Sidor som bilder

Then, while the sailor, mid an open sea
Swept by a favouring wind that leaves thought free,
Paces the deck — no star perhaps in sight,
And nothing save the moving ship's own light
To cheer the long dark hours of vacant night-
Oft with his musings does thy image blend,
In his mind's eye thy crescent horns ascend,
And thou art still, O Moon, that SAILOR'S FRIEND!




QUEEN of the stars! - so gentle, so benign,
That ancient fable did to thee assign,
When darkness creeping o'er thy silver brow
Warned thee these upper regions to forego,
Alternate empire in the shades below -
A Bard, who, lately near the wide-spread sea
Traversed by gleaming ships, looked up to thee
With grateful thoughts, doth now thy rising hail
From the close confines of a shadowy vale.
Glory of night, conspicuous yet serene,
Nor less attractive when by glimpses seen
Through cloudy umbrage, well might that fair face,
And all those attributes of modest grace,
In days when fancy wrought unchecked by fear,
Down to the green earth fetch thee from thy sphere,
To sit in leafy woods by fountains clear!

O still belov'd (for thine, meek Power, are charms That fascinate the very babe in arms, While he, uplifted towards thee, laughs outright, Spreading his little palms in his glad mother's sight) O still belov'd, once worshipped! Time, that frowns In his destructive flight on earthly crowns, Spares thy mild splendour; still those far-shot beams Tremble on dancing waves and rippling streams With stainless touch, as chaste as when thy praise Was sung by Virgin-choirs in festal lays; And through dark trials still dost thou explore Thy way for increase punctual as of yore, When teeming Matrons-yielding to rude faith In mysteries of birth and life and death And painful struggle and deliverance — prayed Of thee to visit them with lenient aid. What though the rites be swept away, the fanes Extinct that echoed to the votive strains; Yet thy mild aspect does not, cannot, cease Love to promote and purity and peace; And Fancy, unreproved, even yet may trace Faint types of suffering in thy beamless face.

Then, silent Monitress! let us — not blind To worlds unthought of till the searching mind Of science laid them open to mankind

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GIORDANO, verily thy pencil's skill

Hath here portrayed with Nature's happiest grace
The fair Endymion couched on Latmos Hill;
And Dian gazing on the shepherd's face

In rapture, yet suspending her embrace,
As not unconscious with what power the thrill
Of her most timid touch his sleep would chase,
And with his sleep, that beauty calm and still.
O may this work have found its last retreat
Here in a Mountain-bard's secure abode,
One to whom, yet a schoolboy, Cynthia showed
A face of love which he in love would greet,
Fixed, by her smile, upon some rocky seat;
Or lured along where greenwood paths he trod.



Who but is pleased to watch the moon on high,
Travelling where she from time to time enshrouds
Her head, and nothing loth her majesty
Renounces, till among the scattered clouds
One with its kindling edge declares that soon

Will reappear before the uplifted eye
A form as bright, as beautiful a moon,
To glide in open prospect through clear sky
Pity that such a promise e'er should prove
False in the issue, that yon seeming space
Of sky should be in truth the steadfast face
Of a cloud flat and dense, through which must move
By transit not unlike man's frequent doom)
The wanderer lost in more determined gloom.


WHERE lies the truth? has man, in wisdom's creed, A pitiable doom; for respite brief

A care more anxious, or a heavier grief!

Is he ungrateful, and doth little heed
God's bounty, soon forgotten; or indeed
Must man, with labour born, awake to sorrow
When flowers rejoice, and larks with rival speed
Spring from their nests to bid the sun good morrow?
They mount for rapture, as their songs proclaim,
Warbled in hearing both of earth and sky;
But o'er the contrast wherefore heave a sigh!
Like those aspirants let us soar- our ain,
Through life's worst trials, whether shocks or snares,
A happier, brighter, purer Heaven than theirs.*


[* See also, as connected with the series of "Evening VOLUNTARIES," the "Ode composed upon an evening of extraordinary splendour and beauty," p. 311.-H. R.]

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"When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past. SHAKSPEARE's Sonnets, No. XXX. Farewell, selfe-pleasing thoughts, which quietness brings foorth."SPENSER: Epitaph on Sir Philip Sidney.

