Thither the rainbow comes the cloud ―
And mists that spread the flying shroud;
And sunbeams; and the sounding blast,
That, if it could, would hurry past;
But that enormous barrier binds it fast.

Not free from boding thoughts, a while
The Shepherd stood: then makes his way
Towards the Dog, o'er rocks and stones,
As quickly as he may;

Nor far had gone before he found
A human skeleton on the ground;
The appalled Discoverer with a sigh
Looks round, to learn the history.

From those abrupt and perilous rocks
The Man had fallen, that place of fear!
At length upon the Shepherd's mind
It breaks, and all is clear:

He instantly recalled the Name,

And who he was, and whence he came; Remembered, too, the very day

On which the Traveller passed this way.

But hear a wonder, for whose sake

This lamentable Tale I tell!

A lasting monument of words

This wonder merits well.

The Dog, which still was hovering nigh,
Repeating the same timid cry,

This Dog, had been through three months' space
A dweller in that savage place.

Yes, proof was plain that, since the day
When this ill-fated Traveller died,
The Dog had watched about the spot,
Or by his Master's side:

How nourished here through such long time
He knows, who gave that love sublime;
And gave that strength of feeling, great
Above all human estimate.

THE GLEANER
(SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE.)
THAT happy gleam of vernal eyes,
Those locks from summer's golden skies,
That o'er thy brow are shed;

That cheeka kindling of the morn,
That lipa rose-bud from the thorn,
I saw; - and Fancy sped

To scenes Arcadian, whispering, through soft air,
Of bliss that grows without a care,

Of happiness that never flies-
How can it where love never dies?
Of promise whispering, where no blight
Can reach the innocent delight;
Where pity, to the mind conveyed
In pleasure, is the darkest shade

That Time, unwrinkled Grandsire, flings
From his smoothly-gliding wings.
What mortal form, what earthly face,
Inspired the pencil, lines to trace,
And mingle colours that should breed
Such rapture, nor want power to feed;
For had thy charge been idle flowers,
Fair Damsel, o'er my captive mind,
To truth and sober reason blind,

'Mid that soft air, those long-lost bowers,
The sweet illusion might have hung, for hours

-Thanks to this tell-tale sheaf of corn, That touchingly bespeaks thee born Life's daily tasks with them to share Who, whether from their lowly bed They rise, or rest the weary head, Ponder the blessing they entreat

From Heaven, and feel what they repeat, While they give utterance to the prayer That asks for daily bread.

THE LABOURER'S NOON-DAY HYMN

Up to the throne of God is borne The voice of praise at early morn, And he accepts the punctual hymn Sung as the light of day grows dim.

Nor will he turn his ear aside
From holy offerings at noontide:
Then here reposing let us raise
A song of gratitude and praise.

What though our burthen be not light
We need not toil from morn to night;
The respite of the mid-day hour
Is in the thankful Creature's power.

Blest are the moments, doubly blest,
That, drawn from this one hour of rest,
Are with a ready heart bestowed
Upon the service of our God!

Why should we crave a hallowed spot"
An altar is in each man's cot,

A Church in every grove that spreads
Its living roof above our heads.

Look up to Heaven! the industrious Sun
Already half his race hath run;
He cannot halt nor go astray,
But our immortal Spirits may.

Lord! since his rising in the East,
If we have faltered or transgressed,
Guide, from thy love's abundant source,
What yet remains of this day's course

Heip with thy grace, through life's short day,

Our upward and our downward way;

And glorify for us the west,

When we shall sink to final rest.

TO THE LADY

ON SEEING THE FOUNDATION PREPARING FOR THE ERECTION OF

CHAPEL, WESTMORELAND.

BLEST is this Isle- -our native Land;
Where battlement and moated gate
Are objects only for the hand

Of hoary Time to decorate;

Where shady hamlet, town that breathes
Its busy smoke in social wreaths,
No rampart's stern defence require,
Nought but the heaven-directed Spire,
And steeple Tower (with pealing bells)
Far heard our only Citadels.

O Lady! from a noble line

Of Chieftains sprung, who stoutly bore
The spear, yet gave to works divine
A bounteous help in days of yore,
(As records mouldering in the Dell
Of Nightshade haply yet may tell)
Thee kindred aspirations moved
To build, within a Vale beloved,
For Him upon whose high behests
All peace depends, all safety rests.

How fondly will the woods embrace
This Daughter of thy pious care,
Lifting her front with modest grace
To make a fair recess more fair;
And to exalt the passing hour;
Or soothe it, with a healing power
Drawn from the Sacrifice fulfilled,
Before this rugged soil was tilled,
Or human habitation rose
To interrupt the deep repose!

