave the sun's eternal bed ?

The rainbow brightens to the setting sun !

Lingering and listening, wandered down the vale

And there let Fancy rove at large .

Crowned with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings

The lowing herd ; the sheepfold's simple bell

Save when against the winter's drenching rain,
And driving snow, the cottage shut the door

Her legend when the Beldam 'gan impart

Listening, with pleasing dread, to the deep roar

And o'er heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder

Romantic visions swarm on Edwin's soul

And gulfe the mountain's mighty mass entombed

Now beamed the evening star

And o'er a lonely eminence to climb

The wild deer sporting on the meadow ground

And celebrate the merry mom of May .

The yellow moonlight sleeps on all the hills

A stag sprang from the pasture at his call

What majesty attends Night's lovely queen !

Nestles each murderous and each monstrous brood

He sleeps in dust

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XVI

A HOLY-DAY — the frugal banquet spread

On the fresh heibage near the fountain head,

With quips and cranks — what lime the wood-lark there

Scatters her loose notes on the sultry air.

THE SUN.

Most glorious art thou ! when from thy paviUon
Thou lookest forth at morning ; flinging wide
Its curtain clouds of purple and vermilion,
Dispensing life and light on every side;
Brightening the mountain cataract, dimly spied
Through glittering mist ; opening each dew-gemm'd flower,
Or touching, in some hamlet, far descried.
Its spiral wreaths of smoke that upward tower,
Where birds their matin sing from many a leafy bower.

And more magnificent art thou, bright Sun !
Uprising from the Ocean's billowy bed:
Who that has seen thee thus, as I have done,
Can e'er forget the effiilgent splendours spread
From thy emerging radiance? Upward sped.
Even to the centre of the vaulted sky.
Thy beams pervade the heavens, and o'er them shed
Hues indescribable — of gorgeous dye.
Making among the clouds mute glorious pageantry.

Then, then how beautiful across the deep
The lustre of thy orient path of light !
Onward, still onward, o'er the waves that leap
So lovelily, and show their crests of white.
The eye, unsated in its own despite.
Still up that vista gazes ; till thy way
Over the waters seems a pathway bright
For holiest thoughts to travel, there to pay
Man's homage unto Him who bade thee "rule the Day."

Barton.

WILD FLOWERS.

A FILBERT-EDGE with wild-bricr overtwined,

And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind

Upon their summer thrones ; there too should be

The frequent checker of a youngling tree,

That with a score of bright-green brethren shoots

From the quaint mossiness of aged roots :

Round which is heard a spring head of clear waters,

Prattling so wildly of its lovely daughters,

The spreading bluebells : it may haply mourn

That such fair clusters should be rudely torn

From their fresh beds, and scatterd thoughtlessly

By infant hands, left on the path to die.

Open afresh your round of starry folds.

Ye ardent marigolds !

Dry up the moisture from your golden lids.

For great Apollo bids

That in these days your praises should be sung

On many harps, which he has lately strung;

And when again your dewiness he kisses,

Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses :

So haply when I rove in some far vale.

His mighty voice may come upon the gale.

Here are sweet-peas, on tip-toe for a flight,
With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white,
And taper fingers catching at all things,
To bind them all about with tiny rings.
What next? A turf of evening primroses.
O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes;
O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep.
But that 'tis ever startled by the leap
Of buds into ripe flowers.

Kbats.

» .

Laburnum, rich
In streaming gold; syringa, ivry pure;
The scentless and the scented rose : this red,
And of an humbler growth, the other, tall,
And throwing up into the darkest gloom
Of neighboring cypress, or more sal)le yew,
Her silver globes, light as the foamy surf
That the wind severs from the broken wave.
The lilac, various in array, now white,
Now sanguine, and her beauteous head now set
With purple spikes pyramidal, as if,
Studious of ornament, yet unresolved
Which hue she most approved, she chose them all ;
Copious of flowers the woodbine, pale and wan.
But well compensating her sickly looks
With never-tloying odours, early and late.

COWPF.R.

MY SISTER ELLEN.

Sister Ellen, IVe been dreaming

Of a fair and happy time ;
Gentle thoughts are round me gleaming,

Thoughts of sunny girlhood's prime :
Oh, the light, untutored fancies,

Images so quaint and bold —
Outlines dim of old romances.

Forming childhood's age of gold !
Eternal spring was then above us,

Sunshine cheered our every path ;
None then knew us but to love us —

Winning ways sweet childhood hath.

Thou art little Nelly, looking

Up into my anxious face,
I thy childish caprice brooking,

As thy merry thoughts I trace :
See thy dreamy blue eyes glancing

From thy founts of light and glee,
And thy little feet go dancing

Like the waves upon the sea !
Tossing from thy snowy shoulder

Golden curls with witching grace,
Charming every new beholder

With thine arch, expressive face.

Sister Ellen ! I Ve been dreaming

Of some lightsome summer eves,
When the harvest-moon was beaming

Softly through the dewy leaves —
How among the flowers we wandered.

Treading light as sunamer air;
Looking upward, how we pondered

On the dazzling glories there !
We were children then together,

Though I older was in years.
And life's dark and stormy weather

Seemed like April's smiles and tears.

Rebecca S. Nichols.
8

Then, as I wandered where the huddling rill

Brightens with water-breaks the hollow ghyll,*

To where, while thick above the branches close,

In dark brown bason its wild waves repose,

Inverted shrubs, and moss of darkest green,

Cling from the rocks, with pale wood-weeds between ;

Save that aloft the subtle sunbeams shine

On withered briars that o'er the crags recline ;

Sole light admitted here, a small cascade

Illumes with sparkling from the twilight shade;

Beyond, along the vista ol the brook,

Where anticjue roots its bustling path overlook,

The eye reposes on a secret bridge*

Half grey, half shagged with ivy to its ridge.

Sweet Rill, fiirewell ! To morrow's noon again
Shall hide me, wooing long thy wildwood strain ;
But now the sun has gained his western road,
.\nd eve's mild hour invites my steps abroad.

WuKU&MOKTM.

THE HAMLET.

The hinds how blest, who ne'er beguiled
To quit their hamlet* s hawthorn wild,
Nor haunt the crowd, nor tempt the main,
For splendid care and guilty gain !

When morning's twilight-tinctured beam
Strikes their low thatch with slanting gleam
They rove abroad in ether blue,
To dip the scythe in fragrant dew ;
The sheaf to bind, the beech to fell,
That nodding shades a craggy dell.

'Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear.
Wild Nature's sweetest notes they hear:
On green untrodden banks they view
The hyacinth's neglected hue ;
In their lone haunts, and woodland rounds,
They spy the squirrel's airy bounds;
And startle from her ashen spray.
Across the glen, the screaming jay :
Each native charm their steps explore
Of solitude's sequester'd store.

For them the moon with cloudless ray

Mounts, to illume their homeward way:

Their weary spirits to relieve.

The meadows incense breathe at eve.

No riot mars the simple fare

That o'er a glinmiering hearth they share :

But when the curfew's measured roar
Duly, the darkening valleys o'er.
Has echoed from the distant town,
They wish no beds of cygnet-down,
No trophied canopies, to close
Their drooping eyes in quick repose.

Their little sons, who spread the bloom
Of health around the clay-built room,
Or through the primrosed coppice stray,
Or gambol in the new-moiMi hay;
Or quaintly braid the cowslip-twine,
Or drive afield the tardy kine;
Or hasten from the sultry hill,
To loiter at the shady rill;
Or climb the tall pine's gloomy crest.
To rob the raven's ancient nest.

Their humble porch with hone/d flowers
The airling woodbine's shade embowers ;
From the small garden's thymy mound
Their bees in busy swarms resound ;
Nor fell Disease, before his time.
Hastes to consume life's golden prime.
But when their temples long have wore
The silver crown of tresses hoar,
As studious still calm peace to keep,
Beneath a flowery turf they sleep.

Warton.

A NARROW girdle of rough stones and crags,

A rude and natural causeway, interposed

Between the water and a winding slope

Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore

Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy ;

And there myself and two beloved Friends,

One calm September morning, ere the mist

Had altogether yielded to the sun,

Sauntered on this retired and difficult way.

Ill suits the road with one in haste, but we
Played with our time ; and, as we strolled along,
It was our occupation to observe
Such objects as the waves had tossed ashore —
Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough.
Each on the other heaped, along the line
Of the dry wreck. And, in our vacant mood.
Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft
Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard,
That skimmed the surface of the dead calm lake,
Suddenly halting now — a lifeless stand !
And starting off again with freak as sudden ;
In all its sportive wanderings, all the while.
Making report ot an in\isible breeze
That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse.
Its very playmate and its moving soul.

Wordsworth.

NEST OF THE NIGHTINGALE.

Up this green woodland side let 's softly rove,

And list the nightingale ; she dwells just here.

Hush I let the wood-gate softly clap, for fear

The noise might drive her from her home of love ;

For here I \'e heard her many a merr>' year —

At mom, at eve — nay, all the live-long day.

As though she lived on song. This very spot,

Just where the old-man's-beard all wildly trails

Rude arbours o'er the road, and stops the way ;

And where the child its blue-bell flowers hath got,

laughing and creeping through the mossy rails :

There have I hunted like a very boy.

Creeping on hands and knees through matted thorn,

To find her nest, and see her feed her young.

And vainly did I many hours employ :

All seem'd as hidden as a thought unborn ;

And where those cmmi)ling fern-leaves ramp among

The hazel's under-boughs, I 've nestled down

And watch'd her while she sang ; and her renown

Hath made me marvel that so famed a bird

Should have no better dress than msset brown.

Her wings would tremble in her ecstasy,

And feathers stand on end, as 't were with joy ;

/\nd mouth wide open to release her heart

()( its out-sobbmg songs. The hai)piest part

(){ summer's fame she shared, for so to me

Did happy fancy shapen her employ.

But if I touched a bush, or scarcely stirr'd.

All in a moment stopt. I watch'd in vain :

The timid bird had left the hazel-bush.

And oft in distance hid to sing again.

Clake.

LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

I HEARD a thousoDd bkodcc Dotes.
Uliile in the grove I sat reclind.
In that sweet mood mhen pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran .
.Vnd much it grieved my hean lo think
\\'hat man has made of man.

Through i>rimrose rofis. in that smeet bower.
The jxiriu-inkle trailed its uTeaths ;
.Vnd 'tis my laiih that ever^* flower
Enjo}*s the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and play'd
Their thoughts I cannot measure : —
But the least motion which they made.
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their im.
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can.
That there was pleasure there.

If I these thoughts may not prevent.
If such be of my creed the plan.
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

"WOKDSKOKTH.

DOMESTIC LOVE.

Domestic Love ! not in proud palace lulls
Is often seen thy beauty to abide :
Thy dwelling is in lowly cottage walls,
That in the thickets of the woodbine hide :
With hum of bees around, and from the side
Of woody hills some little bubbling spring.
Shining along through Iwnks with harebells dyed ;
And many a bird to warble on the wing,
\Mien Mom her saffron rol)e o'er heaven and earth doth fling.

O ! love of loves ! to thv white hand is u:iven
of earthly happiness the golden key !
Thine are the joyous hours of winters even.
When the babes cling around their fathers knee;
And thine the voice, that on the midnight sea
Melts the rude mariner with thoughts of home,
Peopling the gloom with all he longs to see.
Spirit I- I've built a shrine; and thou hast come.
And on its altar closed - for ever closed thy plume I

OEOItCK CrOLV

2l>

LINES

LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE, WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OP
ESTHWAITE, ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, COMMANDING A
BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT.

Nav, traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands
Far from human dwelling: what if here
No sparkling rivoilet spread the verdant herb?
What if these barren boughs the bee not loves?
Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves,
That ])reak against the shore, shall lull thy mind
Hy one soft impulse saved from vacancy.

Who he was
That piled these stones and with the mossy sod
First covered o'er, and taught this aged Tree
With its dark arms to form a circling bower,
I well remember. — He was one who o>Mied
No common soul. In youth by Science nursed.
And led by Nature into a wild scene
Of lofty hojxrs, he to the world went forth
A favoured being, knowing no desire
Which genius did not hallow ; — 'gainst the taint
Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate,
And sconi, — against all enemies prepared,
All but neglect. The world, for so it thought.
Owed him no service : wherefore he at once
With indignation turned himself away.
And with the food of pride sustained his soul
In solitude. — Stranger! these gloomy boughs
Had chamis for him; and here he loved to sit.
His only visitants a straggling sheep,
'i'he stone-chat, or the sand-lark, restless bird,
IMping along the margin of the lake.
And on these barren rocks, with junii)er.
And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o'er,
P'ixing his downcast eye, he many an hour
A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here
An emblem of his o>mi unfruitful life :
And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze
On the more distant scene, — how lovely 't is
'i'hou seest, — and he would gaze till it became
Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain
The beauty, still more beauteous I Nor, that time.
When Nature had subdued him to herself,
Would he foiget those beings, to whose minds,
Warm from the labours of benevolence,
The world, and man himself, appeared a scene
Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh
With mournful joy, to think that others felt

What !k' inusi iiuvi.-r Icl-I : :Nid su, lost 111:111 ;
Oil visionary vic«s vioulf] f:mcy fLX'd.
I'ill his fye siruamcil with tears. In lliis deep vale
He died, — this seat his only momiment.

If thou be one whose heart tlie holy foniis
Of young imagination have kejn jmre,
Stranger ! hencefonh be warned ; and know that pride,
Howc'cr di!^nst;d in his own majesty,
Is littleness ; thai he who feels contempt
For any living thing, hath faculties
Which he has never used ; that thought with him
Is in its infancy. The man whose eye
Is ever on himself, doth look on one,
The least of Nature's works, one who might move
The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds
Unlawful, ever, O be wiser, thou !
Instructed that true knowledge leads to love;
True dignity abides with him alone
Who, in the silent hour of inward thought,
Can still suspect, and still revere himself,
In lowliness of heart

Wo>nswo»TH.

Now, with religious awe, the farewell light

Blends with the solemn colouring: of niijht :

'Mid groves of cloud-* that i Te>t the mountain's brow.

And round the west's proud lodge their shadows throw.

Like Vna shining on her gloomy way.

The half-seen fonn o\ Hnli^ht roams asirav :

Shedding, through |Kily looj^holes. mild and smdl.

(ileams that ujkmi the lake's still lK>som flill :

Soft o'er the surface creep those lustres |Kile.

Tracking the fitful motions of the gale.

With restless interchange at once the bright

Wins on the shade, the shade upon the light.

No favoured eye was e'er allowed to gaze

On lovelier spectacle in fair}- days :

When gentle Spirits urged a sportive chase.

Bmshing with lucid wands the waters face.

While music, stealing round the glimmering deeps,

Charmed the tall circle of the enchanted steeps.

T IS list ning fear and dumb amazement all :
When to the startled eye the sudden glance
Appears far south, eniptive through the cloud ;
And following slower, in explosion vast,
The thunder raises his tremendous voice.
At first heard solemn o'er the verge of heaven,
The tempest growls ; hut as it nearer comes
And rolls its awful burden on the wind.
The lightnings flash a larger cur\e, and more
*l'he noise astounds ; till overhead a sheet
Of livid flame discloses wide ; then shuts,
And opens wider ; shuts and opens still
Expansive, wrapping cether in a blaze :
I'ollows the loosen'd aggravated roar,
Enlarging, deep'ning, mingling, i)eal on peal
( 'ruHh'd horrible, convulsive heav'n and earth.

Thomson.

-:»!

TIIK HROTHKR.S.

'i'lii. liouiL'ly I'ricst of Kmicrdalc.
Il wiiii ;i July t\aiini;; ;ind he salt-
('|iijn the lung stone slmI beneath the eaves

Of hiH old cotlagi-

I'pon the stone

lliti wife sut near hitn, teasing matted wool.

Towards the field

In which the I'arish C-ha|id stood alone,
(tin round with u hire riii^ of mossy wall,
While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent
Many a long look of wonder ; and at last,
Kiscn from his seat, beside the snow-while ridge
Of <ardcd wool which the old man had piled,
lie laiil his inijjlenienis with gentle care,
I'.aih in the other locked ; and down the path

The -isi "wi:»± •- :"ri r:er± :«:cr 5;r

a—* --ii-r :i •riusi.inz*. i-j- _ic jl^c

'^"i-'i-^i i: iz. :c_"" rriciE^ ic *-'-^ -•:c:c

His ^-.~ -. -fccr- ^i.i he ±cz»:c nip: Jearz

Ev ±ii *j:r r r.rs:. ^^iv: c:tt: Lie ftl-d had
I'l^e^n iv Lc:i*iri. 2: ±c Ch-r':h-\:Lrd cite

Mo^re*- sr.

Thr ^n^iz^tr. "aho r-iC left the grave.

Approached . he rccc-jiirec ±c Pries: at oDce,
And. after greeting Intercr-inged. and given
Bv Leonard to the Vicar ai to one
Unknown 10 him, this dialociie ensued.