Is there not in this concurrence- obviously casualSHAKSPEARE SPENSER - WORDSWORTH, proof of a trait of the temperament of poetic genius?


This simple stanza appears too to have touched a chord in the heart of Coleridge, who in one of his letters thus refers to it: "To have formed the habit of looking at every thing, not for what it is relative to the purposes and associations of men in general, but for the truths which it is suited to represent - to contemplate objects as words and pregnant symbols the advantages of this are so many, and so important, so eminently calculated to excite and evolve the power of sound and connected reasoning, of distinct and clear conception, and of genial feeling, that there are few of Wordsworth's finest passages-and who, of living poets, can lay claim to half the number? — that I repeat so often as that homely quatrain,

"O Reader! had you in your mind

Such stores as silent thought can bring; O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in every thing."

Note 2, p. 408. "Devotional Incitements."


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H. R.]

"Alas! the sanctities combined

By art to unsensualize the mind
Decay and languish; or as creeds
And humours change, are spurned like weeds:"
[This subject is finely drawn by Daniel:
"Sacred Religion! mother of form and fear!
How gorgeously sometimes dost thou sit decked!
What pompous vestures do we make thee wear,
What stately piles we prodigal erect!

How sweet perfumed thou art; how shining clear!
How solemnly observed; with what respect'

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Another time all plain, all quite thread-bare;
Thou must have all within, and nought without;
Sit poorly without light, disrobed: no care
Of outward grace, to amuse the poor devout;
Powerless, unfollowed: scarce men can spare
The necessary rites to set thee out.

Either truth, goodness, virtue are not still
The self-same which they are, and always one,
But alter to the project of our will;

Or we our actions make them wait upon,
Putting them in the livery of our skill,

And cast them off again when we have done."
DANIEL:-Musophilus.'-II. R.]

They are in truth the Substance, we the Shadows." [This incident is thus narrated by the author or authors of that 'rare' book 'The Doctor,' with one of the rich comments, which distinguish the work:

"When Wilkie was in the Escurial, looking at Titian's famous picture of the Last Supper, in the Refectory there, an old Jeronimite said to him, ‘I have sate daily in sight of that picture for now nearly three-score years; during that time my companions have dropt off, one after another, all who were my Seniors, all who were my contemporaries, and many, or most of those who were younger than myself; more than one gencration has passed away, and there the figures in the picture have remained unchanged! I look at them till I sometimes think that they are the realities, and we but shadows!'

"I wish I could record the name of the Monk by whom that natural feeling was so feelingly and strikingly expressed.

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Note 3, p. 424.

"Lines on a Portrait."

The shows of things are better than themselves,"

says the author of the tragedy of Nero, whose name, also, I could wish had been forthcoming; and the clas sical reader will remember the lines of Sophocles:

̔Ομῶ γὰρ ἡμᾶς οὐδὲν ὄντας ἄλλο, πλὴν
*Ειδωλ, ̓ ὅσοιπερ ζῶμεν, ἤ κούφην σκιάν.

These are reflections which should make us think

"Of that same time when no more change shall be, But steadfast rest of all things, firmly stayd

Upon the pillars of Eternity,

That is contraire to mutability;

For all that moveth doth in change delight:

But thenceforth all shall rest eternally

With Him that is the God of Subnoth hight,

O that great Sabaoth God grant me that Sabbath's sight."

SPENSER. "The Doctor," Vol. III. p. 235.-H. k

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gentle and unassuming. She is endeared too by a more than sisterly devotion, which paused only at his grave, to one of the most winning writers in the language,

[The following is one of the poems by Mr. Southey, whose intellectual efforts were probably best encouraged by her who cheered the loneliness of his hearth.

which are referred to:



Note 4, p. 368.
"Lines on a Portrait."


"And I was once like this? that glowing cheek
Was mine, those pleasure-sparkling eyes; that brow
Smooth as the level lako, when not a breeze
Dies o'er the sleeping surface!-Twenty years
Have wrought strange alteration! Of the friends
Who once so dearly prized this miniature,
And loved it for its likeness, some are gone
To their last home; and some estranged in heart,
Beholding me, with quick averted glance
Pass on the other side! But still these hues
Remain unaltered, and these features wear
The look of Infancy and Innocence.

