- Fly also, Muse! and from the dell Mount to the ridge of Nathdale' Fell; Thence, look thou forth o'er wood and lawn Hoar with the frost-like dews of dawn; Across yon meadowy bottom look
Where close fogs hide their parent brook; And see, beyond that hamlet small, The ruined towers of Threlkeld-hall, Lurling in a double shade,
By trees and lingering twilight made! There, at Blencathra's rugged feet, Sir Launcelot gave a safe retreat To noble Clifford; from annoy Concealed the persecuted Boy, Well pleased in rustic garb to feed His flock, and pipe on Shepherd's reed; Among this multitude of hills, Crags, woodlands, water-falls, and rills; Which soon the morning shall enfold, From east to west, in ample vest Of massy gloom and radiance bold.
They are drooping, weak, and dull; But the horses stretch and pull; With increasing vigour climb, Eager to repair lost time; Whether, by their own desert, Knowing there is cause for shame, They are labouring to avert At least a portion of the blame, Which full surely will alight Upon his head, whom, in despite Of all his faults, they love the best; Whether for him they are distrest; Or, by length of fasting roused, Are impatient to be housed; Up against the hill they strain — Tugging at the iron chainTugging al with night and main
Last and foremost, every horse
To the utmost of his force! And the smoke and respiration Rising like an exhalation,
Blends with the mist - a moving shroud,
To forman undissolving cloud; Which, with slant ray, the merry sun Takes delight to play upon.
Never Venus or Apollo,
Pleased a favourite chief to follow Through accidents of peace or war,
In a time of peril threw, Round the object of his care, Veil of such celestial hue; Interposed so bright a screen Him and his enemies between!
When the malicious Fates are bent On working out an ill intent? Can destiny be turned aside? No sad progress of my story! Benjamin, this outward glory Cannot shield thee from thy Master. Who from Keswick has pricked forth, Sour and surly as the north; And, in fear of some disaster, Comes to give what help he may, Or to hear what thou canst say; If, as needs he must forebode, Thou hast loitered on the road!
His doubts-his fears may now take flight The wished-for object is in sight; Yet, trust the Muse, it rather hath Stirred him up to livelier wrath; Which he stifles, moody man! With all the patience that he can; To the end that, at your meeting, He may give thee decent greeting.
There he is-resolved to stop, Till the Waggon gains the top; But stop he cannot-must advance: Him Benjamin, with lucky glance, Espies — and instantly is ready, Self-collected, poised, and steady; And, to be the better seen, Issues from his radiant shroud, From his close-attending cloud, With careless air and open mien.
Erect his port, and firm his going;
So struts yon Cock that now is crowing: And the morning light in grace Strikes upon his lifted face, Hurrying the pallid hue away That might his trespasses betray. But what can all avail to clear him,
Or what need of explanation, Parley or interrogation? For the Master sees, alas! That unhappy Figure near him, Limping o'er the dewy grass, Where the road it fringes, sweet, Soft and cool to way worn feet; And, O indignity! an Ass, By his noble Mastiff's side, Tethered to the Waggon's tail; And the Ship, in all her pride, Foll wing after in full sail! Not to speak of Babe and Mother, Who, contented with each other, And snug as birds in leafy arbour, Find, within. a blessed harbour!
With eager eyes the Master pries;
Looks in and out and through and through; Says nothing-till at last he spies
A wound upon the Mastiff's head,
A wound where plainly might be read What feats an Ass's hoof can do!
But drop the rest: - this aggravation, This complicated provocation, A hoard of grievances unsealed; All past forgiveness it repealed; ·
And thus, and through distempered blood On both sides, Benjamin the good, The patient, and the tender-hearted, Was from his Team and Waggon parted: When duty of that day was o'er,
Laid down his whip-and served no more.— Nor could the Waggon long survive Which Benjamin had ceased to drive: It lingered on; -Guide after Guide Ambitiously the office tried; But each unmanageable hill
Called for his patience and his skill;- And sure it is, that through this night, And what the morning brought to light, Two losses had we to sustain, We lost both WAGGONER and WAIN!