PRIEST.

Orphans ! — Such they were —
Vet not while Walter lived: — for, though their parents
Lay buried side by side as now they lie.
The old man was a father to the bo>-s,
Two fathers in one father

LEONARD.

These boys — I hope
They loved this good old man?

PRIEST.

They did — and truly:
But that was what we almost overlooked,
They were such darlings of each other. . . .

From their house the school

Was distant three short miles — and in the time
Of storm and thaw, when every water-coiu^e

THE BROTHERS.

Which from his cottage to the Church-yard led,

He took his way, impatient to accost

The Stranger, whom ho saw still lingering there.

'T was one vtM known to him in fonner days,
A shepherd lad ; — who ere his sixtLtnth year
Had left that calling, templed to entrust
His expectations to the tickle winds
And perilous waters ; with the marineis
A felbw-mariner, — and so had fared

Through twenty seasons.

And now at last.
From perils manifold, with some small wealth
Ac<]uired by traffic in the Indian Isles,

THE BRCJTHERS.

To his paternal home he is returned,

With a determined puqx)se to resume

'I'hc life which he lived there; both for the sake

Of many darling pleasures, and the love

Which to an only Brother he has borne

In all his hardships

Towards ihc Church-yard he had turned aside, —
That, as he knew in what particular sjx)t
I lis family were laid, he thence might learn
If still his brother lived, or to the file

Another grave was added

By this the Triest, who down the field had come,
Unseen by Leonard, at the Church-yard gate

Stopped short

. . . . The Stranger, who had left the grave,
Aj>i)roai hed ; he recognized the Priest at once,
And, after greetings interchanged, and given
My Leonard to the Vicar as to one
Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued.

PRIKST.

()rj)hans !— Such they were —
N'et not while Walter lived : — for, though their parents
\A\y buried side by side as now they lie,
The old man was a fiither to the boys.
Two fathers in one father

I.KONAKD.

These boys — I hope
'I'hey loved this good old man?

I»RIKSI\

They did — and truly:
lUit that was what wc almost overloi>ked.
They wen* such ilarlings of each other. . . .

Fu»m their house the school

Was ilihtant thrive short miles- and in the time
Ol Morm uuU thiuv, when ever)- water-course

THE BROTHERS.

Vou set yuii pruciiiiuv ;— it :il]iio^t looks

Like some vast UiiklLLiy m:\ili^ of ni.iiiy crags;

And in thu midst is one particular rock

That risi:s like a column from tlic vale.

They found him at the foot of that same rock

Dead, arid with mangled limbs. The third day after

I buried him, poor youth, and there he lies !

We all conjectured

That, as the day was warm, he had lain down

Upon the grass, — and, waiting for his comrades.

He there had fallen asleep ; that in his sleep

He to the margin of the ])recipice

Had walked, and from the summit had fallen headlong;

And so no doubt he perished.

And Leonard, when they reached the Church-yard gate,
As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned roimd, —
And, loolcing at the grave, he said, " My Brother."

THE VILLAGE INN.

Near yonder ihom thai litis iis head on high.

Where once ihe sign-ix)si caught the jessing eye,

Low lies that house where nut-broun draughts inspired,

Where gieylKwnl mirth and smiling toil retired.

Where village statesmen talkd with looks profound.

And news much older than their ale went round.

Imagination fondly sloops to trace

The ixirlour splendours ot that festive place ;

The whitewashd wall, the nicelv sanded floor.

The N-amish'd clock that clickd l)ehind the door :

The chest contrived a double debt to jxiy,

A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ;

The pictures placed for ornament and use.

The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose;

The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day.

With asiK*n boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay ;

While broken tea -cups, wisely kept for show,

Rangeil oer the chimney, glisten'd in a row.

GouaumL

I" PON a hill

\ nMU'a K.'j:rvno. \\>.;:'.;.t I w.is wont
To 'u<;v'\ :>: 1 i>;::\.:, '. cnc,i:h the roof
v^r ;;u: :'vVv:rv!.;! >\k:o, .: vlo:<;ml place

WOKOSWOKTH.

DOMKSrir TKACK.

Ti I I. inc. on what holy ground
M.iv l)oincsli( Pcarc he found?
HaltNon I )aughlcT of ihc skic-s,
lar on fcarfvd win^s she flics,
I'voni llic i)oni|> of sccplrcd slate,
I'loni the Kebers noisy liate.
In a rt)ltai;eil \ale she dwells,
I isteninv! to the Sahhalh hells !
Shil arounil her steps arc seen
Spotless Ih»nour*s meeker mien,
I oNe, the siri' oi' pleasing fears,
Soiiow sn\ilini; ihroui^h her tears,
Anil. « ous* ious (»t' the past eni]>loy,
\Iemon. hoson\ spring of joy.

0)i.rriim;k.

Hung o'er a cloud above the steep that rears,

Its edge all flame, the broadening sun appears;

A long blue bar its regis orb divides,

And breaks the spreading of its golden tides;

And now it touches on the purple steep

That flings its shadow on the pictured deep.

Cross the calm lake's blue shades the cliffs aspire.

With towers and woods, a " prospect all on fire ; ''

The coves and secret hollows, through a ray

Of fainter gold, a purple gleam betray.

The gilded turf arrays in richer green

Mach speck of lawn the broken rocks between I

Deep yellow beams the scattered boles illume,

l'';ir in the level forest's central gloom :

Waving his hat, the shepherd, in the vale,

Directs his winding dog the clifls to scale, —

Thai barking, busy 'mid the glittering rocks,

Hunts, where he points, the intercepted flocks.

Where oaks o'erhang the road, the radiance shoots

On tawny earth, wild weeds, and twisted roots;

Tlif (Iruid-stones their lighted fane enfold;

And all the babbling brooks are liquid gold;

Sunk to a curve, the day-star lessens still,

(liveh one bright glance, and drops behind the hill.*

Wordsworth
• From Thomson.

LOVE.

Wk met in secret, in the depth of night

\\'hen there was none to watch us ; not an eye

Save the lone dweller of the lonely sky

To gaze upon our love and pure delight ;

And in that hour's unbroken solitude,

When the white moon had robed her in its beam,

I 've I bought some vision of a blessed dream,

( )r si)irit of the air before me stood,

And held conununion with me. In mine ear

Her voite's sweet notes breathed not of the earth,

Her beauty seemed not of a mortil birth;

Am! in my heart there was an awful fear,

A thrill, like some dee]) warning from above.

That soothed its ])assion to a spirit's love.

11.

Shi-, hloocl beft»re me ; the pure lamps of heaven

Lighted her charms, and those soft eyes which turned
( )n WW with dying fondness. My heart burned,

Ah, Irrmblingly with hers» my vows were given.

Then millly 'gainst my bosom beat her heart ;

Thrr*e living arms around her fonii were throTfiTi,
llinding her heavenly beauty like a zone,

While (lorn her ruby warm lips» just aj)art

Like ImrMling roses, sighs of fragrance stole.

Ami words of music whispering in mine ear
Things pure and holy none but mine should hear;

l«'or they were accents uttered from the soul,

l''or which no tongue her innocence reproved,

And breathed for one who loved her and was loved.

ISMAKL FiTZADAU.
^2

WOODS IN WINTER.

Whkn winter winds are piercing chill,
And ihroiii^h the ha^thom bloi**s the gale.

With solemn feet 1 tread the hill
That overl^rows the lonelv \-ale.

C>Vr the lure upland, and away

Throuiih the long reach of desert woods.
The enil»r.u ing siinlK\ims chastely play.

And gladden those deep solitudes

\\lKTe, twisit\i round the Ixiiren oak.

rhe sr.nuuer vine in l>eauty clung.
And >uni:ncr winds the silence broke.

The crvsMl icicle is hr.n:; :

Where, tVo'.u tV.eir troj:en urns, mute springs
Tvn.r v^iit :>e river's gradual tide.

Shriil\ the skater's irc»n rimrs,

A:ul xv^ivcs :'!*. the w*.Hxlland side.

\!.is ' h.ow cha!^.gevl from the fair scene,
W'u'Vi ''irvls Xing out their mellow by,

Auvl \\:nvl< wcr^* soft, and woo^ls were green.
\nd the soiiii ceascvl no: with the dav.

r»ar still wiM music is abaxid.

Talc, dvscr: wvwis ! >\::h*n wxir crowd ;
.\nd i;athcT:t*c wiuvls in hv\tr>e accord

Auud ih.e wxm! rxwls j-iix* loiidL

Chill airs, aiul \\ uurv « iuds ! mv ear
Has grv^^n familiar with >\xir song :

I hear it in :he ojvning \-ear —
I bste!>, a!Kl it chcvrr^ tv.e lon^:.

It was in tnilli a lamcntahlt- lumr

NVhrt) from tlir las! hill lop my sire suneyed,

IVrring above tlu* tn-rs, ihc stcci)lc tower

Thai on his niania^r day sweet music made !

Till Ihen he hoped his hones might there he laid

dose l>y n\y molher in their native bowers;

nidiling me inisl in (lod. he stood and i)rayed ; —

I nudd not pray : through tears tl\at fell in showers

1 s;nv mv luvn dear home, that was no longer ours.

\V<>Rn<WOKTII

I'*

VKW-TREES.

TnKkK is a Ycw-trcc. |)ri(lc of Lorton Vale,

Which to this day stands single, in the midst

f )! lis own darkness, as it stood of yore :

Not U){h to furnish wcaj>ons for the bonds

( )f I infravillc or IVrcy, crc they marched

I'd S<()t hind's heat lis : or those that crossed the sea

And drew their sounding bows at Azincour,

I'lrhMps at earher Oecy, or Poictiers.

< )l v.ist ( irt'uniference and gloom profound
This sohlary tree!— a living thing
I'lodiued too slowly ever to decay;

< )\ lonn ;nul as])eet too magniticent

To l»e ilest roved. Hut worthier still of note

\ie those fraternal Four of Borrowdale,

loinetl in one solemn and capacious grove;

lluj',e hunks! and each particular trunk a growth

t >l mieUwisied hbres serpentine

I pt oihn ;. ,nul in\eteiatel\ lonvolved;

Noi \unnl\»inud Nxuh Phantasy, and looks

IhH due.itcn the protanc : a ]»illared shade,

rpon whose uussless tloor of rtxl-brown hue.

Hn sheddinj;s tu^n tlu^ piniut; umbrage tinjed

r»i»htu»lK Ivnealli whoso s,ible RK>f

\ H bo\».;hs. .»s \\ uw festal puqH^st*, decked

\\\\\\ \\\\\V\\^\\ \\\^ iMtics jiluvsdy SkljHTS

M n \\\^^^ M \\\\>\\\\y\c War and trt^nbling Hoj»o.
ViKn»* .\\\y\ \\^\\\Kh\ IVaih iho Skololon
\\\A \\\\w \\w y\UA^w ihon^ lo ixlcbr;ue,
\. \\\ A \\\\K\\,\\ w\\\yW \s\\\\c\x\\ o'er
\\^d> d\ n\ ^u\xhsr,aN\l %>t nu\v^> stone,
\ nu* d w\\\^h\p o\ u> uwto wjv^sc
To \\s , .u\x< Uxt> n lo tW «^\;MAin flvxxi
\h\M\w\ui\t; !\\M>> \vk«a«vu,«>' r.wvvi: \V*ves^

♦>

Far (ro\w nn dearest Friend, 't is mine to rove
Through lure j^Tey dell, high wood, and {ustoral cove ;
His wizard eourse where hoary Derwent takes,
Th rough crags and forest glooms and ojK^ning Lakes,
Siavini: his silent waves, to hear the roar
Thai stuns the tremulous clifTs of high IxKiore ;
Where peaee to (Irasniere's lonely island leads,
'I'o willowy hedge rows, and to emerald meads ;
I.eails to her bridge, nide church, and cottaged grounds,
ller rocky sheep-walks, and her woodland bounds;
Where, bosomed ileej), the shy Winander peei>s
Mill clustering isles, and holly-sprinkled steeps;
Where iwiliuht i»lens endear mv Ksthwaite's shore,
\nd memory ot dejurted ]>leasures, more.

WoRD*5WORTH.

:.o

CHRISTMAS IN THE OLDEN TIME.

Heap on more wood ! — the ^ind is chill .

But let it whistle as it will.

Well keep our Christmas nieiry still.

Each age has deem'd the new-l>om year

The fittest time for fe>t U ( heer :

And well our Christian >ires of u!J

Loved when the year it> coiir>e had full d.

And hrou^'lit hlithe Christmas back again,

With all his hospiiable train.

Domestic and religious rite

(lave honour to the holv ni^hi :

On Christmas Eve the hells were rung:

On Christmas Eve the mass was sung.

That only night, in all the year.

Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.

The damsel donn'd her kirtle sheen ;

The hall was dress'd with hollv in'een :

Forth to the wood did merry men go.

To gather in the mistletoe ;

Then open'd wide the kirons hall

To vass;U, tenant, serf, and all ;

Power laid his rod of nile aside.

And Ceremony doff'd his pride.

The heir, with roses in his shoes.

That night might village partner choose ;

The lord, underogating, share

The N-ulgar game of **|X)st and pair."

All hail'd, with uncontroll'd delight.

And general voice, the happy night,

That to the cottage, as the crown,

Ikought tidings of solvation down.

The fire, with well dritH.1 logs sui)plied,

Went ro.irin ' up the chimnev wide ;

The huge hall table's oaken face,

Scrubb'd till it shone, the day to grace,

Hore then upon its massive board

No mark to part the squire and lord.

Then was brought in the lusty brawn

r»y old blue-coated ser\'ing-iDan ;

Then the grim boars head frown'd on high,

Crested with ba\-s and rosemary.

\Vell can the green-garbed ranger tell

How. when, and where the monster fell;

^^'hat dogs before his death he tore.

And all the baiting of the boar.

The wassail round, in good brown bowls,

(iamishd with ribbons, blithely trowl&

There the huge sirloin reek'd ; hard by

Plum-j>orridge stood, and Christmas pie;

Nor faild old Scotland to produce.

At such high tide, her savoury goose.

Then came the merr}' masquers in,

And carols roar'd i%-ith blithesome din ;

U unmelodious was the song.

It was a hearty note, and strong, —

\\Tio lists may in their mumming see

Traces of ancient m\-ster}'.

\\'hite shirts supplied the mas<.|uerade.

And smutted cheeks the \'isors made ;

Put, oh ! what masquers, richly di^t.

Can boast of bosoms half so light!

England was merry England, when

Old Christmas brought his sports again.

'T was Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale ;

Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;

A Christmas gambol oft could cheer

The iK)or man s heart through half the year.

Scott.

THK WdRIJ) WITH IS.

I HF- world is v^-.j n/jeh w:::i js : Lite and soon.
Citrllinj: and sjnrndinj: wc lay waste our jx^wers:
Little wc Sec in Nature that is ours ;

\Vc have ^nvcn our heart:> away, a sordid boon !

'I 'his sea that Ixires her bosom to the moon :
The winds that will be howling at all hours
And are ui>gathered now like sleeping flowers;

For this, for cver}thing, we are out of tune ;

It moves us not. — Great God ! I 'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn ;

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ;

Have sight of Proteus coming from the sea,
Or hear old Triton blow his ^Teathed horn.

WOKOSWOKTH.

CYTHNA.

She moved upon this earth a shape of brightness,
A power, that from its objects scarcely drew
One impulse of her being — in her lightness
Most like some radiant cloud of morning dew.
Which wanders through the waste air's pathless blue
To nourish some far desert ; she did seem
Beside me, gathering beauty as she grew,
Like the bright shade of some immortal dream
Which walks, when tcm|)cst sleeps, the wave of life's dark stream.

As mine own shadow was this child to me,
A second self, far dearer and more fliir,
Which clothed in undissolving radiancy
All those steep [)aths which languor and des])air
Of human things had made so dark and bare,
Hut which 1 trod alone, nor, till bereft
Of friends, and overcome by lonely care.
Knew I what solace for that loss was left,
Though by a bitter wound my trusting heart was cleft.

Once she was dear, now she was all I had
To love in human life, this playmate sweet,
This child of twelve years old, so she was made
My sole associate, and her willing feet
Wandered with mine, where earth and ocean meet
Heyond the aerial mountains, whose vast cells
'i'he unreposing billows ever beat.
Through forests wide and old, and lowing dells.
Where boughs of incense droop over the emerald wells.

And warm and light I felt her clasping hand^
When twined in mine ; she followed where 1 went
Through the lone paths of our immortal land.
It had no waste, but some memorial lent
Which strimg me to my toil — some monument
Vital with mind — then Cythna by my side,
Until the bright and beaming hours were spent,
Would rest with looks entreating to abide
Too earnest, and too sweet ever to be denied.

And soon I could not have refused her — thus
For ever, day and night ; we two were ne'er
Parted, but when brief sleep divided us,
And when the pauses of the lulling aii
Of Doon beside the sea had made a lair
For her soothed senses, in my arms she slept ;
And I kept watch over her slumbera there,
While, as the shifting visions over her swept,
Amid hei innocent rest by turns she smiled and wept.

