But not on high, where madness is resented, And murder causes some sad tears to flow, Though, from the widely-sweeping blow, The choirs of angels spread triumphantly augmented.
"False parent of mankind! Obdurate, proud, and blind,
I sprinkle thee with soft celestial dews, Thy lost maternal heart to re-infuse !
Scattering this far-fetched moisture from my wings, Upon the act a blessing I implore,
Of which the rivers in their secret springs, The rivers stained so oft with human gore, Are conscious;-may the like return no more! May Discord-for a seraph's care
Shall be attended with a bolder prayer- May she, who once disturbed the seats of bliss, These mortal spheres above,
Be chained for ever to the black abyss ! And thou, rescued Earth, by peace and love, And merciful desires, thy sanctity approve!"
The spirit ended his mysterious rite, And the pure vision closed in darkness infinite.
Poems on the Naming of Places.
By persons resident in the country and attached to rural objects, many places will be found unnamed or of unknown names, where little incidents will have occurred, or feelings been experienced, which will have given to such places a private and peculiar interest. From a wish to give some sort of record to such incidents, or renew the gratification of such feelings, names have been given to places by the author and some of his friends, and the following poems written in consequence.
Ir was an April morning: fresh and clear The rivulet, delighting in its strength,
Ran with a young man's speed; and yet the voice Of waters which the winter had supplied
Was softened down into a vernal tone.
The spirit of enjoyment and desire,
And hopes and wishes, from all living things Went circling, like a multitude of sounds. The budding groves appeared as if in haste To spur the steps of June; as if their shades
Of various green were hind'rances that stood Between them and their object: yet, meanwhile, There was such deep contentment in the air That every naked ash, and tardy tree
Yet leafless, seemed as though the countenance With which looked on this delightful day Were native to the summer. Up the brook I roamed in the confusion of my heart, Alive to all things and forgetting all. At length I to a sudden turning came In this continuous glen, where down a rock. The stream, so ardent in its course before, Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all Which I till then had heard, appeared the voice Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb, The shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush, Vied with this waterfall, and made a song Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth Or like some natural produce of the air,
That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here; But 'twas the foliage of the rocks, the birch, The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn, With hanging islands of resplendent furze: And on a summit, distant a short space, By any who should look beyond the dell, A single mountain cottage might be seen. I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said, "Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook, My Emma, I will dedicate to thee."
-Soon did the spot become my other home,
My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode.
And, of the shepherds who have seen me there, To whom I sometimes in our idle talk
Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps, Years after we are gone and in our graves, When they have cause to speak of this wild place, May call it by the name of " Emma's Dell."
AMID the smoke of cities did you pass
Your time of early youth; and there you learned, From years of quiet industry, to love
The living beings by your own fire-side
With such a strong devotion, that your heart
Is slow towards the sympathies of them
Who look upon the hills with tenderness,
And make dear friendships with the streams and groves.
Yet we, who are transgressors in this kind,
Dwelling, retired in our simplicity,
Among the woods and fields, we love you well,
Joanna and I guess, since you have been So distant from us now for two long years, That you will gladly listen to discourse However trivial, if you thence are taught That they, with whom you once were happy, talk Familiarly of you and of old times.
While I was seated, now some ten days past, Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop Their ancient neighbour the old steeple tower, The vicar from his gloomy house hard by Came forth to greet me; and when he had asked, "How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted maid! And when will she return to us?" he paused; And, after short exchange of village news, He with grave looks demanded, for what cause, Reviving obsolete idolatry,
I like a Runic priest, in characters
Of formidable size, had chiselled out Some uncouth name upon the native rock, Above the Rotha, by the forest side. -Now, by those dear immunities of heart Engendered betwixt malice and true love, I was not loth to be so catechized, And this was my reply :-" As it befell, One summer morning we had walked abroad At break of day, Joanna and myself.
'Twas that delightful season, when the broom, Full flowered, and visible on every steep, Along the copses runs in veins of gold. Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks; And when we came in front of that tall rock Which looks towards the east, I there stopped short, And traced the lofty barrier with my eye
From base to summit; such delight I found To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower, That intermixture of delicious hues,
Along so vast a surface, all at once,
In one impression, by connecting force Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart. -When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' space, Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld
That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud. The rock, like something starting from a sleep, Took up the lady's voice, and laughed again: That ancient woman seated on Helm Crag Was ready with her cavern: Hammer Scar, And the tall steep of Silver How, sent forth A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard, And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone: Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky Carried the lady's voice; old Skiddaw blew His speaking trumpet; back out of the clouds Of Glaramara southward came the voice; And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head.
"Now whether," said I to our cordial friend, Who in the hey-day of astonishment
Smiled in my face, "this were in simple truth A work accomplished by the brotherhood Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched With dreams and visionary impulses,
Is not for me to tell; but sure I am That there was a loud uproar in the hills: And, while we both were listening, to my side The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished
To shelter from some object of her fear.
And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm And silent morning, I sat down, and there, In memory of affections old and true, I chiselled out in those rude characters Joanna's name upon the living stone. And I, and all who dwell by my fire-side, Have called the lovely rock, Joanna's Rock.'"*
THERE is an eminence, of these our hills The last that parleys with the setting sun. We can behold it from our orchard-seat; And, when at evening we pursue our walk Along the public way, this cliff, so high Above us, and so distant in its height, Is visible; and often seems to send Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts. The meteors make of it a favourite haunt: The star of Jove, so beautiful and large In the mid heavens, is never half so fair As when he shines above it. 'Tis in truth The loneliest place we have among the clouds. And she who dwells with me, whom I have loved With such communion, that no place on earth
* In Cumberland and Westmoreland are several inscriptions, upon the native rock, which, from the wasting of time, and the ruleness of the workmanship, have been mistaken for Runic. They are without doubt Roman.
The Rotha mentioned in this poem, is the river which, flowing through the lakes of Grasmere and Rydale, falls into Wyndermere. On Helm Crag, that impressive single mountain at the head of the Vale of Grasmere, is a rock which from most points of view bears a striking resemblance to an old woman cowering. Close by this rock is one of those fissures or caverns, which, in the language of the country, are called dungeons. Most of the mountains here mentioned immediately surround the Vale of Grasmere; of the others, some are at a considerable distance, but they belong to the same cluster.
Can ever be a solitude to me,
Hath to this lonely summit given my name.
A NARROW girdle of rough stones and crags, A rude and natural causeway, interposed Between the water and a winding slope
Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy.
And there, myself and two beloved friends, One calm September morning, ere the mist Had altogether yielded to the sun,
Sauntered on this retired and difficult way.
Ill suits the road with one in haste, but we Played with our time; and, as we strolled 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, Sudderly halting now-a lifeless stand!
And starting off again with freak as sudden; In all its sportive wanderings, all the while, Making report of an invisible breeze
That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse, Its very playmate, and its moving soul.
And often, trifling with a privilege Alike indulged to all, we paused, one now And now the other, to point out, perchance To pluck, some flower or water weed, too fair Either to be divided from the place
On which it grew, or to be left alone
To its own beauty. Many such there are, Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall fern So stately, of the Queen Osmunda named
Plant lovelier in its own retired abode On Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by the side Of Grecian brook, or lady of the mere, Sole sitting by the shores of old romance. So fared we that sweet morning from the fields, Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth Of reapers, men and women, boys and girls. Delighted much to listen to those sounds,
* As this was published in 1800, two years before he was married, the person alluded to must be his sister.
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