Accept, O Friend, for praise or blame, The gift of this adventurous song; A record which I dared to frame, Though timid scruples checked me long; They checked me - and I left the theme Untouched in spite of many a gleam Of fancy which thereon was shed, Like pleasant sunbeams shifting still Upon the side of a distant hill: But Nature might not be gainsaid; For what I have and what I miss I sing of these it makes my bliss!
Nor is it I who play the part,
But a shy spirit in my heart,
That comes and goes-will sometimes leap From hiding-places ten years deep;
Or haunts me with familiar face- Returning, like a ghost unlaid, Until the debt I owe be paid. Forgive me, then; for I had been
On friendly terms with this Machine.
In him, while he was wont to trace
Our roads, through many a long year's space,
A living Almanack had we;
We had a speaking Diary,
That, in this uneventful place,
Gave to the days a mark and name
By which we knew them when they came.
- Yes, I, and all. about me here, Through all the changes of the year,
Had seen him through the mountains go, In pomp of mist or pomp of snow, Majestically huge and slow:
Or, with milder grace adorning
The Landscape of a summer's morning; While Grasmere smoothed her liquid plain The moving image to detain; And mighty Fairfield, with a chime Of echoes, to his march kept time; When little other business stirred, And little other sound was heard; In that delicious hour of balı, Stillness, solitude, and calm, While yet the Valley is arrayed, On this side with a sober shade; On that is prodigally bright- Crag, lawn, and wood with rosy light. - But most of all, thou lordly Wain!
I wish to have thee here again,
When windows flap and chimney roars, And all is dismal out of doors;
And, sitting by my fire, I see Eight sorry Carts, no less a trun! Unworthy Successors of thee, Come straggling through the wind and raia. And oft, as they passed slowly on, Beneath my window-one by one- See, perched upon the naked height, The summit of a cumbrous freight, A single Traveller-and there Another then perhaps a Pair- The lame, the sickly, and the old; Men, Women, heartless with the cold; And Babes in wet and starveling plight; Which once, be weather as it might,
Had still a nest within a nest,
This poem, and two others to the same Flower, were written in the year 1802; which is mentioned, because in some of the ideas, though not in the manner in which those ideas are connected, and likewise even in some of the expressions, there is a resemblance to passages in a Poem (lately published) of Mr. Montgomery's, entitled, a Field Flower. This being said, Mr. Montgomery will not think any apology due to him; I cannot, however, help addressing him in the words of the Father of English Poets.
But Benjamin in his vexation, Possesses inward consolation;
He knows his ground, and hopes to find A spot with all things to his mind, An upright mural block of stone, Moist with pure water trickling down. A slender spring; but kind to man It is a true Samaritan;
Close to the highway, pouring out Its offering from a chink or spout; Whence all, howe'er athirst, or drooping With toil, may drink, and without stooping.
Light is the strain, but not unjust To Thee and thy memorial-trust That once seemed only to express Love that was love in idleness; Tokens, as year hath followed year How changed, alas, in character! For they were graven on thy smooth breast By hands of those my soul loved best; Meek women, men as true and brave As ever went to a hopeful grave: Their hands and mine, when side by side With kindred zeal and mutual pride, We worked until the Initials took Shapes that defied a scornful look.— Long as for us a genial feeling Survives, or one in need of healing, The power, dear Rock, around thee cast, Thy monumental power, shall last For me and mine! O thought of pain, That would impair it or profane! Take all in kindness then, as said With a staid heart but playful head; And fail not Thou, loved Rock! to keep Thy charge when we are laid asleep.'
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION.
THERE was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye Cliffs And islands of Winander!- many a time, At evening, when the earliest stars began Tc move along the edges of the hills, Rising or setting, would he stand alone, Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake; And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,
That they might answer him. And they would shout Across the watery vale, and shout again, Responsive to his call, with quivering peals, And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild Of mirth and jocund din! And, when it chanced That pauses of deep silence mocked his skill, Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise Has carried far into his heart the voice Of mountain torrents; or the visible scene Would enter unawares into his mind
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,
Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received Into the bosom of the steady lake.