The cool H*as swimming in the reedy pond
Beside the i%-ater-hen, so soon affrighted ;
And in the weedy moat the heron, fond
Of solitude, alighted.

The moping heron, motionless and stiff,
That on a stone as silently and slyly
Stood an ap|virent sentinel, as if
To guard the water-lily.

Hoodl

'#1

AUTUMN.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness !

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd and plump the hazel-shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease.

For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ?

Sometimes, whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep.

Drowsed with the fume of jxjppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinbd flowers ;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,
While barred clouds bloom the soft dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The redbreast whistles from a garden croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Kbats.

My heart leaps up when I behold

A rainbow in the sky :
So was it when my life began ;
So is it now I am a man ;
So be it when I shall grow old,

Or let me die !
The child is father of the man ;
And I could wish my days to be
iiound each to each by natural piety.

WoRDSWOKTII.

CAXST THOU FORGET?

Canst thou forget, beloved, our first avaking

From out the shadowy calms of doubts and dreams.

To know Love's perfect sunlight round us breaking.
Bathing our beings in its gorgeous gleams —

Canst thou forget?

A sky of rose and gold was o'er us glowing.
Around us was the morning breath of May :

Then met our soul-rides, thence together flowing.

Then kissed our thought-waves, mingling on their way

Canst thou forget ?

Canst thou forget when tirst thy loWng fingers
Ijid iientlv back the locks ur-on mv brow?

Ah, to my woman's thought that touch still lingers
And softly glides along my forehead now :

Canst thou forget?

Canst thou forget when everv* twilight tendo",

'Mid dews and sweets, beheld our slow steps ro\-e.

And when the nights, which come in starT>* splendour,
Seemed dim and pallid to our heaven ot love?

Canst thou forget?

Canst thou forget the childlike heart-outpouring
Of her whose fond faith knew no fdtering fears?

The lashes drooped to veil her e}*es' adoring.
Her speaking silence, and her blissfiil tears?

Canst thou forget?

Canst thou forget the last most moumfiil meeting,
The trembling form clasped to thine anguished breast

The heart against thine own, now wildly beating,
Now fluttering fiiint, grief-wixmg, and fear-oppiess*d —

Canst thou forget?

Canst thou forget, though all Love's spells be broken,
The wild farewell, which rent our souls apart?

And that last gift, Affection's holiest token,
The severed tress, which lay upon thy heart —
Canst thou forget?

Canst thou fo^et, belov'd one — comes there never

The angel of sweet visions to thy rest?
Brings she not back the fond hopes fled for ever.

While one lost name thrills through thy sleeping breast ?-
Canst thou forget?

MOONLIGHT NIGHT.

How beautiful this night 1 The balmiest sigh

Which venial zephyrs breathe in Evenings ear,

Were discord to the speaking quietude

That wrai)S this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon vault.

Studded with stars unutterably bright,

Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls,

Seems like a canoi)y which Love had spread

To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle hills,

Robed in a gannent of untrodden snow ;

Yon darksome walls, whence icicles depend

So stainless, that their white and glittering spears

Tinge not the moon's pure beam; yon castled steep,

Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower

So idly, that wrapt Fancy deemeth it

A metaphor of Peace, — all form a scene

Where musing Solitude might love to lift

Her soul above this sphere of earthliness ;

Where Silence undisturb'd might watch alone.

So cold, so bright, so still.

Smblliv.

Green leaves were here ;
But *t was the foHage of the rocks — the birch,
The yew, the holly, and the bright green thom,
With hanging islands of resplendent furze :
And on a summit, distant a short space,
Bv any who should look bevond the dell,
A single mountain cottage might be seen.

WORDSWOKTH.

1^8

Thkir groves o sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon,
Where bright beaming summers exalt the perfume ;

Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green bracken,
Wi* the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom.

Far dearer to me yon humble broom bowers,

Where the bluebell and gowan lurk lowly unseen.

Burks.

Come awa', come awa'.

An' leave your Sou tli land hame, lassie,
The kirk is near, the ring is here —

An' I'm your Donald CIr?eme, lassie;
Rock and reel, and si)inning-wheel.

And English cottage trig, lassie,
Haste, leave them a', wi' me to speel

The braes 'yont Stirling brig, lassie.

Pkinglb.

rWIT.IGHT.

Haii. Twilight, sovereign of one ])eacefiil hour

Not dull art thou as undiscerning Night ;

But studious only to remove from sight

Day's mutable distinctions. Ancient i)o\ver !

Thus did the waters gleam, the mountains lower

To the rude IJriton, when, in wolf-skin vest

Here roving wild, he laid him down to rest

On the bare rock, or through a leafy bower

Looked ere his eyes were closed. By him was seen

The selfsame vision which we now behold.

At thy meek bidding, shadowy power, brought forth ;

'I'hese mighty barriers, and the gulf between ;

'I'he floods, — the stars ; a spectacle as old

As the beginning of the heavens and earth.

Wordsworth.

O'kr the hcalh the heifer strays,
Vtcc, the furrow'd task is done,

Now the village windows blaze,
Hurnish'd by the setting sun.

Trudging as the ploughmen go,
To the smoking hamlet bound,

(liant-like their shadows grow,
l^^ngthened o'er the level ground.

The slanting ray.
From every herb and every spiry blade,
Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field.
Mine, spindling into longitude immense,
In spite of gravity and sage remark
That I myself am but a fleeting shade,
Provokes me to a smile.

COWPBR.

7fi

WEARIE'S WELL.

In a saft simmer gloamin',

In yon do\vie dell,
It was there we tvva first met,

By Wearie s cauld well.
We sat on the broom bank,

And look'd in the bum,
But sidelang we look'd on

Ilk ither in turn.

Now the winter snaw's fa'ing

On bare holm and lea,
And the cauld wind is strippin'

Ilk leaf aff the tree.
But the snaw fa's not faster,

Nor leaf disna part
Sae sune frae the bough, as

Faith fades in your heart.

The comcraik was chirming

His sad eerie cry,
And the wee stars were dreaming

Their path through the sky ;
The bum babbled freely

Its love to ilk flower.
But we heard and we saw nought

In that blessed hour.

YouVe waled out anither

Your bridegroom to be ;
But can his heart luve sae

As mine luvit thee?
Ye '11 get biggings and mailins.

And mony braw claes ;
But they a' winna buy back

The peace o' past days.

We heard and we saw nought.

Above or around ;
We felt that our luve lived,

And loathed idle sound.
I gazed on your sweet face

Till tears fill'd my e'e,
And they drapt on your wee loof —

A warld's wealth to me.

Farewell, and for ever,

My first luve and last;
May thy joys be to come—

Mine live in the past.
In sorrow and sadness

This hour fa's on me ;
But light, as thy luve, may

It fleet over thee !

MOTHBKWBLL.

SFRIXG.

Look all around thee ! How the Spring advances I

New life is i)laying through the gay green trees ;
See how, in yonder bower, the light leaf dances

To the bird's tread, and to the fjuivcring breeze I
How every blossom in the sunlight glances !

The winter frost to his dark cavern flees,
And earth, wami-waken'd, feels through every vein
Tlie kindly influence of the vernal rain.
Now^ silvery streamlets, from the mountains stealing,

Dance joyously the verdant vales along ;
Cold fear no more the songster's voice is sealing ;

Down in the thick dark grove is heard his song ;
And, all their bright and lovely hues revealing,

A thousand plants the field and forest throng ;
Light comes upon the earth in radiant showers,
And mingling rainbows play among the flowers.

TXBCK.

THE WAYSIDE SPRING.

Fair dweller by the dusty way,
Bright saint within a mossy shrine,

The tribute of a heart to-day,
Weary and worn, is thine.

The earliest blossoms of the year.
The sweetbrier and the violet,

The pious hand of Spring has here
Upon thy altar set.

And not alone to thee is given
The homage of the pilgrim's knee ;

But oft the sweetest birds of heaven
Glide down and sing to thee.

Here daily from his beechen cell,
The hermit squirrel steals to drink ;

And flocks which cluster to their bell,
Recline along thy brink.

And here the wagoner blocks his wheels,
To quaff the cool and generous boon ;

Here from the sultry harvest-fields
The reapers rest at noon.

And oft the beggar masVd with tan.
In nisty garments grey with dust,

Here sits and dips his little can,
And breaks his scanty crust ;

And, lull'd beside thy whispering stream.
Oft drops to slumber unawares.

And sees the angel of his dream
Upon celestial stairs.

Dear dweller by the dusty way.
Thou saint within a mossy shrine.

The tribute of a heart to-day.
Weary and worn, is thine !

Rrad.
82

In November days,
When vai)ours rolling down the valleys made
A lonely scene more lonesome ; among woods
At noon ; and 'mid the calm of summer nights,
When, by the margin of the trembling lake,
Beneath the gloomy hills, I homeward went
In solitude, such intercourse was mine :
'T was mine among the fields both day and night,
And by the waters all the summer long.

Wordsworth.

For him the Spring
Distils her dew, and from the silken gem
Its lucid leaves unfolds ; for him the hand
Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch
With blooming gold, and blushes like the mom.
Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wing ;
And still new beauties meet his lonely walk.
And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze
Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes
The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain
From all the tenants of the warbling shade
Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake
Fresh pleasure unreproved.

Akknsidb.

CUSHLO-MO-CHREE.*

By the green banks of Shannon, I wooed thee, dear Mary,

When the sweet birds were singing in summer's gay pride ;
From those green banks I turn now, heart-broken and dreary,

As the sun sets, to weep o'er the grave of my bride.
While the sweet birds around mc arc singing.

Summer like winter is cheerless to me ;
I heed not if snow falls, or flow'rets are springing.

For my heart's light is darkened — my Cushlo-mo-chree !

Oh ! bright shone the morning when first as my bride, love,

Thy foot like a sunbeam my threshold cross'd o'er;
And blest on our hearth fell that soft eventide, love,

AMien first on my bosom thy heart lay, Asthorc!
Restlessly now, on my lone pillow turning,

Wear the night-watches, still thinking on thee,
And darker than night breaks the light of the morning,

For my aching eyes find thee not, Cushlo-mo-chree I

Oh, my loved one ! my lost one ! say, why didst thou leave me

To linger on earth with my heart in the grave?
Oh, would thy cold arms, love, might ope to receive me

To my rest 'neath the dark boughs that over thee wave !
Still from our once happy dwelling I roam, love.

Evermore seeking, my own bride, for thee;
Oh, Mary ! wherever thou art is my home, love,

And I'll soon lie beside thee, my Cushlo-tnchchree !

John Francis Waller, LL.D.

* <<

Cushlo-mo'chree'*'' — Pulse of my heart.

Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale
There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name;
An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb.
His bodily frame had been, from youth to age,
Of an unusual strength ; his mind was keen,
Intense, and frugal, apt for all aifairs,
And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt
And watchful more than ordinary men.
So lived he till his eightieth year was past
His days had not been past in singleness:
00

His HtliitTUilc was a mmtly matron, old
Though younger than himself full twenty years.
She was a woni^in of a stirring life.

Whose heart was in her lioiisc

'ITie Pair had but one inmate in their house,
An only child who had been bom to them
When Michael, telling o'er his years, began
To deem that he was old, — in shepherd's phrase,
With one foot in the grave. This only son,
With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm,
The one of an inestimable worth.

Made all their household

81 13—2

MICHAEL.

Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge.
Which in our ancient uncouth country style
Did with a huge projection overbrow
Ijargc space beneath, as duly as the light
Of day grew dim, the Housewife hung a lamp.
There by the light of this old lamp they sat,
Father and son, while late into the night
The Housewife plied her own peculiar work.
This light was famous in its neighbourhood,

For, as it chanced.

Their cottage on a plot of rising ground

Stood single, with large prospect, north and south,

And from this constant light, so regular

And so far seen, the house itself, by all

Who dwelt within the limits of the Vale,

Both old and young, was named the Evening Star.

The She[)herd, if he loved himself, must needs
Have loved his Helpmate ; but to Michael's heart
This son of his old age was yet more dear —

To the thoughts

Of the old man his only son was now
The dearest object that he knew on earth.
Exceeding was the love he bare to him.

And when by Heaven's good grace the boy grew up
A healthy lad, and carried in his cheek
Two steady roses that were five years old,
Then Michael from a winter coppice cut
With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped
With iron, making it throughout in all
Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff,
And gave it to the boy; wherewith equipped
He as a watchman oftentimes was placed
At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock;
And, to his office prematurely called,

There stood ihc iirdiiii, :is yuu will divine.
Komethiny between a liintlrame and a belli ;
'[■ho%'h iioiighi was left iirnioiie wliieh staff, or voii
Or looks, or ihreatcning gestiirts, tould perform.

While in this sort the simple household lived
From day to day, to Miehael's ear there came
Distressful tidings. Long hefore the time
Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound
In surety for his brother's son, . . .

And old Michael now

Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture,

A grievous penalty, but little less

Than half his substance

MICHAEL.

It seemed that his sole refuge was to sell
A portion of his patrimonial fields.
Such was his first resolve ; he thought again,
And his heart failed him. " Isabel," said he.
Two evenings after he had heard the news,

" I have been toiling more than seventy years.
And in the open sunshine of God's love
Have we all lived ; yet if these fields of ours
Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think
That I could not lie quiet in my grave.
Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel : the land
Shall not go from us, and it shall be free.

We have, thou know'st.

Another kinsman — he will be our friend
In this distress. He is a prosperous man,
Thriving in trade — and Luke to him shall go,
And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift
He quickly will repair this loss, and then

May come again to us."

At this the old man paused,

And Isabel sat silent

These thoughts, and many others of like sort.
Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel,
And her face brightened. The old man was glad,
And thus resumed :

" Make ready Luke's best gannents, of the best
Buy for him more, and let us send him forth
To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night :
If he could go, the boy should go to-night."
Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth
With a light heart. The Housewife for five days
Was restless mom and night, and all day long
Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare
Things needful for the journey of her son.

At length

The expected letter from their kinsman came,
With kind assurances that he would do

His utmost for the welfare of the boy;

To which requests were added that forthwith

He might be sent to him

With morrow's dawn llie lioy
Began his joiirnty, and when he had reached
ITie jjubUc nay, he put on a bold face;
And all the neighbours, as he passed their doors,
Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers,
That followed him lill he was out of sight.

A good report did from their kinsman come.
Of I.uke and his well-doing: and the boy
Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news.
Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts.

So many months passed on

Meantime Luke began

To slacken in his duty; and at length
He in his dissolute city gave himself
To evil courses: ignominy and shame

Fell on him, so that he was driven at last
To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas.

J have conversed with more than one who well
Remembered the old man, and what he was
Years after he had heard this heavy Ren's.

Among the rocks

He wunt

And to that hollow dell from time to time
Did he repair to build the Fold of which

His Flock had need

There by the Sheepfold, somelimcs was he seen
Silting alone, with that his faithful dog.
Then old, besi<le him, lying at his feet.
The length of full seven years, from time to time.
He at the building of this Sheepfold wrought.
And left the work unfinished when he died.
Three years, or Utile more, did Isabel
Siir\'ive her husband ; at her death the estate
Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand.

Wiit-n there was none lo uali li iis ; iii.l an eyo

Savo the kmc dwfllcr of the lonely sky

To gaze upon otir love ami iJiire deliyht ;

And ill that hour's uiiliruketi solitude,

When the white moon had rulicd her in its lieam.

I've thought some vision of a l.ilessetl dream.

Or spirit of the air before me stood,

And held communion with nie. In mine ear

Her voice's sweet notes breathed not of the earth.

Her beauty seemed not of a mortal birth ;

And in my heart there was an awful fear,

A thrill, like some deep warning from above,

That soothed its passion to a spirif s love.

•'T IS the merry nightingale
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates
With thick fast warble his delicious notes,
As he were fearful that an April night
Would be too short for him to utter forth
His love-chant, and disburden his full soul
Of all its music.

COLBRIDCB

SwKKT bird, that sing'st away the early hours
Of winters past, or coming, void of care,
Well pleased with delights which present are.
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers ;
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee He did not spare,
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers.
What soul can be so sick which by thy songs
(Attir'd in sweetness) sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, s;ntes, and wrongs,
And lift a reverend eye and thought to Heaven?
Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise
To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels* lays.

Drummond.

Mink be a cot beside the hill;

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear ;
A willowy brook, that turns a mill,

Witli many a fall, shall linger near.

Tlie swallow oft, beneath my thatch.
Shall twitter near her clay-built nest ;

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest

Around my ivied porch shall spring

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ;

And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing,
In nisset gown and apron blue.

The village church beneath the trees,

Where first our marriage-vows were given,

With merry j)eals shall swell the breeze,
And i)oint with taper spire to heaven.

Rogers.

LOO

Triumphal arch that fill'st the sky,
When storms prepare to part,

I ask not proud philosophy
To teach me what thou art.

