"Sir!" the Ruffians said to Hubert,

Deep he lies in Jordan flood."
Stricken by this ill assurance,
Pale and trembling Hubert stood.
"Take your earnings." - Oh! that I
Could have seen my Brother die!
It was a pang that vexed him then;
And oft returned, again, and yet again.

Months passed on, and no Sir Eustace!
Nor of him were tidings heard;
Wherefore, bold as day, the Murderer
Back again to England steered.
To his Castle Hubert sped;
Nothing has he now to dread.
But silent and by stealth he came,
And at an hour which nobody could name.

--

Speak! — astounded Hubert cannot;
And, if power to speak he had,
All are daunted, all the household
Smitten to the heart, and sad.
Tis Sir Eustace; if it be
Living man, it must be he!

Thus Hubert thought in his dismay,
And by a postern-gate he slunk away.

Long, and long was he unheard of:
To his Brother then he came,
Made confession, asked forgiveness,
Asked it by a brother's name,
And by all the saints in heaven;
And of Eustace was forgiven:
Then in a convent went to hide
His melancholy head, and there he died.

But Sir Eustace, whom good angels
Had preserved from murderers' hands,
And from Pagan chains had rescued,
Lived with honour on his lands.
Sons he had, saw sons of theirs:
And through ages, heirs of heirs,
A long posterity renowned,

90

100

110

Sounded the Horn which they alone could sound.

In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find." Suggested on the Thames by the sight of one of those floating mills that used to be seen there. This I noticed on the Surrey side between Somerset House and Blackfriars Bridge. Charles Lamb was with me at the time; and I thought it remarkable that I should have to point out to him, an idolatrous Londoner, a sight so interesting as the happy group dancing on the platform. Mills of this kind used to be, and perhaps still are, not uncommon on the Continent. I noticed several upon the river Saone in the year 1799, particularly near the town of Chalons, where my friend Jones and I halted a day when we crossed France; so far on foot there we embarked, and floated down to Lyons.

By their floating mill,

That lies dead and still, Behold yon Prisoners three,

The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the Thames !

The platform is small, but gives room for them all;

And they 're dancing merrily.

Or must we be constrained to think that these Spectators rude,

Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude,

Have souls which never yet have risen, and therefore prostrate lie?

No, no, this cannot be;- men thirst for power and majesty !

Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful mind employ

Of him who gazes, or has gazed? a grave and steady joy,

That doth reject all show of pride, admits no outward sign,

Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine!

Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The echo came from Nab-scar, when I was walking on the opposite side of Rydal Mere. I will here mention, for my dear Sister's sake, that, while she was sitting alone one day high up on this part of Loughrigg Fell, she was so affected by the voice of the Cuckoo heard from the crags at some distance that she could not suppress a wish to have a stone inscribed with her name among the rocks from which the sound proceeded. On my return from my walk I recited these verses to Mrs. Wordsworth.

YES, it was the mountain Echo,
Solitary, clear, profound,
Answering to the shouting Cuckoo,
Giving to her sound for sound!

Unsolicited reply

To a babbling wanderer sent;

In the cottage, Town-end, Grasmere, one afternoon in 1801, my sister read to me the Sonnets of Milton. I had long been well acquainted with them, but I was particularly struck on that occasion with the dignified simplicity and majestic harmony that runs through most of them, in character so totally different from the Italian, and still more so from Shakspeare's fine Sonnets. I took fire, if I may be allowed to say so, and produced three Sonnets the same afternoon, the first I ever wrote except an irregular one at school. Of these three, the only one I distinctly remember is "I grieved for Buonaparté." never written down: the third, which was, I believe, preserved, I cannot particularise.

One was

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 Furness-fells, Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells: In truth the prison, into which we doom Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me, In sundry moods, 't was pastime to be bound Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground; Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)

PERSONAL TALK
1806. 1807

Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The last line but two stood, at first, better and ne characteristically, thus:

"By my half-kitchen and half-parlour fire." My Sister and I were in the habit of having th tea-kettle in our little sitting-room; and toasted the bread ourselves, which reminds of a little circumstance not unworthy of bein set down among these minutis. Happen both of us to be engaged a few minutes ar morning when we had a young prig of a Secc lawyer to breakfast with us, my dear Sister, with her usual simplicity, put the toasting-fork with a slice of bread into the hands of this Ed burgh genius. Our little book-case stood an one side of the fire. To prevent loss of time he took down a book, and fell to reading, to the neglect of the toast, which was burnt to a cinder. Many a time have we laughed at this circumstance, and other cottage simplicities of that day. By the bye, I have a spite at on of this series of Sonnets (I will leave the readet to discover which) as having been the means of nearly putting off for ever our acquaintan with dear Miss Fenwick, who has always stirmatised one line of it as vulgar, and worthy only of having been composed by a country squire.

I

I AM not One who much or oft delight
To season my fireside with personal talk
Of friends, who live within an easy walk,
Or neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight:
And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladit
bright,

Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk,

These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk

Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast night.

Better than such discourse doth sileza long,

Long, barren silence, square with my de sire;

To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,
In the loved presence of my cottage-fire,