From floor to roof all round his eyes the Child [ Alas the dream, to thee, poor Boy! to thee with wonder cast,
Pleasure on pleasure crowded in, each livelier
For, deftly framed within the trunk, the sanctuary showed,
By light of lamp and precious stones, that glimmered here, there glowed,
Shrine, Altar, Image, Offerings hung in sign of gratitude;
Sight that inspired accordant thoughts; and speech I thus renewed:
"Ather the Afflicted come, as thou hast heard thy Mother say,
And, kneeling, supplication make to our Lady de la Paix;
What mournful sighs have here been heard, and, when the voice was stopt
By sudden pangs, what bitter tears have on this pavement dropt!
"Poor Shepherd of the naked Down, a favoured lot is thine,
Far happier lot, dear Boy, than brings full many to this shrine;
From body pains and pains of soul thou needest no release,
Thy hours as they flow on are spent, if not in joy, in peace.
"Then offer up thy heart to God in thankfulness
Give to Him prayers, and many thoughts, in thy most busy days;
And in His sight the fragile Cross, on thy small hut, will be
Holy as that which long hath crowned the Chapel of this Tree;
"Holy as that far seen which crowns the sumptuous Church in Rome
Where thousands meet to worship God under a mighty Dome:
He sees the bending multitude, he hears the choral rites,
Yet not the less, in children's hymns and lonely prayer, delights.
"God for his service needeth not proud work of human skill;
They please him best who labour most to do in peace his will:
So let us strive to live, and to our Spirits will be given
Such wings as, when our Saviour calls, shall bear us up to heaven."
The Boy no answer made by words, but, so earnest was his look,
Sleep fled, and with it fled the dream-recorded in this book,
Lest all that passed should melt away in silence from my mind,
As visions still more bright have done, and left no trace behind.
But oh that Country-man of thine, whose eye, loved Child, can see
A pledge of endless bliss in acts of early piety, In verse, which to thy ear might come, would treat this simple theme,
Nor leave untold our happy flight in that adventurous dream.
Was nothing, scarcely can be aught, yet 'twas bounteously bestowed,
may dare to cherish hope that gentle eyes
loth, and listening Little-ones, hearttouched, their fancies feed.
SEEK who will delight in fable,
I shall tell you truth. A Lamb
Leapt from this steep bank to follow
'Cross the brook its thoughtless dam.
Far and wide on hill and valley
Rain had fallen, unceasing rain,
And the bleating mother's Young-one
Struggled with the flood in vain :
But, as chanced, a Cottage-maiden
(Ten years scarcely had she told;
Seeing, plunged into the torrent,
Clasped the Lamb and kept her hold.
Whirled adown the rocky channel,
Sinking, rising, on they go,
Peace and rest, as seems, before them
Only in the lake below.
Oh! it was a frightful current
Whose fierce wrath the Girl had braved;
Clap your hands with joy, my Hearers,
Shout in triumph, both are saved;
Saved by courage that with danger
Grew, by strength the gift of love,
And belike a guardian angel
Came with succour from above.
Now, to a maturer Audience,
Let me speak of this brave Child
Left among her native mountains
With wild Nature to run wild.
So, unwatched by love maternal,
Mother's care no more her guide,
Fared this little bright-eyed Orphan
Even while at her father's side.
Spare your blame,-remembrance makes him
Loth to rule by strict command:
Still upon his cheek are living
Touches of her infant hand,
Dear caresses given in pity,
Sympathy that soothed his grief,
As the dying mother witnessed
To her thankful mind's relief.
Time passed on: the Child was happy,
Like a Spirit of air she moved,
Wayward, yet by all who knew her
For her tender heart beloved.
Scarcely less than sacred passions,
Bred in house, in grove, and field,
Link her with the inferior creatures,
Urge her powers their rights to shield.
Anglers, bent on reckless pastime,
Learn how she can feel alike
Both for tiny harmless minnow
And the fierce and sharp-toothed pike.
