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No door the tenement requires,
So warm, so beautiful withal,
And when for their abodes they seek An opportune recess,
The Hermit has no finer eye
For shadowy quietness.
These find, 'mid ivied Abbey walls, A canopy in some still nook; Others are pent-housed by a brae That overhangs a brook.
There to the brooding Bird her Mate
Or in sequestered lanes they build,
But still, where general choice is good,
This, one of those small builders prove In a green covert, where, from out The forehead of a pollard oak,
The leafy antlers sprout;
For She who planned the mossy Lodge,
Had to a Primrose looked for aid
High on the trunk's projecting brow,
The treasure proudly did I show
To some whose minds without disdain Can turn to little things, but once Looked up for it in vain:
"T is gone -a ruthless Spoiler's prey, Who heeds not beauty, love, or song, 'Tis gone! (so seemed it) and we grieved Indignant at the wrong.
Just three days after, passing by
In clearer light the moss-built cell I saw, espied its shaded mouth, And felt that all was well.
The Primrose for a veil had spread The largest of her upright leaves; And thus, for purposes benign,
A simple Flower deceives.
Concealed from friends who might disturb
Secure from evil eyes and hands
Rest, mother bird! and when thy young Take flight, and thou art free to roam, When withered is the guardian flower, And empty thy late home,
Think how ye prospered, thou and thine,
LOVE LIES BLEEDING.
You call it, "Love lies bleeding,". so you may,
So drooped Adonis bathed in sanguine dew
Did press this semblance of anpitied smart
Into the service of his constant heart,
His own dejection, downcast flower! could share
With thine, and gave the mournful name which thou
wilt ever bear.
COMPANION TO THE FOREGOING. NEVER enlivened with the liveliest ray That fosters growth or checks or cheers decay, Nor by the heaviest rain-drops more deprest, This flower, that first appeared as summer's guest, Preserves her beauty mid autumnal leaves And to her mournful habits fondly cleaves. When files of stateliest plants have ceased to bloom, One after one submitting to their doom, When her coevals each and all are fled, What keeps her thus reclined upon her lonesome bed?
The old mythologists, more impress'd than we
Of this late day by character in tree
Or by the silent lapse of fountain clear,
SYLPH was it? or a bird more bright
A second darted by; - and lo!
Another of the flock,
Through sunshine flitting from the bough To nestle in the rock.
Transient deception! a gay freak
Of April's mimicries!
Those brilliant strangers, hailed with joy Among the budding trees,
Proved last year's leaves, pushed from the spray To frolic on the breeze.
Maternal Flora! show thy face,
And let thy hand be seen,
Take root (so seems it) and look up
To be confounded with live growths,
Not such the world's illusive shows; Her wingless flutterings,
Her blossoms which, though shed, outbrave The floweret as it springs,
For the undeceived, smile as they may, Are melancholy things:
But gentle nature plays her part With ever-varying wiles,
And transient feignings with plain truth So well she reconciles,
That those fond idlers most are pleased Whom oftenest she beguiles.
ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER, DORA,
ON BEING REMINDED THAT SHE WAS A MONTH OLD ON THAT DAY (SEPTEMBER 16TH.)
HAST thou then survived
Mild offspring of infirm humanity,
Meek infant! among all forlornest things
The most forlorn - one life of that bright star,
Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out
On the blank plains, — the coldness of the night,
Thy passive beauty-parallels have risen,
Resemblances, or contrasts, that connect,
And cheering ofttimes their reluctant gloom.