Well may the Villagers rejoice!
Nor heat, nor cold, nor weary ways,
Will be a hinderance to the voice
That would unite in prayer and praise;
More duly shall wild wandering Youth
Receive the curb of sacred truth,

Shall tottering Age, bent earthward, hear
The Promise, with uplifted ear;
And all shall welcome the new ray
Imparted to their Sabbath-day.

* Bekangs Ghyll-or the Vale of Nightshade-in which

stands St. Mary's Abbey, in Low Furness.

A shade upon the future cast,
Of Time's pathetic sanctity;
Can hear the monitory clock

Sound o'er the lake with gentle shock
At evening, when the ground beneath
Is ruffled o'er with cells of Death;
Where happy generations lie,
Here tutored for Eternity.

Lives there a Man whose sole delights
Are trivial pomp and city noise,
Hardening a heart that loathes or slights
What every natural heart enjoys?
Who never caught a noon-tide dream
From murmur of a running stream;
Could strip, for aught the prospect yields
To him, their verdure from the fields;
And take the radiance from the clouds
In which the sun his setting shrouds.

A Soul so pitiably forlorn,

If such do on this earth abide,
May season apathy with scorn,
May turn indifference to pride,
And still be not unblest-compared
With him who grovels, self-debarred
From all that lies within the scope
Of holy faith and Christian hope;
Yea, strives for others to bedim
The glorious Light too pure for him.

Alas! that such perverted zeal

Should spread on Britain's favoured ground!

That public order, private weal,

Should e'er have felt or feared a wound

From champions of the desperate law

Which from their own blind hearts they draw.

Who tempt their reason to deny
God, whom their passions dare defy,
And boast that they alone are free
Who reach this dire extremity!

But turn we from these "bold bad" men;
The way, mild Lady! that hath led
Down to their “dark opprobrious den,”
Is all too rough for Thee to tread.
Softly as morning vapours glide
Down Rydal-cove from Fairfield's side,
Should move the tenour of his song
Who means to Charity no wrong;
Whose offering gladly would accord
With this day's work, in thought and word

Heaven prosper it! may peace, and love,
And hope, and consolation, fall,
Through its meek influence, from above
And penetrate the hearts of all;

All who, around the hallowed Fane,
Shall sojourn in this fair domain;
Grateful to Thee, while service pure,
And ancient ordinance, shall endure,
For opportunity bestowed

To kneel together, and adore their God!

ON THE SAME OCCASION.

Oh! gather whencesoe'er ye safely may The help which slackening Piety requires; Nor deem that he perforce must go astray Who treads upon the footmarks of his Sires.

Our Churches, invariably perhaps, stand east and west, but why is by few persons exactly known; nor, that the degree of deviation from due east often noticeable in the ancient ones was determined, in each particular case, by the point in the horizon, at which the sun rose upon the day of the saint to whom the church was dedicated. These observances of our Ancestors, and the causes of them, are the subject of the following stanzas.

WHEN in the antique age of bow and spear And feudal rapine clothed with iron mail, Came Ministers of peace, intent to rear

The mother Church in yon sequestered vale;

Then, to her Patron Saint a previous rite
Resounded with deep swell and solemn close,
Through unremitting vigils of the night,
Till from his couch the wished-for Sun uprose.

He rose, and straight-as by divine command, They who had waited for that sign to trace, Their work's foundation, gave with careful hand To the high Altar its determined place;

Mindful of Him who in the Orient born
There lived, and on the cross his life resigned,
And who, from out the regions of the Morn,
Issuing in pomp, shall come to judge Mankind.

So taught their creed; - —nor failed the eastern sky,
'Mid these more awful feelings, to infuse
The sweet and natural hopes that shall not die,
Long as the Sun his gladsome course renews.

For us hath such prelusive vigil ceased;
Yet still we plant, like men of elder days,
Our Christian Altar faithful to the East,
Whence the tall window drinks the morning rays;

That obvious emblem giving to the eye
Of meek devotion, which erewhile it gave,
That symbol of the dayspring from on high,
Triumphant o'er the darkness of the grave,

THE FORCE OF PRAYER*;

OR,

THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY

A TRADITION.

"What is good for a bootless bene?"

With these dark words begins my Tale;

And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring

When Prayer is of no avail!

"What is good for a bootless bene?"

The Falconer to the Lady said:

66

And she made answer ENDLESS SORROW!"
For she knew that her Son was dead.