Merciful protectress, kindling
Into anger or disdain;
Many a captive hath she rescued,
Others saved from lingering pain.
Listen yet awhile ;- with patience
Hear the homely truths I tell,
She in Grasmere's old church-steeple
Tolled this day the passing-bell.
Yes, the wild Girl of the mountains
To their echoes gave the sound,
Notice punctual as the minute,
Warning solemn and profound.
She, fulfilling her sire's office,
Rang alone the far-heard knell,
Tribute, by her hand, in sorrow,
Paid to One who loved her well.
When his spirit was departed
On that service she went forth;
Nor will fail the like to render
When his corse is laid in earth.
What then wants the Child to temper,
In her breast, unruly fire,
To control the froward impulse
And restrain the vague desire ?
Easily a pious training
And a stedfast outward power
Would supplant the weeds and cherish,
In their stead, each opening flower.
Thus the fearless Lamb-deliv❜rer,
Woman-grown, meek-hearted, sage,
May become a blest example
For her sex, of every age.
Watchful as a wheeling eagle,
Constant as a soaring lark,
Should the country need a heroine,
She might prove our Maid of Arc.
Leave that thought; and here be uttered
Prayer that Grace divine may raise
Her humane courageous spirit
Up to heaven, thro' peaceful ways.
POEMS FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS.
Among the mountains, and he in his heart
Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas.
Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard
"THESE Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds
A profitable life: some glance along,
Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air,
And they were butterflies to wheel about
Long as the summer lasted: some, as wise,
Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag,
Pencil in hand and book upon the knee,
Will look and scribble, scribble on and look,
Until a man might travel twelve stout miles,
Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn.
But, for that moping Son of Idleness,
Why can he tarry yonder?-In our church-yard
Is neither epitaph nor monument,
Tombstone nor name-only the turf we tread
And a few natural graves.'
To Jane, his wife,
Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale.
It was a July evening; and he sate
Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves
Of his old cottage,-as it chanced, that day,
Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone
His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool,
While, from the twin cards toothed with
glittering wire,
He fed the spindle of his youngest child,
Who, in the open air, with due accord
Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps,
Her large round wheel was turning. Towards
In which the Parish Chapel stood alone,
Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall,
While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent
Many a long look of wonder: and at last,
Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge
Of carded wool which the old man had piled
He laid his implements with gentle care,
Each in the other locked; and, down the path
That from his cottage to the church-yard led,
He took his way, impatient to accost
The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.
'Twas one well known to him in former days,
A Shepherd-lad; who ere his sixteenth year
Had left that calling, tempted to entrust
His expectations to the fickle winds
And perilous waters; with the mariners
A fellow-mariner;-and so had fared
Of caves and trees:--and, when the regular
wind
Between the tropics filled the steady sail,
And blew with the same breath through days
and weeks,
Lengthening invisibly its weary lin
Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours
Of tiresome indolence, would often hang
Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze:
And, while the broad blue wave and sparkling
foam
Flashed round him images and hues that
wrought
In union with the employment of his heart,
He, thus by feverish passion overcome,
Even with the organs of his bodily eye,
Below him, in the bosom of the deep,
Saw mountains; saw the forms of sheep that
grazed
On verdant hills-with dwellings among trees,
And shepherds clad in the same country grey
Which he himself had worn.
And now, at last,
From perils manifold, with some small wealth
Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles,
To his paternal home he is returned,
The life he had lived there; both for the sake
With a determined purpose to resume
Of many darling pleasures, and the love
Which to an only brother he has borne
When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two
In all his hardships, since that happy time
Were brother-shepherds on their native hills.