That smile forbids the thought; for on thy face
In Cairo's crowded streets
The impatient Merchant wondering waits in vain,
TO CHARLES LAMB, Esq.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
WHEN I sent you, a few weeks ago, the Tale of Peter Bell, you asked "why THE WAGGONER was not
*Several years after the event that forms the subject of the poem, in company with my friend, the late Mr. Coleridge, I happened to fall in with the person to whom the name of Benjamin is given. Upon our expressing regret that we had not, for a long time, seen upon the road either him or his waggon, he said: "They could not do without me; and as to the man who was put in my place, no good could come out of him; he was a man of no ideas."
added?"-To say the truth,- from the higher tone of imagination, and the deeper touches of passion aimed at in the former, I apprehend, this little Piece could not accompany it without disadvantage. In the year
The fact of my discarded hero's getting the horses out of a great difficulty with a word, as related in the poem, was told me by an eye-witness.
["Due honour is done to Peter Bell, at this time, by students of poetry in general; but some, even of Mr. Wordsworth's greatest admirers, do not quite satisfy me in their admiration of The Waggoner, a poem which my dear uncle, Mr. Southey, preferred even to the former. Ich will meine Denkungsart hierin niemanden aufdringen, as Lessing says; I will force my way of thinking on nobody, but take the liberty, for my own gratification, to express it. The sketches of hill and valley in this poem have a lightness and spirit, an allegro touch, -distinguishing them from the grave and elevated splendour which characterizes Mr. Wordsworth's representations of nature in general, and from the pensive tenderness of those in The White Doe, while it harmonizes well with the human interest of the piece; indeed, it is the harmonious sweetness of the composition which is most dwelt upon by its special admirers. In its course it describes, with bold brief touches, the striking mountain tract from Grasmere to Keswick; it commences with an evening storm among the mountains, presents a lively interior of a country inn during midnight, and concludes after bringing us in sight of St. John's Vale and the Vale of Keswick seen by day break. Skiddaw touched with rosy light,' and the pros pect from Nathdale Fell, 'hoar with the frost-like dews of dawn' thus giving a beautiful and well contrasted panorama, produced by the most delicate and masterly strokes of the pencil. Well may Mr. Ruskin, a fine observer and eloquent describer of various classes of natural appearances, speak of Mr. Wordsworth as the great poetic landscape painter of the age. But Mr. Ruskin has found how seldom the great landscape painters are powerful in expressing human passions and affections on canvass, or even successful in the introduction of human figures into their foregrounds; whereas in the poetic paintings of Mr. Wordsworth, the landscape is always subordinate to a higher interest; certainly, in The Waggoner, the little sketch of human nature which occupies, as it were, the front of that encircling background, the picture of Benjamin and his temptations, his humble friends and the mute companions of his way, has a character of its own, combining with sportiveness, a homely pathos, which must ever be delightful to some of those who are thoroughly conversant with the spirit of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry. It may be compared with the ale-house scene in Tam O'Shanter, parts of Voss's Luise, or Ovid's Baucis and
Philemon; though it differs from each of them as much as they differ from each other. The Epilogue carries on the
feeling of the piece very beautifully."—S. C.
This fine criticism-worthy of the Sire-is from the pen of the daughter of Coleridge, the widow of Henry Nelson Coleridge; it is part of a note in Coleridge's "Biographia Literaria.' Edition of 1847. Vol. II. p. 183. See also a letter from Coleridge to Southey, April 13, 1801, in which an account is given of the "master" in this poem. His name was Jackson. Southey's Life and Correspondence, Vol. II. p. 148, Chap. viii., where in a note it is added that the circumstances of the poem, are accurately correct.-H. R.]
The Horses have worked with right good-wili,
1806, if I am not mistaken, THE Waggoner was read
Very truly yours,
For at the bottom of the Brow,
To all who entered Grasmere Vale;
RYDAL MOUNT, May 20, 1819.
Tis spent-this burning day of June!
Round the dim crags on heavy pinions wheeling,
Confiding Glow-worms! 't is a night
Is close and hot; -and now and then
The mountains rise to wondrous height,
But the dews allay the heat,
And the silence makes it sweet.
Hush, there is some one on the stir!
Here is no danger,- none at all!
The place to Benjamin full well
"T was coloured all by his own hand;