This Boy was taken from his Mates, and died In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. Fair is the spot, most beautiful the Vale
Where he was born: the grassy Church-yard hangs Upon a slope above the village-school;
And, through that Church-yard when my way has led At evening, I believe, that oftentimes
A long half-hour together I have stood Mute-looking at the grave in which he lies!
Potent was the spell that bound thee, Not unwilling to obey;
For blue Ether's arms, flung round thee Stilled the pantings of dismay.
Lo! the dwindled woods and meadows! What a vast abyss is there!
Lo! the clouds, the solemn shadows, And the glistenings-heavenly fair!
And a record of commotion Which a thousand ridges yield; Ridge, and gulf, and distant ocean Gleaming like a silver shield!
-Take thy flight;-possess, inherit Alps or Andes- they are thine! With the morning's roscate Spirit, Sweep their length of snowy line;
Or survey the bright dominions In the gorgeous colours drest Flung from off the purple pinions, Evening spreads throughout the west!
Thine are all the coral fountains Warbling in each sparry vault Of the untrodden lunar mountains; Listen to their songs!-or halt,
To Niphate's top invited, Whither spiteful Satan steered; Or descend where the ark alighted, When the green earth re-appeared;
For the power of hills is on thee, As was witnessed through thine eye Then, when old Helvellyn won thee To confess their majesty!
While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear,
That seems to fill the whole air's space, As loud far off as near.
Though babbling only, to the Vale, Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me
No Bird but an invisible Thing,
A voice, a mystery;
The same whom in my School-boy days I listened to; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seck thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen.
And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.
O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, faery place; That is fit home for Thee!
THE sky is overcast With a continuous cloud of texture close, Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon, Which through that veil is indistinctly seen, A dull, contracted circle, yielding light
So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls, Checkering the ground- from rock, plant, tree, or tower.
At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam Startles the pensive traveller while he treads His lonesome path, with unobserving eye
Bent earthwards; he looks up—the clouds are split Asunder, and above his head he sees
The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. There, in a black blue vault she sails along, Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss Drive as she drives; - how fast they wheel away, Yet vanish not! -the wind is in the tree, But they are silent; - still they roll along Immeasurably distant;—and the vault,
Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, Still deepens its unfathomable depth.
At length the Vision closes; and the mind, Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.
"Let me be allowed the aid of verse to describe the evolu tions which these visitants sometimes perform, on a fine day towards the close of winter."-Extract from the Author's Book on the Lakes.
MARK how the feathered tenants of the flood, With grace of motion that might scarcely seem Inferior to angelical, prolong
Their curious pastime! shaping in mid air (And sometimes with ambitious wing that soars High as the level of the mountain tops) A circuit ampler than the lake beneath, Their own domain; — but ever, while intent On tracing and retracing that large round, Their jubilant activity evolves Hundreds of curves and circlets, to and fro, Upward and downward, progress intricate Yet unperplexed, as if one spirit swayed Their indefatigable flight. — "T is done — Ten times, or more, I fancied it had ceased; But lo! the vanished company again
Ascending; they approach - I hear their wings Faint, faint at first; and then an eager sound Past in a moment and as faint again! They tempt the sun to sport amid their plumes; They tempt the water, or the gleaning ice, To show them a fair image; -'tis themselves, Their own fair forms, upon the glimmering plain, Painted more soft and fair as they descend Almost to touch; then up again aloft, Up with a sally and a flash of speed, As if they scorned both resting-place and rest!
THERE is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, Which to this day stands single, in the midst Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore, Not loth to furnish weapons for the Bands Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched To Scotland's Heaths; or those that crossed the Sea And drew their sounding bows at Azincour, Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers. Of vast circumference and gloom profound This solitary Tree!— a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay:
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