And fade, unseen by any human eye; Where 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, Even then, when from the bower 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.
AMID the smoke of cities did you pass
The time of early youth; and there you learned, From years of quiet industry, to love
The living beings by your own fireside,
With such a strong devotion, that your heart
Is slow toward the sympathies of them
Who look upon the hills with tenderness,
And make dear friendships with the streams and
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 catechised, And this was my reply :-" As it befel, 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 toward 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
To me alone imparted, 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 fireside,
Have called the lovely rock, 'JOANNA'S ROCK."
NOTE.-In Cumberland and Westmorland are several Inscriptions, upon the native rock, which, from the wasting of Time, and the rudeness 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 Wynander. 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.
WHEN, to the attractions of the busy World Preferring studious leisure, I had chosen A habitation in this peaceful Vale, Sharp season followed of continual storm In deepest winter; and, from week to week, Pathway, and lane, and public road, were clogged With frequent showers of snow. Upon a hill At a short distance from my Cottage, stands A stately Fir-grove, whither I was wont To hasten; for I found, beneath the roof Of that perennial shade, a cloistral place Of refuge, with an unincumbered floor. Here, in safe covert, on the shallow snow, And, sometimes, on a speck of visible earth, The redbreast near me hopped; nor was I loth To sympathise with vulgar coppice Birds That, for protection from the nipping blast, Hither repaired.-A single beech-tree grew Within this grove of firs; and, on the fork Of that one beech, appeared a thrush's nest ; A last year's nest, conspicuously built At such small elevation from the ground As gave sure sign that they, who in that house Of nature and of love had made their home Amid the fir-trees, all the summer long Dwelt in a tranquil spot. And oftentimes, A few sheep, stragglers from some mountain-flock, Would watch my motions with suspicious stare, From the remotest outskirts of the grove,— Some nook where they had made their final stand, Huddling together from two fears-the fear
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