-They were the last of all their race; and now,
When Leonard had approached his home, his
heart
Failed in him; and, not venturing to enquire
Tidings of one so long and dearly loved,
That, as he knew in what particular spot
He to the solitary church-yard turned;
His family were laid, he thence might learn
If still his Brother lived, or to the file
Another grave was added. He had found
Another grave,-near which a full half-hour
He had remained; but, as he gazed, there grew
Such a confusion in his memory,
Through twenty seasons; but he had been That he began to doubt; and even to hope
That he had seen this heap of turf before,
That it was not another grave; but one
He had forgotten. He had lost his path,
As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked
Through fields which once had been well known
to him:
And oh what joy this recollection now
Sent to his heart! he lifted up his eyes,
And, looking round, imagined that he saw
Strange alteration wrought on every side
Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks
And everlasting hills themselves were changed.
By this the Priest, who down the field had
Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate Stopped short,-and thence, at leisure, limb by limb
Perused him with a gay complacency.
Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself,
Tis one of those who needs must leave the path
Of the world's business to go wild alone:
His arms have a perpetual holiday ;
The happy man will creep about the fields
Following his fancies by the hour, to bring
Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles
Into his face, until the setting sun
Write fool upon his forehead.-Planted thus
Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate
Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared
The good Man might have communed with him-
self,
But that the Stranger, who had left the grave,
Approached; he recognised the Priest at once,
And, after greetings interchanged, and given
By Leonard to the Vicar as to one
Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued.
Leonard. You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet
Your years make up one peaceful family:
And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come
And welcome gone, they are so like each other,
They cannot be remembered? Scarce a funeral
Comes to this church-yard once in eighteen
months;
And yet, some changes must take place among
And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks,
Can trace the finger of mortality,
And see, that with our threescore years and ten
We are not all that perish.--I remember,
(For many years ago I passed this road)
There was a foot-way all along the fields
By the brook-side-'tis gone-and that dark
cleft!
To me it does not seem to wear the face
Which then it had!
Priest.
Nay, Sir, for aught I know,
That chasm is much the same-
Leonard.
But, surely, yonder-
Priest. Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a
friend
That does not play you false. On that tall pike (It is the loneliest place of all these hills). There were two springs which bubbled side by side,
As if they had been made that they might be
Companions for each other: the huge crag
Was rent with lightning-one hath disappeared;
The other, left behind, is flowing still.
For accidents and changes such as these
We want not store of them;-a water-spout
Will bring down half a mountain; what a feast
For folks that wander up and down like you,
To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff
One roaring cataract! a sharp May-storm
Will come with loads of January snow,
And in one night send twenty score of sheep
To feed the ravens ; or a shepherd dies
By some untoward death among the rocks:
The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge;
A wood is felled:-and then for our own homes!
A child is born or christened, a field ploughed,
A daughter sent to service, a web spun,
The old house-clock is decked with a new face;
And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates
To chronicle the time, we all have here
A pair of diaries,-one serving, Sir,
For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side-
Yours was a stranger's judgment: for historians,
Commend me to these valleys!
Leonard.
Yet your Church-yard
Seems, if such freedom may be used with you,
To say that you are heedless of the past:
An orphan could not find his mother's grave:
Here'sneither head nor foot-stone, plate of brass,
Cross-bones nor skull,-type of our earthly state
Nor emblem of our hopes: the dead man's home
Is but a fellow to that pasture-field.
Priest. Why, there, Sir, is a thought that's
new to me!
The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread
If every English church-yard were like ours;
Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth:
We have no need of names and epitaphs;
We talk about the dead by our fire-sides.
And then, for our immortal part! we want
No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale:
The thought of death sits easy on the man
Who has been born and dies among the moun-
tains.
Leonard. Your Dalesmen, then, do in each
other's thoughts
Possess a kind of second life: no doubt
You, Sir, could help me to the history
Of half these graves?
Priest.
For eight-score winters past,
With what I've witnessed, and with what I've
heard,
Perhaps I might; and, on a winter-evening,
If you were seated at my chimney's nook,
By turning o'er these hillocks one by one,
We two could travel, Sir, through a strange
You see it yonder! and those few green fields. They toiled and wrought, and still, from sire to
Each struggled, and each yielded as before
A little-yet a little,-and old Walter,
They left to him the family heart, and land
With other burthens than the crop it bore.