Still seem, as to my childhood's sight,

A mid-way station given
For happy spirits to alight.

Betwixt the earth and heaven.

Can all that optics teach, unfold

Thy form to please me so.
As when I dreamed of gems and gold

Hid in thy radiant brow?

How glorious is thy girdle cast
O'er mountain, tower, and town,

Or mirrored in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down !

For, faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span,

Nor lets the type grow pale with age
That first spoke peace to man.

Campbbix.

102

Now who is he that bounds with joy
On Carrock's side, a shepherd boy?
No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass
Light as the wind along the grass.
Can this be he who hither came
In secret, Hke a smothered flame?
O'er whom such thankful tears were shed
For shelter, and a poor man's bread !
CJod loves the Child ; and God hath willed
That those dear words should be fulfilled,
The lady's words, when forced away,
The last she to her Babe did say :
My own, my own, thy fellow-guest
I may not be ; but rest thee, rest,
For lowly shepherd's life is best ! "

Wordsworth.

104

LONG TIME AGO.

Near the lake where drooped the willow,

Long time ago !
^Vhere the rock threw back the billow,

Brighter than the snow;
Dwelt a maid beloved and cherished

By high and low ;
But with autumn's leaf she perished.

Long time ago !

Rock, and tree, and flowing water.

Long time ago !
Bird, and bee, and blossom taught her

Love's spell to know !
While to my fond words she listened.

Murmuring low.
Tenderly her dove-eyes glistened,

Long time ago !

Mingled were our hearts for ever.

Long time ago !
Can I now forget her? Never!

No, lost one, no !
To her grave these tears are given,

Ever to flow;
She's the star I missed from heaven,

Long time ago !

G. p. Morris

106

Glide gently, thus for ever glide,

C) Thames ! that other bards may see
As lovely visions by thy side

As now, fair river ! come to me.
() glide, fair stream ! for ever so,

Thy quiet soul on all bestowing.
Till all our minds for ever flow

As thy dcej) waters now are flowing.

V^ain thought I — Yet be as now thou art,

That in thy waters may be seen
The image of a poet's heart.

How bright, how solemn, how serene !
Such as did once the Poet bless,

\Vho, munnuring here a later ditty.
Could find no refuge from distress

But in the milder grief of pity.

Now let us, as we float along.

For him suspend the dashing oar;
And pray that never child of song

May know that Poet's sorrows more.
How calm ! how still ! the only sound,

The dripping of the oar suspended !
-The evening darkness gathers round

By virtue's holiest powers attended.

WORDSWOSTH.

108

A WINTER STORM.

On the passive main
Descends the eternal force, and with strong giist
Turns from its bottom the discolourd deep.
Through the black night that sits immense around,
I^ish'd into foam, the fierce conliicting brine
Seems o'er a thousand raging waves to bum.
Meantime the mountain-billows to the clouds
In dreadful tumult sweird, surge above surge,
I^urst into chaos with tremendous roar,
And anchor'd navies from their stations drive.
Wild as the winds across the howling waste
Of mighty waters : now the inflated wave
Straining they scale, and now imj)etuous shoot
Into the secret chambers of the deej).
Emerging thence again, before the breath
Of full-exerted heaven, they wing their course.

Thomson.

110

HOCK-CART, OR HARVEST HOME.

Come, sons of summer, by whose toil

We are the lords of wine and oil ;

By whose tough labours, and tough hands,

We rip up first, then reap our lands !

Crown'd with the ears of corn, now come.

And to the pipe sing " Harvest home."

Come forth, my lord, and see the cart

Drest up with all the country art.

See, here a manikin, there's a sheet

As spotless pure as it is sweet ;

The horses, mares, and frisking fillies,

Clad all in linen white as lilies.

The harvest swains and wenches bound

For joy, to see the hock-cart crown'd.

About the cart hear how the rout

Of rural younglings raise the shout.

Pressing before, some coming after, —

Those with a shout, and these with laughter.

Some bless the cart, some kiss the sheaves.

Some prank them up with oaken leaves ;

Some cross the thill-horse, some with great

Devotion stroke the home-borne wheat !

While other rustics, less attent

To prayers than to merriment,

Run after, with their garments rent.

Well on, brave boys ! to your lord's hearth

Glittering with fire; where, for your mirth.

Ye shall see first the large and chief

Foundation of your feast — fat beef.

With upper stories — ^mutton, veal,

And bacon — which makes full the meal;

With several dishes standing by —

As here a custard, there a pie,

And here all-tempting firumenty.

And for to make the merry cheer,

If smirking wine be wanting here,

There's that which drowns all care — stout

beer;
Which freely drink to your lord's health,
Then to the plough, the conmionwealth ;
Next to your flails, your fanes, your fats;
Then to the maids with wheaten hats.
To the rough sickle and crook'd scythe,
Drink, froUc boys, till all be blithe.
Feed and grow fat ; and as ye eat,
l>e mindful that the labouring neat,
As you, may have their full of meat ;
And know besides, ye must revoke
The patient ox unto the yoke,
And all go back unto the plough
And harrow, though they 're hang'd up now.
And you must know your lord's words

true —
Feed him ye must whose food fills you;
And that this pleasure is like rain,
Not sent ye for to drown your pain,
But for to make it spring again.

Hbrrick.

112

There was a Boy : ye knew him well, ye cliffs

And islands of Winander ! — many a time,

At evening, when the earliest stars began

To move along the edges of the hills.

Rising or setting, would he stand alone,

IJcncath the trees, or by the glimmering lake ;

And there, with fmgers interwove, both hands

Pressed closely palm to pahn and to his mouth

Uplifted, ho, as through an instalment.

Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls.

That they might answer him. And they would shout

Across the watery vale, and shout again,

Resi)onsive to his call, — with quivering peals.

And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud

Redoubled and redoubled ; concourse wild

Of mirth and jocund din ! And, when it chanced

That pauses of deep silence mocked his skill,

Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung

Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise

Has c*arried far into his heart the voice

Of mountain-torrents ; or the visible scene

Would enter unawares into his mind

With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,

Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received

Into the bosom of the steady lake.

Wordsworth.

Thk gleaners spread around, and here and there,
Spike after spike, their sparing harvest pick.
Be not too narrow, husbandmen ; but fling
From the full sheaf, with charitable stealth,
The liberal handful. Think, O grateful think,
How good the (iod of Harvest is to you,
Who pours abundance o'er your flowing fields !
While these unhappy j)artners of your kind
Wide hover round you, like the fowls of heaven,
And ask their humble dole.

Thomson.

116

TO THE CUCKOO.

BLITHE New-comer ! I have heard,

1 hear thee and rejoice ;

Cuckoo I shall I call thee bird,
Or but a wandering voice?

While I am lying on the grass,
Thy loud note smites my ear I
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far o(T and near !

1 liear thee babbling to the vale
Of simshine and of llowers ;
And unto me thou bring'st a tale
Of visionary hours.

Tlirice welcome, darling of the Spring !

l^ven yet thou art to me

No bird, but an invisible thing,

A voice, a mystery ;

The same who in my schoolboy days
I listened to ; that cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green ;
And thou wert still a hope, a love ;
Still longed for, never seen !

And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.

O blessed Bird ! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, fairy place;
That is fit home for thee!

Wordsworth.
118

It is not only in the sacred fane
That homage should be paid to the Most High ;
There is a temple, one not made with hands —
The vaulted firmament : Far in the woods,
Almost beyond the sound of city chime,
At inter\'als heard through the breezeless air;
When not the limberest leaf is seen to move.
Save where the linnet lights upon the spray ;
When not a floweret bends its little stalk.
Save where the bee alights upon the bloom ;
There, rapt in gratitude, in joy, and love,
The man of God will pass the Sabbath noon ;
Silence his praise.

Grahamk.

120

RUTH.

Beneath her father's roof, alone

She seemed to live ; her thoughts her owii ;

Herself her own delight:
Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay,
She passed her time ; and in this way

Grew up to woman's height.

There came a youth from Georgia's shore -
A military casque he wore,

With splendid feathers drest;
He brought them from the Cherokees;
The feathers nodded in the breeze.

And made a gallant crest.

Among the Indians he had fought.
And with him many tales he brought

Of pleasure and of fear;
Such tales as told to any maid
By such a Youth, in the green shade,

Were perilous to hear.

And then he said, "How sweet it were
A fisher or a hunter there,

A gardener in the shade,
Still wandering with an easy mind,
To build a household fire, and find

A home in every glade !

'* Sweet Ruth ! and could you go with me
My helpmate in the woods to be.

Our shed at night to rear ;
Or run, my own adopted bride,
A sylvan huntress at my side,

And drive the flying deer!

122

"Beloved Ruth!" No more he said.
Sweet Ruth alone at midnight shed

A solitary tear:
She thought again — and did agree
With him to sail across the sea,

And drive the Hjing deer.

"And DOW, as littiDg is and right,
We in the Church our &itb will plight,

A husband and a wife."
Even so they did ; and I may say
That to sweet Ruth that happy day
Was more than human life.

IM 16—2

RUTH.

But now the pleasant dream was gone !
No hope, no wish remained, not one, —

They stirred him now no more ;
Xcw objects did new pleasure give.
And once again he wished to live

As lawless as before.

Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared.
They for the voyage were prejxired.

And went to the sea-shore;
But, when they thither came, the Youth
Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth

Could never find him more.

(jod help thee, Ruth ! — Such pains she had
That she in half a year was mad,

And in a prison housed ;
And there, exulting in her wTongs,
iVmong the music of her songs.

She fearfully caroused.

When Ruth three seasons thus had lain.
There came a respite to her pain ;

She from her prison fled;
But of the Vagrant none took thought ;
And where it liked her best she sought

Her shelter and her bread.

Among the fields she breathed again:
The master current of her brain

Ran permanent and free;
And coming to the Banks of Tone,
There did she rest; and dwell alone

Under the greenwood tree.

12 (

A bam her winter bed supplies ;
But, till the wannth of sununer skies

And sununer days is gone,
(And all do in this tale agree,}
She sleeps beneath the greenwood tiee,

And other home hath none.

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room;

And hermits are contented with their cells;

And students with their pensive citadels.

Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,

Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,

High as the highest Peak of Fumess-Fells,

Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells :

In truth, the prison unto which we doom

Ourselves, no prison is : and hence to me,

In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound

Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground :

Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be)

Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,

Should find short solace there, as I have found.

Wordsworth

126

TRUE LOVE.

True love is but a humble, low-born thing,

And hath its food served up in earthen ware;

It is a thing to walk with, hand in hand,

Through the every-dayness of this work-day world.

Baring its tender feet to every roughness.

Yet letting not one heart-beat go astray

From Beaut/s law of plainness and content;

A simple, fire-side thing, whose quiet smile

Can warm earth's poorest hovel to a home;

Which, when our autumn cometh, as it must,

And life in the chill wind shivers bare and leafless,

Shall still be blest with Indian-summer youth

In bleak November, and, with thankful heart,

Smile on its ample stores of garnered fruit.

As full of sunshine to our aged eyes

As when it nursed the blossoms of our spring.

Such is true love, which steals into the heart.

With feet as silent as the lightsome dawn

That kisses smooth the rough brows of the dark,

And hath its will through blissful gentleness, —

Not like a rocket, which, with savage glare.

Whirrs suddenly up, then bursts, and leaves the night

Painfully quivering on the dazed eyes ;

A love that gives and takes, that seeth faults.

Not with flaw-seeking eyes like needle points.

But, loving kindly, ever looks them down

With the overcoming faith of meek forgiveness ;

A love that shall be new and fresh each hour

As is the golden mystery of sunset.

Or the sweet coming of the evening star.

Alike, and yet most unlike, every day.

And seeming ever best and fairest now;

A love that doth not kneel for what it seeks,

But faces Truth and Beauty as their peer,

Showing its worthiness of noble thoughts

By a clear sense of inward nobleness ;

A love that in its object findeth not

All grace and beauty, and enough to sate

Its thirst of blessing, but, in all of good

Found there, it sees but heaven-granted types

Of good and beauty in the soul of man ;

And traces in the simplest heart that beats,

A family-likeness to its chosen one.

That claims of it the rights of brotherhood.

For love is blind but with the fleshly eye.

That so its inner sight may be more clear;

And outward shows of beauty only so

Are needful at the first, as is a hand

128

To guide and to uphold an inloxit's steps :
Great spirits need them not : their earnest look
Pierces the body's mask of thin disguise,
And beauty ever is to them revealed,
Behind the unshapelicst, meanest lump of clay,
With anns outstretched and eager face ablaze,-
Yearning to be but understood and loved.

rHK RKVKRIK OF POOR SUSAN.

Ar the corner of \Vot)d Street, when daylight appears,
There 's a Thrush that sings loud — it has sung for three years :
Poor Sus;in h.is passed by the spot, and has heard
In the silence of morning the song of the bird.

"I' is a note o( em hantment ; what ails her? she sees
A mouniain asrending, a vision of trees ;
Hright volumes of vapour through Ix)thbur)' glide,
And a ri\er flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

(Ireen |ustures she views in the midst of the dale,
Pown which she so often has tripped with her pail;
Ami a single small cottage, a nest like a dove*s.
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.

She looks, aiul her heart is in heaven ; but they fiide,
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade:
The stn\im will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
Ami the colours have all [ussed aifi-ay from her ej-es.

WoKDSWOItTH.

t3^>

TllK PLEASURES OF RETIREMENT.

Thk man, who, from the world escaped,
In still retreats and flow'ry solitudes,
'lo Nature's voice attends, from month to month,
And day to day, through the revolving year;
Admiring, sees her in her ev'ry shape.
Feels all her sweet emotions at his heart ;
Takes what she lih'ral gives, nor thinks of more.
He, when young Spring protrudes the bursting gems,
Marks the first bud, and sucks the healthful gale
Into his freshen'd soul ; her genial hours
He full enjoys; and not a beauty blows,
And not an op ning blossom breathes, in vain.

Thomson.

132

THE BANKS OF THE WYE,

Five years have pass'd ; five summers, with the length

Of five long winters ! and again I hear

These waters, rolling from their mountain springs

With a sweet inland murmur. Once again

Do I behold these steep and lofly cliffs,

AVTiich on a wild secluded scene impress

Thoughts of more deep seclusion

Though absent long,

These forms of beauty have not been to me
As is a landscai>e to a blind man's eye ;
But oft in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness sensations sweet.

AVhen the fretful stir

Unprofitable, and the fever of the world.
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart —
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,

O sylvan Wye !

For I have learned

To look on Nature, not as in the hour

Of thoughtless youth

And I have felt

A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air.
And the blue sky, and in the mind ot man:
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought.

And rolls through all things

. . Thou art with me here upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend,
My dear, dear Friend, and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart, and read
My former pleasures in the shooting lights

131

01 thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while
May I behold in thee what I was once,

My dear, dear Sister 1

Therefore let the moon

Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ;

And let the misty mountain winds be free

To blow against thee : and, in after years, . . .

If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,

Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts

THE BANKS OF THE WYE.

Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,

And these my exhortations 1 nor, perchance.

If I should be where I no more can hear

Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams

Of past existence, wilt thou then foi;get

'I'hat on the banks of this delightful stream

W'c stood together

. . . Nor wilt thou then forget,
r many wanderings, many years
i-e, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
s grcL-n pastoral landscape, were to me

oth for themselves and for ihv sake!

That afti
Of ahsei
And this

With wsy coiirsi;
The vessels glide, unless their s[iffd be slopped
By dead calms, thai oft lie on those smootii seas,
Whfle every zephjT sleeps ;

Then (he shrouds dro]),
The downy feather on the cordage huug
Moves not ; ihe flat sea shines hke yellow gold
Fused in the fire, or hke the marble floor
Of some old temple wide ; but where so wide,
In old or later time, its marble floor
Did ever temple boast as this, which here
Spreads its bright level many a league around?

To YONDER hill, whose sides, deform'd and steep,

Just yield a scanty siist'nance to the sheep,

With thee, my friend, I oftentimes have sped,

To see the sun rise from his healthy bed ;

To watch the aspect of the summer mom,

Smiling upon the golden fields of com,

And taste, delighted, of superior joys,

Beheld through symj)athy's enchanted eyes :

With silent admiration oft we view'd

The myriad hues o'er heaven's Ijlue concave strew'd ;

The fleecy clouds, of every tint and shade,

Round which the silvery sunbeam glancing played,

And the round orb itself, in azure throne,

Just peeping o'er the blue hill's ridgy zone :

We mark'd, delighted, how, with aspect gay.

Reviving nature hail'd returning day ;

Mark'd how the flow'rets rear'd their drooping heads,

And the wild lambkins bounded o'er the meads,

While from each tree, in tones of sweet delight.

The birds sing pagans to the source of light :

Oft have we watch'd the speckled lark arise.

Leave his grass bed, and soar to kindred skies,

And rise, and rise, till the pain'd sight no more

Could trace him in his high aerial tour;

Though on the ear, at intervals, his song

Came wafted slow the wa\y breeze along.

