Will be an awful thought, if life have one." But, when into the Vale I came, no fears Distressed me; from mine eyes escaped no tears;

Deep thought, or dread remembrance, had I none.

By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost I stood, of simple shame the blushing Thrall;

So narrow seemed the brooks, the fields so small!

A Juggler's balls old Time about him tossed;

I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed; and all

The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.

"HOW SWEET IT IS, WHEN MOTHER FANCY ROCKS " 1806. 1807

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 groundflowers in flocks;

And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks, Like a bold Girl, who plays her agile 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

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:

Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;

For this, for everything, 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 rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

"WITH SHIPS THE SEA WAS SPRINKLED FAR AND NIGH" 1806. 1807

WITH Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh,

Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed;

Some lying fast at anchor in the road, Some veering up and down, one knew not why.

A goodly Vessel did I then espy
Come like a giant from a haven broad;
And lustily along the bay she strode,
Her tackling rich, and of apparel high.
This Ship was nought to me, nor I to her,
Yet I pursued her with a Lover's look;
This Ship to all the rest did I prefer:
When will she turn, and whither? She
will brook

No tarrying; where She comes the winds must stir:

On went She, and due north her journey took.

She cares for; let her travel where she may, She finds familiar names, a beaten way Ever before her, and a wind to blow. Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark? And, almost as it was when ships were rare, (From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there

Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark,

Of the old Sea some reverential fear,
Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark!

TO SLEEP 1806. 1807

O GENTLE SLEEP! do they belong to thee, These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love

To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove,
A captive never wishing to be free.
This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to

me

A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove
Upon a fretful rivulet, now above
Now on the water vexed with mockery.

For if of our affections none finds grace
In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath
God made

The world which we inhabit? Better plea
Love cannot have, than that in loving thee
Glory to that eternal Peace is paid,
Who such divinity to thee imparts

As hallows and makes pure all gentle

hearts.

His hope is treacherous only whose love dies

With beauty, which is varying every hour; But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power

Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower,

That breathes on earth the air of paradise.

FROM THE SAME 1806. 1807

II

No mortal object did these eyes behold When first they met the placid light of thine,

And my Soul felt her destiny divine,

And hope of endless peace in me grew bold: Heaven-born, the Soul a heaven - ward course must hold;

Beyond the visible world she soars to seek For what delights the sense is false and weak)

deal Form, the universal mould.

The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest n that which perishes: nor will he lend His heart to aught which doth on time depend.

Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love,

Chat kills the soul: love betters what is best,

ven here below, but more in heaven above.

TO THE MEMORY OF RAISLEY CALVERT

1806. 1807

This young man, Raisley Calvert, to whom I ras so much indebted, died at Penrith, 1795.

'ALVERT ! it must not be unheard by them Who may respect my name, that I to thee