Year after year the old man still kept up
A cheerful mind,-and buffeted with bond,
Interest, and mortgages; at last he sank,
And went into his grave before his time.
Poor Walter! whether it was care that spurred
him
God only knows, but to the very last
He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale:
His pace was never that of an old man :
I almost see him tripping down the path
With his two grandsons after him :-but you,
Unless our Landlord be your host to-night,
Have far to travel,-and on these rough paths
Even in the longest day of midsummer-
Leonard. But those two Orphans!
Orphans!--Such they were-
Yet not while Walter lived:-for, though their
parents
Lay buried side by side as now they lie,
The old man was a father to the boys,
Two fathers in one father: and if tears,
Shed when he talked of them where they were
not,
And hauntings from the infirmity of love,
Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart,
This old Man, in the day of his old age,
Was half a mother to them.- If you weep, Sir,
To hear a stranger talking about strangers,
Heaven bless you when you are among your
kindred!
Ay-you may turn that way-it is a grave
Which will bear looking at.
Leonard.
These boys-I hope
They loved this good old Man?-
Priest.
They did and truly:
But that was what we almost overlooked,
They were such darlings of each other. Yes,
Though from the cradle they had lived with
Walter,
The only kinsman near them, and though he
Inclined to both by reason of his age,
With a more fond, familiar tenderness;
They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare,
And it all went into each other's hearts.
Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months,
Was two years taller: 'twas a joy to see,
To hear, to meet them!-From their house the
school
Is distant three short miles, and in the time
Of storm and thaw, when every water-course
And unbridged stream, such as you may have
noticed
Crossing our roads at every hundred steps,
Was swoln into a noisy rivulet,
Would Leonard then, when elder boys remained At home, go staggering through the slippery fords,
Bearing his brother on his back. I have seen him,
On windy days, in one of those stray brooks, Ay, more than once I have seen him, mid-leg deep,
Their two books lying both on a dry stone,
Upon the hither side: and once I said,
As I remember, looking round these rocks
And hills on which we all of us were born,
That God who made the great book of the world
Would bless such piety-
Leonard.
It may be then-
Priest. Never did worthier lads break English
bread:
The very brightest Sunday Autumn saw,
With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts,
Could never keep those boys away from church,
Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath breach.
Leonard and James! I warrant, every corner
Among these rocks, and every hollow place
That venturous foot could reach, to one or both
Was known as well as to the flowers that grow
there.
Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills:
They played like two young ravens on the crags:
Then they could write, ay and speak too, as well
As many of their betters-and for Leonard!
The very night before he went away,
In my own house I put into his hand
A bible, and I'd wager house and field
That, if he be alive, he has it yet.
Leonard. It seems, these Brothers have not lived to be
A comfort to each other
Priest. That they might Live to such end is what both old and young In this our valley all of us have wished, And what, for my part, I have often prayed: But Leonard
Leonard. Then James still is left among you! Priest. "Tis of the elder brother I am speak.
They had an uncle ;-he was at that time
A thriving man, and trafficked on the seas:
And, but for that same uncle, to this hour
Leonard had never handled rope or shroud:
For the boy loved the life which we lead here;
And though of unripe years, a stripling only,
His soul was knit to this his native soil.
But, as I said, old Walter was too weak
To strive with such a torrent; when he died,
The estate and house were sold; and all their
sheep,
A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know,
Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand
Well-all was gone, and they were destitute,
And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother's sake,
Resolved to try his fortune on the seas.
Twelve years are past since we had tidings from
him.
If there were one among us who had heard
That Leonard Ewbank was come home again,
From the Great Gavel,* down by Leeza's banks,
And down the Enna, far as Egremont,
The day would be a joyous festival;
And those two bells of ours, which there you
Hanging in the open air-but, O good Sir! This is sad talk-they'll never sound for him
*The Great Gavel, so called, I imagine, from its resemblance to the gable end of a house, is one of the highest of the Cumberland mountains.
The Leeza is a river which flows into the Lake of Ennerdale.
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