Hknrv Kikkb Whitc

138

.\ni» O yo I'oiintains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,

Think iu»l o\' any severing of our loves!

Vet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;

I only have relin«iuished one delight

"To li\e beneath your more habitual sway.

I U»\e ihe Urooks whu h down their channels fret,

K\en more ihan when I trij>ped lightly as they:

The inuvvent bri:;hine>s o\' a new-bom Day

Is Uwcly yet ;
The eloiids tV..u j;ailier round the setting sun
P\* lakv" a >*v\M eoltniriu;; trom an eve
That hath kvj^i watvh oVr man's mortality;
\i\o;lu^v va^v h,;:>. N\':*. and other )ulms are won.
Thanks !o the Va:m.;n heart bv which we live;
rh.;:\kN ;o ;:> u:u:o;r.vSs. us io\"s. and fears ;
To nu* ;lu* i*ax\;:";v>: t^.^wcr th,u blows can give
T/.*^; ;,^v»N ;V.,;; xu^ v^fron Uo ivx^ deep for tears.

-.«.*

YARROW VISITED.

SEPTFMBER, 1814.

And is this — Yarrow? — This the Stream

Of which my fancy c hcrishcd.
So faithfully, a waking dream ?

An image that hath perished !
O that some Minstrel's harp were near.

To utter notes of gladness.
And chase this silence from the air.

That fills my heart with sadness !

Yet why ? — a silvery c urrent flows

With uncontrolled meanderings ;
Nor have these eyes by greener hills

Been soothed, in all my wanderings.
And, through her dei)ths, vSaint Mary's Lake

Is visibly delighted ;
For not a feature of those hills

Is in the mirror slighted.

A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Yale,

Save where that pearly whiteness
Is round the rising sun diffused,

A tender hazy brightness ;
Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes

All profitless dejection ;
Though not unwilling here t' admit

A pensive recollection.

Where was it that the famous Flower

Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding ?
His bed perchance was yon smooth mound

On which the herd is feeding :
And haply from this cr>'stal pool,

Now peaceful as the morning.
The Water-wraith ascended thrice,

And gave his doleful warning.

Delicious is the Lay that sings
The haunts of happy lovers,

1'he path that leads them to the grove.

The leafy grove that covers :
And pity sanctifies the verse

That paints, by strength of sorrow
The unconquerable strength of love

Bear witness, rueful Yarrow !

But thou, that didst appear so fair

To fond imagination,
I )ost rival in the light of day

Her delicate creation :
Meek loveliness is round thee spread,

A softness still and holy ;
Tiie grace of forest charms decayed,

And i)astoral melancholy.

That region left, the Vale unfolds

Rich groves of lofty stature,
With Yarrow winding through the pomp

Of cultivated nature ;
And, rising from those lofty groves,

Behold a Ruin hoary !
The shatter^ front of Newark's Towers,

Renowned in Border story.

Fair scenes for chilAood's opening bloom,

For sportive youth to stray in ;
For manhood to enjoy his strength ;

And age to wear away in !
Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss \

It promises protection
To studious ease, and generous cares.

And every chaste affection !

How sweet, on this autumnal day.
The wild-wood's fruits to gather.

And on my true-love's forehead plant
A crest of blooming heather !

142

And what if I enwreathed my own 1
Twere no offence to reason ;

The sober hills thus deck their broivs
To meet the wintry season.

I see — but not by sight alone,
Loved Yarrow, have I won thee ;

A lay of fiuicy still survives —
Her miDshine plays upon thee !

Thy ever-youthfiil waters keep
A couise <rf lively pleasure ;

And gladsome notes my lips can breathe,
Accordant to the measure.

The vapours linger round the Heights,

They melt — and soon must vanish ;
One hour is theirs, no more is mine —

Sad thought ! which I would banish.
But that I know, where'er 1 go,

Thy genuine image. Yarrow !
Will dwell with me — to heighten joy.

And cheer my mind in sorrow.

MAI RE BHAX ASTOR.*

In a vallev far awav,

\Mlh mv Afairf than Astbr.
Short would be the summer dav.

Ever loving more and more.
^^'inteT days would all grow long.

With the \\^:\l her heart would pour.
With her kisses .ind her song.
And hcT lo\ ir.*: 'cj// <.-.- «ViV.
For.d is J/.:;>:- .^cju Astbr,
Fair is J/:.':' .-'Jjt AsK^r.
Swfc: .--> ri: : le on the shore
Si" -IS :r.v .1/.:;V- rcjT As/i^r,

Oh ! her sir;.- is ver\- j roud,

r.v: :'.er r.:.^:.iur co.c j.s s:one :
F»i:t h v : I r: : * ■. l r ': r:. v e ! *." \ o w ed

or r.e Kr.;..^ 1 .:*. ;.^ r.cr we.^

» • • • • • »

>y^ he tl^^Uji?:: their : :^ie :o quell

«*KV« A^ «*«»«« « » PCM* ««.«. *

H.V.: I uir.cj^ I d r.e^er scvir
From r.:y J/,:.-.- rtsx .-(.C'-.

T«« * * * • •»

•k.>Wl » »^\ ••» - . ^ *» .^«■^> "«• - "• »* f,'\*

. V«V •••V .-k..v<>> **..V«V ».*.--i«« » (^ .«

vi*v^rivx:s \kvXx: ,:r.vi :et:r:iir^ soil,

r«x>>>« K Ni. . ..S •.»••> »•.»-. r^^^m ^< miSt'^m

« * «

:4b

Ye blessed Creatures, 1 have heard the call

Ye to each other make ; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ;
My heart is at your festival,
Mv head hath its coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all.
Oh, evil day I if I were sullen
Willie tlie Karth herself is adorning,

Tliis sweet May morning;
And children are pulling

On every side.
In a ihousiind valleys far and wide.
Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm,
And the Habe leaps up on his Mother's arm ; —
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
— But there 's a Tree, of many, one,
A single Field which I have looked upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone :

The Pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat :
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

WOKDSWOKTH.

146

A CALM EVKNIXC;.

Ir is a l)(.Miilcc)Us Evening, calm and free:

'liic lioly time is (jiiiet as a \iin

UreMtliless witli adoration ; the broad sun

Is sinking down in its tranquillity ;

'I'hc grntlcnc^s of heaven is on the sea :

Listen I the mighty Iking is awake,

And doth with his eternal motion make

A sound like thunder —everlastingly.

Dear Child! dear (iirl : that walkest with me here,

If thou ai)i)ear'st untouched by solemn thought,

Thy nature therefore is not less divine :

Thou liest "in Abraham's bosom" all the year;

And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine,

(lod being with thee when we know it not

Wordsworth.

148

Now swaniis the village o'er the jovial mead :
The nistic youth, brown with meridian toil,
Healthful and strong ; full as the summer rose
Blown by prevailing suns, the niddy maid,
Her kindled graces burning o'er her cheek.
E'en stooping age is here ; and infant hands
Trail the long rake, or, with the fragrant load
O'erchargd, amid the kind oppression roll.
Wide flies the tedded * grain ; all in a row
Advancing broad or wheeling round the field,
They spread the breathing harvest to the sun,
That throws refreshful round a rural smell ;
Or, as they rake the green-appearing ground,
And drive the dusky wave along the mead,
TTie russet haycock rises thick behind,
In order gay ; while heard from dale to dale,
Waking the breeze, resounds the blended voice
Of happy labour, love, and social glee.

Thomson.
• Tcddedy tossed, or spread about in the siin ; to tede grass.

160

THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR.

I SAW an aged Beggar in my walk ;

And he was seated by the highway side,

On a low stnicture of rude masonry

Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they

Who lead their horses down the steep rough road

May thence remount at ease. The aged man

Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone

That overlays the pile ; and, from a bag

All white with Hour, the dole of village dames.

He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one.

And scanned them with a fixed and serious look

{)( idle com]>utation. In the sun,

Upon the second step of that small i)ile,

Surnnuuled by those wild unpeopled hills,

He sat, and ate his tood in solitude:

Ami e\cr, svattered from his palsied hand,

That, still altem]>ting to prevent the waste.

Was Kitlled still, the cmmbs in little showers

KoU iMi the iH'ound ; and the small mountain birds,

Not venturing yet to pick their destined meal,

Appiwuhed within the length of half his staff.

Him frvMU my childluxxl have I known ; and then

He was so old, ho seems not older now.

Ho traxcls on, a solitar)- man, —

His i\^v has no <.\Mujunion

, Thus, from day to day,

lU^w Wnt, his ovo for e\cr on the ground,

Uc pHcs his wwm u>r4nu\\

Poor Traveller [

\{\s \U\\X trails with him: s<.\^ivx'ly do his feet
PiMuH^ iho Nummor dust; he is so sdll
h\ Kv\>k ,^n\l motKM\. th;xt the cv>itj^ curs,
^'iv ho Kiw \v^s,sx\l the dix^t. mill turn away,
\\\Mn %m' Kui«\ji ,^t h«Ws IVx-s aiKi pris*
11\e \A\\M\t ,i^hI the U«^\. nuxiii and wxadtss
\»\x> \u\hu\> m^xxK ^>»xw"h<\i s^^* }v*Hi him br:
Uiiu\ own tV nW^v^xW^ wj^j^^xsn leaxxs behind.

t,vc

THE OLD CUMBERLAND BECGAIL

But deem 1101 this man iibclcss

While thus he creoi^s

From door lo door, ilie lillagt-rs in him
Behold a record which together binds
Past deeds and offices ot charity.
Among the farms and solitary huts,
Hamlets, and thinly scattered villages.
Where'er the aged Beggar takes his rounds,
The mild necessity of use compels
To acts of love; and habit does the work
Of reason ; yet prepares that after-joy
Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul,
103

THE OLD CUMBEKLANl) BEGCAK.

IJy that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued,
Doll) lind itself insensibly dis|)Osed

To virtue and true goodness

- . . All behold in him

A silent monitor.

My neighbour, when with jjiinctual care, each week

Duly as Friday comes, though pressed herself

I!y her own wonts, she from her chest of meal

Takes one unsjiaring handful for the scrip

Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door

Returning with exhilarated heart,

Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in Heaven.

Then let him pass, a blessing on his head !

And while in that vast solitude to which

The tide of things has led him. he appears

To breathe and live but for himself alone —

Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about

The good which the benignant taw of Heaven

THE OLD CllMBKRI.AND BEGllAR.

Has hui^ around him ; and, while life is hts
Still let him prompt the unlettered \ilhgi;ri
To tender ofRces and pensivt; tlioiighis.
Then lel him [wss, a Messing on his huail I
And long as he lan wander, let liiiii lireiUhe
The freshness of llie valleys: lel his blootl
Slnij;j,'le with frosty air ami winter miohs :
Anil let iIk- charli.rLil wlml llial snuups the
Heat his -ny loeks a-aiii-t lii, «itlKKd f.i. c

of N.,1
of N,u

A MOUNTAIN DWELLING.

You behold,
High on the breast of yon dark mountain, dark
With stony barrenness, a shining speck
Bright as a sunbeam sleeping, till a shower
Bnish it away, or cloud pass over it ;
And such it might be deemed — a sleeping sunbeam ;
But 't is a plot of cultivated ground,
Cut off an island in the dusky waste ;
And that attractive brightness is its own.
The lofty site, by nature framed, to tempt.
Amid a wilderness of rocks and stones,
The tiller's hand, a hermit might have chosen.
For opportunity presented thence
Far forth to send his wandering eye o'er land
And ocean, and look down upon the works.
The habitations, and the ways of men,
Himself unseen. But no tradition tells
That ever hermit dii)ped his maple dish
In the sweet spring that lurks 'mid yon green fields.
And no such visionarj' views l)elong
To those who occupy and till the ground.
And on the bosom of the mountain dwell —
A wedded pair in childless solitude.
A house of stones collected on the spot.
By nide hands built, with rocky knolls in front.
Backed also by a ledge of rock, whose crest
Of birch-trees waves above the chinmey-top;
In shape, in size, and colour, an abode
Such as in unsafe times of border war
Might have lK*en wished for and contrived, to ehide
The eye of roving plunderer.

WOKDSVOKTH

IG6

THE WONDERS OF THE LANE.

S'iR()N(; climber of the mountain-side,

Though thou the vale disdain,
Vet walk with me where hawthorns hide

The wonders of the lane.
High o'er the rushy springs ot Don

The stormy gloom is roll'd ;
The moorland hath not yet put on

His purple, green, and gold.
Hut here the titling* spreads his wing,

Where dewy daisies gleam ;
And here the sunflower t of the Spring

Burns bright in morning's beam.
Oh, then, while hums the earliest bee,

Where verdure fires the plain,
Walk thou with me, and stoop to see

The glories of the lane I

Elliott.
• Tiie Hedge Sparrow. f The Dandelion.

158

NUTTING.

It seems a day
(I speak of one from many singled out),
One of those heavenly days which cannot die ;
When forth I sallied from our cottage-door,
With a huge wallet o'er my shoulder slung,
A nutting-crook in hand ; and turned my steps
Towards the distant woods, a Figure (juaint.
Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds
Which for that service had been husbanded
By exhortation of my fnigal Dame.
Motley accoutrement — of power to smile
At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, — and, in truth.
More ragged than need was ! Among the woods.
And o'er the pathless rocks, I forced my way,
Lentil at length I came to one dear nook
Un visited, where not a broken bough
Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign
Of devastation ; but the hazels rose
Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung,
A virgin scene ! A little while I stood,
Breathing with such suppression of the heart
As joy delights in ; and, with wise restraint
Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed
The banquet ; or beneath the trees I sat
Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played ;
A temper known to those, who, after long
And weary expectation, have been blessed
With sudden happiness beyond all hope.
Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves
The violets of five seasons reappear
And fade, unseen by any human eye;
^Vhere fairy water-breaks do murmur on
For ever; and I saw the sparkling foam,
And — with my cheek on one of those green stones
That, fleeced with moss, beneath the shady trees,
Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep —
I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound,
In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay
Tribute to ease ; and, of its joy secure,
The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,
Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,
And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,
And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash
And merciless ravage; and the shady nook,
Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower,
Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up
Their quiet being: and, unless I now
Confound my present feelings with the past,

160

Even then, when from the Lower I turned away
Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,
I felt a sense of pain when I beheld
The silent trees and the intruding sky.
Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades
In gentleness of heart ; with gentle hand
Touch — for there is a spirit in the woods.

WOKDSWORTH.

That cottige, with its walls so white, and gabled root so quaint ;
Oh ! was it not a chosen thing for artist hands to paint ?
With casement windows, where the vine festoon'd the angled panes;
And trellised porch, where w^oodhine wove its aromatic chains.
Ah ! Memory yet keeps the spot with fond and holy care ;
I know the shape of every branch that flung its shadow there ;
And 'mid the varied homes I 've had — oh ! tell me which has vied
With that of merry Childhood by the Green Hill-side?

Eliza Cook.

162

THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS.

We walked along, while bright and red

Uprose the morning sun ;
And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said,
*' The will of God be done ! "

A village schoolmaster was he,

With hair of glittering gray ;
As blithe a man as you could see

On a Spring holiday.

And on that morning, through the grass.

And by the streaming rills.
We travelled merrily, to pass

A day among the hills.

" Our work,'' said I, " was well begim ;
Then from thy breast what thought,
Beneath so beautiful a sun.
So sad a sigh has brought?'*

A second time did Matthew stop ;

And fixing still his eye
Upon the eastern mountain-top,

To me he made reply :

"Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
Brings fresh into my mind
A day like this, which I have left
Full thirty years behind.

" And just above yon slope of com
Such colours, and no other,
Were in the sky that April mom,
Of this the very brother.

16i

THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS.

**\Vith rod and line I sued the sport
WTiich that sweet season gave,
And, coming to the church, stopped short
Beside my daughter's grave.

** Nine summers had she scarcely seen.
The i)ridc of all the vale ;
And then she sang ; — she would have been
A ver)' nightingale !

** Six feet in earth my Emma lay ;
And yet I loved her more,
For so it seemed, than till that day
I e'er had loved before.

*'And, turning from her grave, I met,
Beside the churchyard yew,
A blooming Ciirl, whose hair was wet
With points of morning dew.

" A basket on her head she bare ;
Her brow was smooth and white ;
To see a child so very fair,
It was a pure delight !

** No fountain from its rocky cave
E'er tripped with foot so free ;
She seemed as happy as a wave
That dances on the sea.

"There came from me a sigh of pain
Which I could ill confine ;
I looked at her, and looked again :
— And did not wish her mine."

166

THE TWO APRIL MORN'INCS.

Matthew is in his grave ; yet now,
Methinks, I see liim stand,

As at that moment, with his bough
Of wildiuL; in his hand

?Iknck good and evil mixed, but man has skill
And power to part them, when he feels the will I
Toil, (arc, and i)atience bless th' abstemious few.
Fear, shame, and want the thoughtless herd pursue.