She knew it by the Falconer's words,
And from the look of the Falconer's eye;
And from the love which was in her soul
For her youthful Romilly.

Young Romilly through Barden woods
Is ranging high and low;

And holds a Greyhound in a leash,
To let slip upon buck or doe.

The Pair have reached that fearful chasm.
How tempting to bestride!

For Lordly Wharf is there pent in
With rocks on either side.

This Striding-place is called THE STRID,
A name which it took of yore:

A thousand years hath it borne that name,
And shall a thousand more.

And hither is young Romilly come,
And what may now forbid

That he, perhaps for the hundredth time,
Shall bound across THE STRID?

He sprang in glee,—for what cared he

That the River was strong, and the rocks were steep - But the Greyhound in the leash hung back, And checked him in his leap.

The Boy is in the arms of Wharf,

And strangled by a merciless force;

For never more was young Romilly seen

Till he rose a lifeless Corse.

Now there is stillness in the Vale,

And deep, unspeaking sorrow:
Wharf shall be to pitying hearts

A name more sad than Yarrow.

If for a Lover the Lady wept,

A solace she might borrow

From death, and from the passion of death;Old Wharf might heal her sorrow.

* See the White Doe of Rylstone, p. 331.

Her temples, fearless for the stately work, ?
Though waves in every breeze its high-arched roof,
And storms the pillars rock. But we such schools
Of reverential awe will chiefly seek

In the still summer noon, while beams of light,
Reposing her, and in the aisles beyond
Traceably gliding through the dusk, recall
To mind the living presences of Nuns;
A gentle, pensive, white-robed sisterhood,
Whose saintly radiance mitigates the gloom
Of those terrestrial fabrics, where they serve,
To Christ, the Sun of Righteousness, espoused.
Now also shall the page of classic lore,
To these glad eyes from bondage freed, again
Lie open; and the book of Holy Writ,
Again unfolded, passage clear shall yield
To heights more glorious still, and into shades
More awful, where, advancing hand in hand,
We may be taught, O Darling of my care!
To calm the affections, elevate the soul,
And consecrate our lives to truth and love.

SEPTEMBER, 1819.

THE sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields
Are hung, as if with golden shields,
Bright trophies of the sun!
Like a fair sister of the sky,
Unruffled doth the blue Lake lie,
The Mountains looking on.

And, sooth to say, yon vocal Grove,
Albeit uninspired by love,
By love untaught to ring,
May well afford to mortal ear
An impulse more profoundly dear
Than music of the Spring.

For that from turbulence and heat
Proceeds, from some uncasy seat
In Nature's struggling frame,
Some region of impatient life;
And jealousy, and quivering strife,
Therein a portion claim.

This, this is holy; - while I hear
These vespers of another year,
This hymn of thanks and praise,
My spirit seems to mount above
The anxieties of human love,
And earth's precarious days.

But list!-though winter storms be nigh,
Unchecked is that soft harmony:
There lives Who can provide

For all his creatures; and in Him,
Even like the radiant Seraphim,
These Choristers confide.

UPON THE SAME OCCASION. DEPARTING Summer hath assumed An aspect tenderly illumed, The gentlest look of Spring; That calls from yonder leafy shade Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, A timely carolling.

No faint and hesitating trill,
Such tribute as to Winter chill
The lonely Redbreast pays
Clear, loud, and lively is the din,
From social warblers gathering in
Their harvest of sweet lays.

Nor doth the example fail to cheer
Me, conscious that my leaf is scre,
And yellow on the bough:-
Fall, rosy garlands, from my head!
Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed
Around a younger brow!

Yet will I temperately rejoice;

Wide is the range, and free the choice
Of undiscordant themes;

Which, haply, kindred souls may prize
Not less than vernal ecstasies,
And passion's feverish dreams.

For deathless powers to verse belong,
And they like Demi-gods are strong
On whom the muses smile;

But some their function have disclaimed,
Best pleased with what is aptliest framed
To enervate and defile.

Not such the initiatory strains
Committed to the silent plains

In Britain's earliest dawn

Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale, While all-too-daringly the veil

Of Nature was withdrawn!

Nor such the spirit-stirring note
When the live chords Alcæus smote,
Inflamed by sense of wrong;
Woe! woe to Tyrants! from the lyre
Broke threateningly, in sparkles dire
Of fierce vindictive song.

And not unhallowed was the page
By winged Love inscribed, to assuage
The pangs of vain pursuit;
Love listening while the Lesbian Maid
With finest touch of passion swayed
Her own Eolian lute.