Behold the Cot I where thrives th' industrious swain,
Source of his pride, his pleasure, and his gain ;
Screen'd from the winters wind, the sun's last ray
Smiles on the window and prolongs the day
Projecting thatch the woodbine's branches stop,
And turn their blossoms to the casement's top :
All need retiuires is in that cot contain'd,
And much that taste untaught and unrestrained
Surveys delighted.

Ckabbb.

166

It is the hour when from the boughs

The nightingale's high note is heard ;
It is the hour when lovers' vows

Seem sweet in every whispcrd word ;
And gentle winds, and waters near,
Make music to the lonely ear.
Each flower the dews have lightly wet.
And in the sky the stars are met,
And on the wave is deeper blue,
And on the leaf a browner hue,
And in the heaven that clear obscure.
So softly dark, and darkly pure,
Which follc^vs the decline of day,
As twilight melts beneath the moon away.

DVRON.

170

THE MOTHER'S SONG.

Her eyes are wild, her head is bare,
The sun has burnt her coal-black hair ;
Her eyebrows have a rusty stain,
And she came far from o'er the main.

She has a Baby on her arm,
Or else she were alone ;

And underneath the haystack warm,
And on the greenwood stone,
She talked and sung the woods among,
And it was in the English tongue.

" Sweet Babe ! they say that I am mad.
But nay, my heart is far too glad ;
And I am happy when I sing
Full many a sad and doleful thing ;
Then, lovely Riby, do not fear I

I pray thee have no fear of me.
But, safe as in a cradle here.
My lovely Baby ! thou shalt be :
To thee I know too much I owe ;
I cannot work thee any woe.

" A fire was once within my brain ;
And in my head a dull, dull pain ;
And fiendish faces, one, two, three.
Hung at my breasts, and pulled at me.
But then there came a sight of joy ;
It came at once to do me good ;
I waked, and saw my little Boy,
My little Boy of flesh and blood ;
Oh joy for me that sight to see !
For he was here, and only he.

" Oh ! love me, love me, little Boy !
Thou art thy mother's only joy ;
And do not dread the waves below,
When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go ;
The high crag cannot work me harm,

Nor leaping torrents when they howl ;
The Babe I carry on my arm,

He saves for me my precious soul :
Then hapi)y lie ; for blessed am I ;
Without me my sweet Babe would die.

" Then do not fear, my Boy ! for thee
Bold as a lion I will be ;
And I will always be thy guide
Through hollow snows and rivers wide.
I '11 build an Indian bower ; I know

The leaves that make the softest bed ;
And, if from me thou wilt not go,
But still be true till I am dead.
My pretty thing ! then thou shalt sing
As merry as the birds in Spring.

" Oh ! smile on me, my little Lamb !
For I thy own dear mother am.
My love for thee has well been tried :
I 've sought thy father far and wide.
I know the poisons of the shade,

I know the earth-nuts fit for food ;
Then, pretty dear, be not afraid ;
We '11 find thy father in the wood.
Now laugh and l>e gay, to the woods away !
And there, my Babe, we '11 live for aye."

WORDSWOKTH.

172

A^K UiA ihc l)oy, who, when the breeze of morn
I'irst shakes the glitt'ring droi)s from ev'ry thorn,
Unfolds his flock, then under bank or bush
Sits linking cherry-stones, or i)latting nish,
How fair is freedom? He was always free.
To co.rvc his nistic name ui)on a tree.
To snare the mole, or with ill-fashioned hook
1 o draw th' incautious minnow from the brook,
Are life's prime pleasures in his simple view,
His flock the chief concern he ever knew :
She shines but little in his heedless eyes;
'llie good we never miss, we rarely prize.

COWFUK.

174

THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN SUN AND SHOWER.

Three years she grew in sun and shower.
Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower

On earth was never so>>'n ;
This child I to myself ^lU take,
She shall be mine, and I will make

A lady of my o\\ti.

" Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse, and with me

The girl in rock and plain,
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
Shall feel an overseeing power
To kindle or restrain.

"She shall be sportive as the fawn,
That wild with glee across the lawn

Or up the mountain springs ;
And hers shall be the breathing palm,
And hers the silence and the calm
Of mute insensate things.

"The floating clouds their state shall lend
To her — for her the willow bend;

Nor shall she fail to see
Even in the motions of the storm,
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form

By silent sympathy.

'*The stars of midnight shall be dear
To her, and she shall lean her ear

In many a secret place ;
AVhere rivulets dance their wayward round.
And beauty, bom of murmuring sound,

Shall pass into her face.

176

"And vital ("(.■dmtts of ddiylit
Shall rear her finTii to stately height ;

Her virgin Iic.som swell
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give.
While she and I together live

Here in this happy dell."

Thus Nature sjiake — the work was done-
How soon my Lucy's race was run !

She died, and left to me
This heath, this calm and quiet scene,
The memory of what has been,

And never more will be.

Pm \>iNr. 'lis. () modest moon!
Now tlu' iH-ht is ;il her noon,
'NvMih tin Nw.iy lo musin;jj lie,
\\ Ink' aiound llio zephyrs sii,^h,
l\innin^ ^oU i\w sun tann'tl wheat,
Kipen'vl l\v ihe siiiunuTS heal ;
Pu timnj; all ihe nislie's joy
When l^nnKlless plenty greets his eye.

Hknry Rikicb White.

i:>i

THE FORCE OF PRAYER;

OR, THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY.

A TRADITION.

" ?DBlf)at ig gooti for a bootlcgg itnt ? **

With these dark words begins my tale ;
And their meaning is, "Whence can comfort spring,
When prayer is of no avail?"

" BBf)at 10 float! for a tiootUgg tirnc ? "
The falconer to the Lady said ;
And she made answer, " Endless sorrow 1 "
For she knew that her son was dead.

She knew it by the falconer's words.

And from the look of the falconer's eye ;

And from the love which was in her soul
For her youthful Romilly.

— Young Romilly through Barden Woods

Is ranging high and low ;
• And holds a greyhound in a leash,

To let slip upon buck or doe.

And the pair have reached that fearful chasm,

How tempting to bestride !
For lordly Wharf is there pent in

With rocks on either side.

This striding-place is called The Strid,

A name which it took of yore :
A thousand years hath it borne that name,

Anfl' shall a thousand more.

180

THE FORCE OF PRAYER.

And hither is young Romilly come,

And what may now forbid
That he, perha])s for the hundredth time.

Shall iKnind across " Tho Strid"?

He sprang in glee, — for what cared he

That the river was strong, and ihe rocks were steep
— But the greyhound in the leash hung back,
And checked him in his leap.

The boy is in the aims of Wharf,

And strangled by a merciless force;
For never more was young Romilly seen

Till he rose a lifeless corse.

THE FORCE OF PRAVER.

Now there is stillness in tlie vale.

And long unspeaking sorrow;
\\'harf shall be to pitying hearts

A n;imc more sad than Harrow.

If for a lovL-r the I-idy wept,

A solace she might horrow
rrodi (knth, and from tlie jwssion of death ;

Old \V'harf might lieal lier sofiow.

She weeps not for the wedding-day
Which was to be to-morrow ;

Her hope was a farther-looking hope,
And hers a mother's sorrow.

He was a tree that stood atone,
And proudly did its branches wave ;

And the root of this delightful tree
Was in her husband's gravel

THE FORCE OF PRAYER.

I^ng, long in darkness did she sit.

And her first words were, ** Let there be

In Bolton, on the field of Wliarf,
A stately Priory I "

The stately Pri(.)ry was reared ;

And Wharf, as he moved alon^,
To Matins joined a mournful voice,

Nor failed at ^^en-son;^^ •

And the Lady nrnved in iK.ivinuss

That looke<l n(;l fur relief!
l]ut slowly did her succour come.

And a jjatience to her ,^Tief

( )h I there is never sorrow of heart

That sJKill hick a timeh end,
If hut to (jod we turn, and ask

Of Him to he our friend !

W. 'i.Dsw.jk 1 II.

183

THE JOYS OF HOME.

SwKKT are the joys of home,

And i)ure as sweet ; for they,
Like dews of morn and evening, come

To wake and close the day.

The world hath its delights,

And its delusions too ;
But home to calmer bliss invites,

More tranquil and more true.

The mountain tlood is strong,

lUit fearful in its pride ;
^\'hile gently rolls the stream along

The peaceful valley's side.

Life's charities, like light.

Spread smilingly afar ;
But stars approach 'd become more bright,

And home is life's own star.

The pilgrim's step in vain

Seeks Eden's sacred ground !
But in home's holy joys, again

An Eden may be found.

A glance of heaven to see,

To none on earth is given ;
And yet a happy family

Is but an earlier heaven.

John Bowrinc.

1&4

Among those joys, *t is one at eve to sail
On the broad River with a favourite gale ;
When no rough waves upon the bosom ride,
But the keel cuts, nor rises on the tide ;
Safe from the stream the nearer gimwale stands,
Where playful children trail their idle hands :
Or strive to catch long grassy leaves that float
On either side of the impeded boat ;
What time the moon arising shows the mud,
A shining border to the silver flood.

Crabbe.

186

.^11 1. lii^i^^JW-^' - .

WiiKN', in the south, the wan noon, brooding still,
IJreathed a pale steam around the glaring hill,
And shades of deep-embattled clouds were seen.
Spotting the northern clifis with lights between ;
(iazing the tempting shades to them denied,
When stood the shortened herds amid the tide,
Where from the barren wall's unsheltered end
Long rails into the shallow lake extend.

Wordsworth.

JSK

RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE.

A GENTLE answer did the old man make,

In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew ;
And him witli further words I thus bespake :
" What kind of work is that which you i)ursue ?

This is a lonesome place for one like you."
He answered me with pleasure and surprise,
And there was, while he spake, a fire about his eyes.

He told me tiiat he to this pond had come
To gather leeches, being old and i)oor :

Employment hazardous and wearisome !
And he had many hardships to endure :
From pond to j)ond he roamed, from moor to moor;

Housing, with Ciod's good helj), by choice or chance;

And in this way he gained an honest maintenance.

The old man still stood talking by my side;
But now his voice to me was like a stream

Scarce heard ; nor word from word could I divide ;
And the whole body of the man did seem
Like one whom I had met with in a dream;

Or, like a man from some far region sent,

To give me human strength and strong admonishment

WOKDSWOSTU.

Ift-i

My ramble ended, I returned :

Heaii, trotting far before.
The tloatini^^ wreath again discerned.

And ]>Uinging, left the shore.

r saw him, with that hly (TO|)])ed,

Impatient swim to meet
My (jiiick a]»])roach, and soon he droi)i)ed

The treasure at my teet.

Channed with the sight, the world, I cried,

Shall hear of this thy deed :
My dog shall mortify the pride

Of man's superior breed :

But chief myself I will enjoin,

Awake at duty's call,
To show a love as prompt as thine

To Him who gives me all.

COWPKR.

194

THE BROOK.

Brook ! whose society the Poet seeks,
Intent his wasted spirits to renew ;
And whom the curious Painter doth pursue
Through rocky passes, among flowery creeks,
And tracks thee dancing down thy water-breaks ;
If I some type of thee did wish to view.
Thee, and not thee thyself, I would not do
Like Grecian Artists, give thee human cheeks,
Channels for tears ; no Naiad shouldst thou be,
Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints, nor hairs.
It seems the Eternal Soul is clothed in thee
With purer robes than those of flesh and blood,
And hath bestowed on thee a better good —
Unwearied joy, and life ^^athout its cares.

WOKDSWOKTH

199

IHK BLIND HIGHLAND ROY.

A I'AI.K 10LL1 ItV THK F[RESLUF,.

He ne'er liad seen one earthly sight ;
The sun, the day ; the stars, the night ;
Or tree, or butterfly, or flower.
Or fish in stream, or bird in bower,
Or woman, man, or child.

Beside a lake their cottage stood,
Not small, like ours, a peaceful flood ;
But one of mighty size, and strange ;
That, rough or smooth, is fall of change,
And stirring in its bed.

But what do his desires avail?
For he must never handle sail,
Not mount the mast, nor row, nor float
In sailor's ship or fisher's boat
Upon the rocking waves.

THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY.

When one day (now mark me well,
Ye soon shall know how this befell)
He's m a vessel of his own,
On the swift water hurrying down
Towards the mighty sea.

But say wliat bears him?-

The shell of a green Turtle, thin
And hollow ; you might sit therein,
It was so wide and deep.

Twas even the largest of its kind,
Large, thin, and light as birch-tree rind.
So light a shell that it would swim,
And gaily lift its fearless brim
Above the to^>ing surge.

And this the litttle blind Bov knew :
And he a story strange, yet true.
Had henrd, huw in a shell like this
An Knglish boy, O thought of bliss I
Had stoutly launched from shore.

A bold thought roused him, and he took
The shell from out its secret nook,
And bore it in his arms.

And with the hapi)y burthen hied,
And pushed it from Loch Leven's side, —
Stepped into it; and, witliout dread.
Following the fancies in his head,
He paddled up and down.

Awhile he stood upon his feet;
He felt the motion — took his seat;
And dallied thus, till from the shore
The tide, retreating more and more,
Had sucked, and sucked him in.

201 26

THE BUND H1CHI.AND BOY.

But when he was first seen, oh me,
What shrieking and what misery ! . . .

And quickly, with a silent crew,
A boat is ready to pursue ;
Aud from tlic shore their course tliey take,
Aud swiftly down the running lake
They follow the blind Boy.

And tlioii, when he was brought tu land,
l\!ll .sure they were a !ia|)py band.
Which, gathcriug round, did on tlie banks
Of that great water give God thanks,
.\nd wdcouied tlie poor Child,

Full six hundred years have Hetl,

And the Abbey pile is scatter'd ;
War and ruin have been spread,

Blood been spilt, and keystones shatler'd.
Ivy-stalks are running over

Cloister wall and oriel top ;
Bluebell-cups and snowy clover

Tempt the first young bees to stoj).
High and wild the gross is growing,

Where the altar shrine was raised ;
There the fresh Spring wind is blowing,

There the wandering kine have grazed.

EuiA Cook.

For he was one in all their idle sport,
And like a monarch niled their little court ;
The i)liant bow he form'd, the flying ball,
The bat, the wicket, were his labours all.

Crabbe.

fO\

I HAVE seen
A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract
Of inland ground, applying to his ear
The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell ;
To which, in silence hushed, his very soul
Listened intensely ; and his countenance soon
Brightened with joy ; for murmurings from ^^ithin
Were heard, — sonorous cadences I whereby,
To his l)elief, tlie monitor expressed
Mysterious union with its native sea.
Even such a shell the universe itself
Is to the ear of faith ; and there are times,
I doubt not, when to you it doth impart
Authentic tidings of invisil)le things ;
Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power ;
And central [)eace subsisting at the heart
Of endless agitation. Here you stand,
Adore, and worship, when you know it not :
Pious beyond the intention of your thought.
Devout above the meaning of your will.
\'es, you have felt, and may not cease to feel.
The estate of man would be indeed forlorn,
If false conclusions of the reasoning power
Made the eye blind, and closed the passages
Through which the ear converses >^nth the heart.
Has not the soul, the being of your life.
Received a shock of awful consciousness.
In some calm season, when these lofty rocks
At night's approach bring down the unclouded sky
To rest upon their circumambient walls?
A temjjle framing of dimensions vast.
And yet not too enormous for the sound
Of human anthems, — choral song, or burst
Sublime of instrumental harmony,
To glorify the Eternal ! What if these
Did never break the stillness that prevails
Here — if the solemn nightingale be mute,
.And the soft woodlark here did never chant

200

Her vespers? — Kaliire fails not to provide
Impulse and utterance. The whispering air
Sends inspiration from the shadowy heights
And blind recesses of the cavemed rocks ;
The little rills, and waters numberless.
Inaudible by daylight, blend their notes
With the loud streams.

Advancing Spring profusely spreads abroad

Flowers of all hues, with sweetest fragrance stored ;

Where'er she treads Love gladdens every plain,

Delight on tiptoe bears her lucid train;

Sweet Hope with conscious brow before her flies,

Anticipating wealth from summer skies ;

All Nature feels her renovating sway.

The sheep-fed i)asture and the meadow gay ;

And trees and shnibs, no longer budding seen,

Disi>lay the new-grown branch of lighter green ;

On airy downs the idling shepherd lies,

And sees to-morrow in the marbled skies.

Bloomfibld.

foe

Down the sultry arc of dav,

The burning wheels have urged their way,

And eve along the western skies

Sheds her intermingling dyes.

Down the deep, the wivrw lane,

(leaking conies the em})ty wain,

And Driver on the shaft-horse sits,

\Vhistlin_r now and then l>v fits ;

And oft, with his accustomed call,

Urging on the sluggish IJall.

The barn is still, the master's gone.

And Thresher ])uts his jacket on.

While Dick, upon the ladder tall.

Nails the dead kite to the wall.

Here comes Shepherd Jack at last,

He has penned the sheep-cote fast,

For Hwas but two nights before,

A lamb was eaten on the moor :

His empty wallet Rover carries,

Nor for Jack, when near home, tarries.

Henry Kirkb Whitb.

210

Having reached the house,
I found its rescued inmate safely lodged,
And in serene possession of himself,
Btrside a genial fire that seemed to spread
A gleam of comfort o'er his pallid face.
Oreat show of joy the Housewife made, and truly
Was glad to find her conscience set at ease;
And not less glad, for sake of her good name,
That the poor sufferer had escaped with life.
But though at first he seemed to have received
No harm, and uncomplaining as before
Went through his usual tasks, a silent change
Soon showed itself : he lingered three short weeks ;
And from the Cottage hath been borne to-day.

WORDSWOFTH.

212

Mount slowly, sun ! and may our journey lie

Awhile within the shadow of this hill,

This friendly hill, a shelter from thy beams I

Such is the summer |)ilL,Tim's frejjucnt wish ;

And as that wish, with i»revalence of thanks

For j)resent good ocr fear of future ill.

Stole in aniung the morning's blither thoughts,

'Twas ehascd aw.iy, for towards the western side

Of the broad vale, casting a casual glance.

We saw a throng of }»eoj)le ; wherefore met?

Blithe notes of music, suddenly let loose

On the thrilled ear, did to the (juestion yield

Prom|)t answer ; they i)roclaim the annual Wake,

Which the bright season favours. Tabor and pipe

In i)urpose joined to hasten and re|)rove

The laggard Rustic ; and rei)ay with boons

Of merriment a i)arti-coloured knot.

Already fonned upon the village green.

Beyond the limits of the shadow cast

By the broad hill, glistened uj^on our sight

That gay assemblage. Round them and above,

(}litter, with dark recesses interposed,

Casement, and cottage roof, and stems of trees

Half-veiled in vapoury cloud, the silver steam

Of dews fast melting on their leafy boughs

By the strong sunbeams smitten. Like a mast

Of gold, the Maypole shines; as if the rays

Of morning, aided by exhaling 'dew,

With gladsome influence could reanimate

The faded garlands dangling from its sides.

Wordsworth.

Shf.kp grazed the field ; some with soft bosom pressed
The herb as soft, while nibbHng stray'd the rest ;
Xor noise was heard but of the hasty brook,
Stnigghng, detain'd in many a j)etty nook.
All seemed so j)eac:eful, that, from them convey'd.
To me their j^eace by kind contagion spread.

COWI-ER.

216

So Abel, pondering on his state forlorn,

Look'd round for comfort, and was chased by scorn.

And now we saw him on the beach reclined,

Or causeless walking in the wintry wind;

And when it raised a loud and angry sea,

He stood and gazed, in wretched reverie :

He heeded not the frost, the rain, the snow.

Close by the sea he walked alone and slow.

Crabbb.

218

ELLEN IRWIN;

OR, THE BRAES OF KIRTLE.

Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate

Upon the Braes of Kirtle,
Was lovely as a Grecian maid

Adorned with wreaths of ni}Ttlc.
Young Adam Bnice beside her lay ;
And there did they beguile the day
With love and gentle speeches,
Beneath the budding beeches.

From many Knights and many Scjuires
The Bruce had been selected ;

And Gordon, fairest of them all,
By Ellen was rejected.

Sad tidings to that noble youth I

For it may be proclaimed with truth,

If Bruce had loved sincerely.

That Gordon loves as dearly.

But what is Gordon^s beauteous face.
And what are Gordon's crosses.

To them who sit in Kirtle's Braes
Upon the verdant mosses ?

Alas that ever he was bom !

The Gordon, couched behind a thorn.

Sees them and their caressing,

Beholds them blest and blessing.

Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts
That through his brain are travelling,-

And, starting up, to Bruce's heart
He laimched a deadly javelin !

Fair Ellen saw it when it came,
And, stepping forth to meet the same,
Did with her body cover
The youth, her chosen lover.

And, falling into Bruce's arms,

Thus died the beauteous Ellen,
Thus from the heart of her true love

The mortal spear repelling.
And Bnice, as soon as he had slain
The Ciordon, sailed away to Spain,
And fought with rage incessant
Against the Moorish Crescent

But many days, and many months.

And many years ensuing,
This wTetched Knight did vainly seek

The death that he was wooing ;
And, coming back across the wave,
Without a groan, on Ellen's grave
His body he extended,
And there his sorrow ended.

Now ye, who willingly have heard
The tale I have been telling.

May in Kirkonnel churchyard view
The grave of lovely Ellen :

By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid ;

And, for the stone upon his head,

May no rude hand deface it,

And its forlorn Hic Jacet !

Wordsworth.

220

Waters, bright Waters, how sweetly ye glide

Where the tapering bulrush stands up in your tide ;

Where the white lilies peep and the green cresses creep,

And your whimi)le just lulleth the minnow to sleep.

Now lurking in silence, all lonely you take

Your meandering course through the close-tangled brake ;

Where the adder may wink as he basks on the brink,

And the fox-cub and timid fawn fearlessly drink.

'Mid valley and greenwood right onward ye ramble,

Through the maze of the rushes and trail of the bramble;

Where the Bard with his note, and the child with his boat,

Will linger beside ye to dream and to dote.

For a moment the mill-wheel may waken your wrath,

And disturb the repose ol your silvery path ;

But your passionate spray falls like rainbows at play.

And as gently as ever ye steal on your way.

Humming a song as ye loiter along.

Looking up in the face of a shadowless day.

Waters, bright Waters, how sweetly ye glide

In the brooklet, with blossoms and birds by your side!

EuzA Cook.

222

But trees, and rivulets whose rapid course

Defies the check of winter, haunts of deer,

And sheep-walks populous with bleating lambs.

And lanes, in whic h the primrose ere her time

Peeps through the moss that clothes the hawthorn root,

Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and tnith,

Not shy as in the world, and to be won

By slow solicitation, seize at once

The roving thought, and fix it on themselves.

COWI'ER.

224

I LovKi) the old man, for I pitied him.

A task it was, I own, to hold discourse

\Vith one so slow in gathering up his thoughts.

But he was a cheap pleasure to my eyes ;

Mild, inofiensive, ready in /its way,

And useful to his utmost power : and there

Our Housewife knew full well what she possessed

He was her vass^il of all labour, tilled

Her garden, from the pasture fetched her kine

And, one among the orderly array

Of haymakers, beneath the burning sun

Maintained his place ; or heedfully pursued

His course, on errands bound to other vales,

Leading sometimes an inexperienced child,

Too young for any profitable task.

So moved he like a shadow that performed

Substantial service.

WOKUSWUKTU.

226

THE SOLITARY REAPER.

Behold her, single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland lass !
Reaping and singing by herself;

Stop here, or gently pass !
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain.
Oh, listen ! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chaunt

So sweetly to reposing bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,

Amonir Arabian sands :
No sweeter voice was ever heard
In Spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
l^reaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings ?

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-ofl" things,

And battles long ago ;
Or is it some more humble lay.
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain.
That has been, and may be again I

Whate'er the theme the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending,

I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending ;—

I listened till I had my fill ;

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.

Words woiiTU.
228

RovKR, awake I the grey cock crows !
( 'omc, shake your coat and go with me !
High in the east the green hill glows,
And glory crowns our shelt'ring tree.
The sheep expect us at the fold :
My faithful dog, let 's haste away.
And in his earliest beams behold.
And hail, the source of cheerful day.
Half his broad orb o'erlooks the hill.
And darting down the valley flies,
At every casement welcome still,
The golden summons of the skies,
(io, fetch my staff; and o'er the dews
Let echo waft thy gladsome voi( e.
Shall we a cheerful note refuse
When rising mom proclaims " Rejoice " ?

Bloomfirld.

280

THE IDLE SHEPHERD BOYS; OR, DUNGEON-GHYLL

FORCE.

Beneath a rock, upon the grass,
Two Boys are sitting in the sun ;
It seems they have no work to do,
Or that their work is done.
On pipes of sycamore they play
Tlie fragments of a Christmas hymn ;
Or with that plant which in our dale
We call stag-horn, or fox's tail.
Their nistv hats thev trim :
And thus, as hap])y as the day,
Those Shei)herds wear the time away.

Along the river's stony marge

The sand-lark chaunts a joyous song ;

The thrush is busy in the wood,

And carc)ls loud and strong.

A thousand lamhs are on the rocks,

All newly horn ; both earth and sky

Keep jubilee : and more than all,

Those Boys with their green coronal ;

They never hear the cry

That plaintive cry ! which up the hill

Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll.

Said Walter, leaping from the ground,
" Down to the stump of yon old yew
We'll for our whistles nm a race."

Away the Shepherds flew.

They leapt — they ran— and when they came
Right opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll,
Seeing that he should lose the prize,
** Stop ! " to his comrade Walter cries —
James stopped with no good will:
Said Walter then, "Your task is here,
'T will keep you working half a year.

232

THE IDLE SHEPHERD BOYS.

"Now cross wIktu I sli.ill cross— .:omL- on.
And foDoiv inc wIhto I slwli Icad"-
Tlic oiliL-r look liLiii at his uord ;
Bui did not like the deed.
It was a s])ot, which yoii may see
If ever you to Langdale go :
Into a chasm a mighty block
Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock ;
The gulf is di.'ep btlow ;
And in a basin black and small
Receives a lofty waterfall.

With staff in hand across the cleft

The challenger began his march ;

And now, all eyes and feet, hath gained

The middle of the arch.

When list ! he hears a piteous moan —

THE IDLE SHEPHERD DOYS.

Again I — his heart within him dies —
His pulse is stopped, his breath is lost,
He totters, pale as any ghost,
And, looking down, he spies
A lamb, that in the pool is pent
Within that black and frightful rent.

The lamb had sli|)|)ed into the stream,

And safe without a bruise or wound

The cataract had borne him down

Into the gulf profound.

His dam had seen him when he fell,

She saw him down the torrent borne ;

And, wliile wiih all a motlier's love

She from the lofty rocks above

Sent forth a cry forlorn,

The lamb, still swimming round and round.

Made answer to that ])laintive sound.

When he had learnt what thing it was

That sent this rueful cry, I ween

The Boy recovered heart, and told

The sight which he had seen.

Both gladly now deferred their task ;

Nor was there wanting other aid ; —

A Poet, one who loves the brooks

Far better than the sages' books,

By chance had hither stra/d ; . . . .

He drew it gently from the pool,

And brought it forth into the light :

The Shepherds met him with his charge,

An unexpected sight !

Into their arms the lamb they took,

Said they, " He 's neither maimed nor scarred."

Then up the steep ascent they hied,

And placed him at his mother's side.

Wordsworth.
231

Ik lubv lit
Kiir iKihy 1

And lln.' .T(.ss is ..ri thv \n-.isl;
Oh, i)k- Mioiv no iLi.iR' .-.in .iijll
That little (l(n u ill its iivst !

Shnll wc shut tht- liahy out. sin-xt wiff,

\Vhiie the (.hiUinf,' ivinds <ly blow?
Oh, the f;'"'»^e is now its ln'ci,

And its coverlid is snow.
Oh. our merry I.irci is snared, sweet wife

That the rain of music gate.
And Ihe snow falls on our hearts,

And our hearts are eadi a grave.

Oh, it was (he lamii of our life, sweet w

Blown out in a night of gloom;
A leaf from our flower of love,

Nipped in its fresh Spring bloom.
But the lamp will shine above, sweet wif

And the leaf again shall grow.
Where there are no bitter winds.

And no dreary, dreary snow.

SwKF.T Highland Girl, a ver)* shower

Of beauty is thy earthly dower!

Twit c seven consenting years have shed

'Ilieir utmost bounty on thy head :

And these grey rocks ; this household lawn ;

These trees, a veil just half withdrawn ;

'lliis fill of water, that doth make

A murmur near the silent lake ;

This little bay ; a (luiet road

That holds in shelter thy abode ;

In tnith, together do ye seem

Like something fashioned in a dream ;

Such forms as from their covert peep

When earthly cares are laid asleep !

Yet, dream and vision as thou art,

I bless thee with a human heart !

(lod shield thee to thy latest years !

I neither know thee nor thy peers,

And yet my eyes are filled with tears.

WOXOSWOBTH.

236

THE FOUNTAIN.

VVe talked with open heart, and tongue

Affectionate and true,
A pair of friends, though I was young,

And Matthew seventy-two.

VVe lay beneath a s[)reading oak,

Beside a mossy seat ;
And from the turf a fountain broke,

And gurgled at our feet.

" Now, Matthew ! let us try to match
This water's |)leasant tune
With some old border soul;, or catch.
That suits a summer's noon.

" Or of the < hurch-clock and the chimes
Sing here, beneath the shade.
That halfmad thing of witty rhymes
Which you last April made !''

In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
The spring beneath the tree ;

And thus the dear old man replied.
The grey-haired man of glee :

** Down to the vale this water steers,
How merrily it goes !
'T will murmur on a thousand years.
And flow as now it flows.

** And here, on this delightful day
I cannot choose but think
How oft, a vigorous man, I lay
Beside this fountain's brink.

" My eyes are dim with childish tears,
My heart is idly stirr'd.
For the same sound is in my ears
Which in those days 1 heard.

" Thus fares it still in our decay :
And yet the wiser mind
Mourns less for what age takes away
Than what it leaves behind.

" The blackbird in the summer trees,
The lark upon the hill,
Let loose their carols when they please.
Are quiet when they will.

** With Nature never do they wage
A foolish strife ; they see
A ha|)i)y youth, and their old age
Is beautiful and free :

" But we are i)ressed by heavy laws
And often, glad no more.
We wear a face of joy, because
We have been glad of yore.

"If there is one who need bemoan
His kindred laid in earth.
The household hearts that were his own,
It is the man of mirth.

** My days, my friend, are almost gone,
My life has been approved.
And many love me ; but by none
Am I enough beloved."

** Now both himself and me he wTongs,
The man who thus complams !
I live and sing my idle songs
Upon these happy plains ;

'* And, Matthew, for thy children dead,
ril be a son to thee ! "
At this he grasped my hand, and sa'd,
" Alas ! that cannot be."

238

We rose up from the tountainside ; And, ere we came to Leonard's Rock,

And down the smooth descent He sang those witty rhymes

Of the gicen sheep-track did we glide ; About the crazy old church-clock,

Asd through the wood we went ; And the bewildered chimes.

The country was enclosed; a wide
And sandy road had banks on either side ;
Where, lo ! a hollow on the left appear'd,
And there a gi[)sy tribe their tent had reafd ;
'Twas open spread, to catch the morning sun.
And they had now their early meal begim,
When two brown boys just left their grassy seat,
The early Trav'ller with their prayers to greet.
While yet Orlando held his pence in hand,
He saw their sister on her duty stand ;
Some twelve years old, demure, affected, sly,
Prepared the force of early powers to tr)' :
Sudden a look of langour he descries,
And well-feigned apprehension in her eyes ;
Train'd but yet savage, in her speaking face
He mark'd the features of her vagrant race,
When a light laugh and roguish leer expressed
The vice implanted in her youthful breast.
Forth from the tent her elder brother came,
Who seem'd offended, yet forbore to blame
The young designer, but could only trace
The looks of pity in the Travellers face.

Crabbb.

240

O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
That Nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive !
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benedictions : not indeed
For that which is most worthy to be blest;
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,
With new-fledg'd hope still fluttering in his breast :

Not for these I raise
I'he song of thanks and praise ;
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings ;
Blank misgivings of a Creature
Moving about in worlds not realized,
High instincts before which our mortal Nature
Did tremble, like a guilty thing suq^rised I
But for those first affections
Those shadowy recollections,

Which, be they what they may.
Are yet the fountain light of all our day.
Are yet a master light of all our seeing ;

Uphold us — cherish — and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence : truths that wake,

To perish never;
VNTiich neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,

Nor Man nor Boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy.
Can utterly abolish or destroy!

Hence, in a season of calm weather,
Though inland far we be,
Our Souls have sight of that immortal Sea

Which brought us hither;
Can in a moment travel thither —
And see the Children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

WoiDswoinL

2-12

OcKAN exhibits, fathomless and broad,
Much of tlie power and majesty of God.
He swathes about the swelling of the deep,
That shines and rests, as infants smile and sleep.
Vast as it is, it answers as it flows
The breathings of the lightest air that blows ;
Curling and whit ning over all the waste,
The rising waves obey th' increasing blast,
Abrupt and horrid as the tempest roars,
Thunder and flash upon the steadfast shores,
Till He, that rides the whirlwind, checks the rein,
Then all the world of waters sleeps again.

COWPBR.

244

GLEN ALMAIN; OR, THE NARROW GLEN.

In this still place, remote from men,

Sleeps Ossian, in the Narrow Glen ;

In this still place, where murmurs on

But one meek streamlet, only one,

He sang of battles, and the breath

Of stormy war, and violent death ;

And should, mcthinks, when all was past,

Have rightfully been laid at last

Where rocks were rudely heai)ed, and rent

As by a spirit turbulent ;

WTiere sights were rough, and sounds were wild,

And ever}'thing unreconcil'd ;

In some complaining dim retreat,

P'or fear and melancholy meet ;

But this is calm : there omnot be

A more entire tranquillity.

Does then the Bard sleep here indeed?
Or is it but a groundless creed?
What matters it? — I blame them not
Whose fancy in this lonely spot
Was moved, and in this way expressed
Their notion of its perfect rest.
A convent, even a hermit's cell.
Would break the silence of this Dell :
It is not quiet, is not ease;
But something deeper far than these :
The separation that is here
Is of the grave ; and of austere
And happy feelings of the dead :
And therefore was it rightly said
That Ossian, last of all his race !
Lies buried in this lonely place.

WOXOSWORTH.

246

THE KITTEN AND THE FALLING LEAVES.

That way look, my Infant, lo
What a pretty baby-show!
See the Kitten on the wall,
Sporting with the leaves that fall,
Withered leaves — one — two— and three —
From the lofty elder tree !
Through the calm and frosty air
Of this morning bright and fair,
Eddying round and round they sink,
Softly, slowly : one might think.
From the motions that are made,
Every little leaf conveyed
Sylph or Fairy hither tending, —
To his lower world descending,
Each invisible and mute.
In this wavering parachute.

But the Kitten, how she starts.

Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts !

First at one, and then its fellow.

Just as light and just as yellow ;

There are many now — now one —

Now they stop, and there are none.

^^^lat intenseness of desire

In her upward eye of fire!

With a tiger-leap half-way

Now she meets the coming prey,

Lets it go as fast, and then

Has it in her power again:

Now she works yntli three or four.

Like an Indian conjuror;

Quick as he in feats of art.

Far beyond in joy of heart

Were her antics played in the eye

Of a thousand standers-by.

Clapping hands with shout and stare,

What would little Tabby care

248

And I nill liavi; my carduss season,
Sjjitc of molanrholy reason :
Wiil walk tliroiLgh lift' in smh a way
That, wlicn time brings on decay,
Now and then I may possess
Hours ol perfect giadsomcncss.
—Pleased by any random toy ;
By a kitten's busy joy,
Or an infant's laughing eye
Sharing in the ecstacy.

THE MAYING.

Fair May unveils her ruddy cheek,

And decks her brow with daisies,

And scatters blossoms as she goes

Through fields and forest mazes.

The fragrant hawthorn, white with bloom,

Fills all the uplands airy :

The grass is dry, the sky is clear —

Let 's go a-Maying, Mary !

Time lays hb finger light on thee :
Thy cheeks are red as peaches ;
Thine eyes are bright as first they glow'd
To hear my youthful speeches.
Thine eldest boy is nine years old,
Thy youngest babe two summers ;
And thou art blooming like a girl,
'Mid all the little comers.

I dearly love, in days like this,

When birds make music o'er us,

To roam with thee through wildwood paths.

And listen to the chorus ;

To help thee over crags and stiles,

And take thy hand in leaping,

And out and in to see thy face

Through leaves and branches peeping.

Ten years have pass'd since first I saw
Thy fresh and budding beauty ;
And love has ripen'd with the years.
And link'd itself with duty.
In lifers young Spring I swore to thee
A truth that should not vary;
And now, in summer of my days,
I love thee better, Mary !

Bring all the four into the woods —

We'll set them gathering posies

Of harebells blue and pimpernels,

Instead of garden roses.

Beneath the trees we'll have one day

Of frolicsome employment ;

And birds shall sing and winds shall blow,

To help us to enjoyment.

Leave house affairs to shift awhile —

Leave work, and care, and sorrow;

We'll be the merrier to-day,

And happier to-morrow.

I would not greatly care for life,

If Fate and Toil contrary

Could not afford me now and then

A holiday with Mary.

And Fate is kind to those who strive

To make existence pleasant.

With harmless joys and simple tastes.

And kindness ever present.

We'll not complain; so come away.

And when we want a treasure.

We 11 use these May-day memories

To buy forgotten pleasure.

Charles Mackay.

250

WEDDETD LOVE.

This fair Bride —
In the devotedness of youthful love,
Preferring me to parents and the choir
Of gay companions, to the natal roof,
And all known places and familiar sights
(Resigned with sadness gently weighing down
Her treml)ling exjK^ctations, but no more
Than did to her due honour, and to me
Yielded, that day, a confidence sublime
In wliat I had to build upon) — this Bride,
Young, modest, meek, and beautiful, I led
To a low cottage in a sunny bay,
Where the s;dt sea innocuously breaks,
And the sea-breeze as innocently breathes,
On Devon's leafy shores; a sheltered hold,
In a soft clime encouraging the soil
To a luxuriant bounty ! As our steps
Approach th' embowered al.)ode — our chosen seat —
See, rooted in the earth, its kindly bed,
Th* unendangered myrtle, decked with flowers,
Before the threshold stands to welcome us I
While, in the flowering myrtle's neighbourhood.
Not overlooked, but courting no regard,
Those native plants, the holly and the yew.
Gave modest intimation to the mind
Of willingness with which they would unite
With the green myrtle, f endear the hours
Of winter, and protect that pleasant place.
Wild were the walks upon those lonely Downs,
Track leading into track; how marked, how worn
Into bright verdure, among fern and gorse,
Winding away its never-ending line
On their smooth surface, evidence ^^as none :
But, there, lay open to our daily haunt,
A range of unappropriated earth.
Where youth's ambitious feet might move at large;
Whence, unmolested wanderers, we beheld

252

The shining giver of the day diffuse
His brightness o'er a tract of sea and land
Gay as our spirits, free as our desires,
As our enjoyments boundless. From those heights
We dropped, at pleasure, into sylvan combs ;
Where arbours of impenetrable shade.
And mossy seats, detained us side by side.
With hearts at ease, and knowledge in our hearts
"That all the grove and all the day was our^."

Lo, YONDER shed ! obsen-c its garden ground,
With the low paling, foim'd of wreck, around :
There dwells a fisher : if you view his boat,
With bed and barrel — 'tis his house afloat;
Look at his house, where ropes, nets, blocks abound,
Tar, jjitch, and oakum — 't is his boat aground :
That space enclosed but little he regards,
Si)read o'er with relics of masts, sails, and yards ;
Fish by the wall, on spit of elder, rest,
Of all his food the cheapest and the best.
By his own labour caught, for his own hunger dressed.

Here our reformers come not ; none object
To paths polluted, or upbraid neglect ;
None care that ashy heaps at doors are cast,
That coal-dust flies along the blinding blast ;
None heed the stagnant pools on either side,
Where new-launch'd ships of infant sailors ride :
Rodneys in rags here British valour boast,
And lisping Nelsons fright the Gallic coast;
They fix the rudder, set the swelling sail,
They point the bowsprit, and they blow the gale.

Crabbe.

251

How SWEET it is, when mother Fancy rocks

The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood !

An old place, full of many a lovely brood.

Tall trees, green arbours, and ground flowers in flocks;

And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks,

Like to the bonny lass, who plays her pranks

At Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks, —

When she stands cresting the Clown's head, and mocks

The crowd beneath her. Verily I think.

Such place to me is sometimes like a dream

Or map of the whole world : thoughts, link by link,

Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam

Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink.

And leap at once from the delicious stream.

Wordsworth

266

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.

(See Frvutis/iece.)

They grew in beauty side by side.
They filled one home with glee,

Their graves are severed far and T^ide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night

O'er each fair sleeping brow.
She had each folded flower in sight —

Where are those dreamers now?

One 'midst the forests of the West,

By a dark stream is laid ;
'Hie Indian knows his place of rest

Far in the cedar shade.
Tlie sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,

He lies where pearls lie deej) :
He was the loved of all, yet none

O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are drest

Above the noble slain ;
He wrapt his colours round his breast

On a blood-red field of Spain.
And one — o'er her the myrtle showers

Its leaves, by soft winds fanned ;
She faded 'midst Italian flowers,

The last of that bright band.

And, parted thus, they rest — ^who played

Beneath the same green tree,
Whose voices mingled as they prayed

Around one parent knee:
They that with smiles lit up the hall.

And cheered with song the hearth, —
Alas for love, if thou wert all.

And nought beyond, O earth !

Mrs. Hkmans.
258

SKLECTIOXS

r;<i 'M

BEATTIE'S "MINSTREL."

The warbling woodland, the resounding shore.
The pomp o( groves, and garniture of fields ;
All that the genial ray of morning gilds.

And lo,
The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers are crowned ;
Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go ;
And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow.

The waters, bursting from their slimy bed,
Bring health and melody to every vale :
And, from the breezy main, and mountain's head,
Ceres and Flora, to the sunny dale,
To fan their glowing charms, invite the fluttering gale.

262

With gold and gems if Chilian mountains glow ;
If bleak and barren Scotia's hills arise ;
There plague and i)oison, lust and rapine grow ;
Here peaceful are the vales, and pure the skies,
And Freedom fires the soul and sparkles in the eyes.

9(M

All that echoes to the song of even,

All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields.

The shepherd swain of wliom I mention made,
On Scotia's mountains ftd his httle flock ;
The sickle, scythe, or ploiigli he never swayed ;
An honest heart was almost all his stock ;
His drink, the living water from the rock ;
The milky dams supplied his board, and lent
Their kindly fleece to baffle winter's shock ;
And he, though oft with dust and sweat besprent,
Did guide and guard their wanderings, wheresoe'er they went.

Rise, sons of harmony, and hail the morn,

Wliile \varl)Hng larks on russet pinions float :
Or seek at noon the woodland scene remote,
Where the grey linnets carol from the hill.
Oh, let them ne'er, with artificial note.
To please a tyrant, strain the little bill.
But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander where they will.

268

When o'er the sky advanced the kindHng dawn,
The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain grey,
And lake, dim-gleaming on the smoky lawn ;
Far to the west, the long, long vale withdrawn,
Where twilight loves to linger for a while.

On his vows the blameless Phcobe smiled,
And her alone he loved, and loved her from a child.

No jealousy their dawn of love o'ercast,
Nor blasted were their wedded days with strife ;
Each season looked delightful as it passed.
To the fond husband and the faithful wife.

Where the maze ot some bewildered stream
To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led ;
There would he wander wild, till Phoebus' beam,
Shot from the western cliff, released the weaiy team.

Lo ! WHERE the stripling, wrapt in wonder, roves
Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine ;
And sees, on high, amidst th' encircling groves,
From clifT to ctiiT the foaming torrents shine :
While waters, woods, and winds in concert join,
And Echo swells the chorus to the skies.

In truth, he was a strange and wayward wight,
Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene.
In darkness and in storm he found delight ;
Nor less, than when on ocean-wave serene
The southern sun diffused his dazzling sheen.
The raven croaks forlorn on naked spray ;
And, hark ! the river bursting every mound,
Down the vale thunders, and with wasteful sway
Uproots the grove, and rolls the shattered rocks away.

272

And ofi the craggy cliff he loved to climb,
When all in mist the world below was lost.
What dreadful pleasure ! there to stand sublime.
Like shipwrecked manner on desert coast,
And view th' enormous waste of vapour, tossed
In billows, lengthening to th' horizon round,
Now scooped in gulfs, with mountains now embossed !
And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound,
Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar profound I

Is YONDER wave the sun's eternal bed?
Soon shall the Orient with new lustre bum.
And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed.
Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead.

See, in the rear ot the wann sunny shower
The visionary boy from shelter fly ;
For now the storm of summer rain is o'er,
And cool, and fresh, and fragrant is the sky.
And, lo ! in the dark east, expanded high,
The rainbow brightens to the setting sun !
Fond fool, that deem'st the streaming glory nigh,
How vain the chase thine ardour has begun !
'Tis fled afat, ere half thy purposed race be run.

When the long-sounding curfew from afar
Loaded with loud lament the lonely gale.
Young Edwin, lighted by the evening star,
Lingering and listening, wandered down the vale.

Or, when the setting moon, in ciimson dyed,
Hung o'er the daik and melancholy deep,
To haunted stream, remote from man, he hied,
Where Fays of yore their revels wont to keep ;
A.nd theie let Faiicy rove at lai^, till sleep
A vision brought to his entranced sight

The cottage curs :il early pilgrim bark :
Crowned with her iiiiil the iripping milkmaid sings ;
The whistling ploughman stalks alidd ; and, hark:
Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon rings ;
Through rustling com the hare astonished springs ;
Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour ;
The partridge bursts away on whirring wings ;
Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower,
And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower.

E'en now his eyes with smiles of ra|)tiire glow,
As on he wanders through the scenes of mom,
Where the fresh flowers in living lustre blow,
Where thousand pearls the dewy lawns adorn,
A thousand notes of joy in every breeze are borne.

But who the melodies of morn can tell ?
The wild brook babbling down the mountain-side ;
The lowing herd ; the sheepfold's simple bell j
The pii)e of early shepherd dim descried
In the lone valley ; echoing far and wide
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above ;
The hollow murmur of the ocean tide ;
The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love,
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.

282

"Vi^

Save when against the winter's drenching rain,
And driving snow, the cottage shut the door.

Then, as instructed by tradition hoar.
Her legend whtn the Beldam 'gan impart.
Or chant the old heroic ditty o'er,
Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart ;
Much he the tale admired, but more the tuneilil art

Thence musing onward to the sounding shore,
The lone enthusiast oft would take his way,
Listening, with pleasing dread, to the deep roar
Of the wide-weltering waves.

In black array
When sul|»hurous clouds rolled on th' autumnal day;
E'en then he hastened from the haunt of man,
Along the trembling wilderness to stray,
What time the lightning's fierce career began,
;\iid o'er heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder ran.

One cultivated spot there was, that sjiread
Its flowery bosom to the noonday beam,
Where many a rose-bud rears its blushing head,
And herbs for food with future plenty teem.
Soothed by the lulling sound of grove and stream,
Romantic visions swarm on Edwin's soul.

288

Art, empire, earth itself, to change are doomed ;
Earthquakes have raised to heaven the humble vale,
And gulfs the mountain's mighty mass entombed.

Now BEAMED the evening star;
And from embattled clouds emerging slow
Cynthia came riding on her silver car;
And hoary mountain-clifTs shone faintly from afar.

And now the downy cheek and deepened voice
Gave dignity to Edwin's blooming prime ;
And walks of wider circuit were his choice,
And vales more mild, and mountains more sublime.
One evening as he framed the careless rhyme.
It was his chance to wander far abroad,
And o'er a lonely eminence to cUmb,
Which heretofore his foot had never trode ;
A vale appeared below, a deep retired abode.

Thither he hied, enamoured of the scene ;
For rocks on rocks piled, as by magic spell,
Here scorched with lightning, there with ivy green,
Fenced from the north and east this savage dell.
Southward a mountain rose with easy swell,
Whose long, long groves eternal murmur made ;
And toward the western sun a streamlet fell,
Where, through the cliffs, the eye remote surveyed
Blue hills, and glittering waves, and skies in gold anayed.

Along this narrow valley you miglit sec
Tlic wild ck'cr sporting on the meadow ground,
And, here and there, a solitary tree,
Or mossy stone, or rock with woodbine crowned.
Oft did the cliffs reverl)erate the sound
Of i)arted fragments tumbling from on high ;
And from the summit of that craggy mound
The perching eagle oft was heard to cry,
Or on resounding wings to shoot athwart the sky.

2d4

AsD thither let the village swain repair;
And, light of heart, the village maiden gay,
To deck with flowers her half-dishevelled hair.
And celebrate the merry mom of May.
There let the shepherd's pipe the livelong day
Fill all the grove with love's bewitching woe ;
And when mild Evening comes in mantle grey,
I^t not the blooming band make haste to go.

For now no cloud obscures .iliu starry void ;
The ycHow moonlight slcqjs on all the hills ;
Nor is th(j mind with startling sounds annoyed ;
A soothing murmur the lone region tills.

And seated on a mossy stone, he spied
An ancient man : his harp lay him beside.
A stag sprang from tlie pasture at his call,
And, kneeling, licked the withered hand that tied
A wreath of woodbine round his antters tall.
And hung his lofty neck with many a flow'ret small.

Along yon glittering sky what glory streams !
What majesty attends Night's lovely queen t
Fair laugh our valleys in the vernal beams;
And mountains rise, and oceans roll between,
And all conspire to beautify the scene.

•A*'

Dark woods and rankling wilds, from shore to shore,
Stretch their enonnous gloom; which to explore
Even Fancy trembles, in her sprightliest mood ;
For there each eyeball gleams with lust of gore.
Nestles each murderous and each mflnitrous bro^d.

He sleeps in dust, and all the Muses monm.

He, whom each virtue fired, each grace refined,

Friend, teacher, iiattem, darling of mankind !

He sleei>s in dust, ,

To heart-consuming grief resigned,

Here on his recent grave I fix my view,

And pour my bitter tears.

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