I search myself in vain, and find no trace
Of what I was: those lightly arching lines
Dark and o'erhanging now; and that sweet face
Settled in these strong lineaments!-There were
Who formed high hopes and flattering ones of thee,
Young Robert! for thine eye was quick to speak
Each opening feeling: should they not have known,
If the rich rainbow on the morning cloud
Reflects its radiant dyes, the husbandman
Beholds the ominous glory, and foresees
Impending storms! - They augured happily,
That thou didst love each wild and wond'rous tale
Of faery fiction, and thine infant tongue

Lisped with delight the godlike deeds of Greeco
And rising Rome; therefore they deemed, forsooth,
That thou should'st tread PREFERMENT's pleasant path.
Ill-judging ones! they let thy little feet
Stray in the pleasant paths of POESY,

And when thou shouldst have prest amid the crowd,
There didst thou love to linger out the day,
Loitering beneath the laurel's barren shade.
SPIRIT OF SPENSER! was the wanderer wrong?-1796."
SOUTHEY'S Poetical Works.

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"The Lady Blanch, regardless of all her lovers' fears.
To the Urs'line Convent hastens, and long the Abbe's hears,
"() Blanch, my child, repent ye of the courtly life yo lead.”
Blanch looked on a rose-bud and little seemed to heed
She looked on the rose-bud, she looked round, and thought
On all her heart had whispered, and all the Nun had taught,
"I am worshipped by lovers, and brightly shines my fame
"All Christendom resoundeth the noble Blanch's name.
"Nor shall I quickly wither like the rose-bud from the tree,
"My queen-like graces shining when my beauty's gone from me.
"But when the sculptured marble is raised o'er my head,
"And the matchless Blanch lies lifeless among the noble dead,


This saintly lady Abbess hath made me justly fear,

"It nothing will avail me that I were worshipped here." Poetical Works of Charles Lamb.-H. R.]


Note 5, p. 425.

"Ode to Duty.”

"The genial sense of Youth :"

[-"diffidence or veneration. Such virtues are the sacred attributes of Youth: its appropriate calling is not to distinguish in the fear of being deceived or degraded, not to analyze with scrupulous minuteness, but to accumulate in genial confidence; its instinct, its safety, its benefit, its glory, is to love, to admire, to feel, and to labour. " COLERIDGE: The Friend,' Vol. III. p. 62. — H. R.]

Note 6, p. 426. "Ode to Duty.

"And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live!"

I cannot deny myself the gratification of introducing into this group of poems suggested by paintings another, also from the pen of one of Mr. Wordsworth's friends one, to whom I am confident he would delight in seeing any tribute paid in connection with his own writings. I have therefore less hesitation in in-law of moral to physical natures, and having contem

[“A living Teacher, to be spoken of with gratitude as of a benefactor, having, in his character of philosophical Poet, thought of morality as implying in its essence voluntary obedience, and producing the effect of order, transfers, in the transport of imagination, the

plated, through the medium of that order, all modes of existence as subservient to one spirit, concludes his address to the power of Duty in the following words:

serting here the following lines by Mary Lamb, included among the poems of her brother, the late Charles Lamb, and at the same time of using these pages to express a grateful admiration of an individual who has exhibited one of the most beautiful examples of the delicacy of female authorship to be met with in the records of English literature. In a few unambitious poems mingled among her brother's—as indeed her very existence seems to have been blended with his-and in that most graceful children's classic, 'Mrs. Leicester's School', there are tokens of a spirit as lofty in its purity as it is 3 E

To humbler functions, awful Power!
I call thee: I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour;
Oh, let my weakness have an end!
Give unto me, made lowly wise
The spirit of self-sacrifice;

The confidence of reason give!

And in the light of Truth thy Bondman let me live !”—W. W

COLERIDGE: The Friend,' Vol. III. p. 64. H. R.]


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Or, pilgrim-like, on forest moss reclined,
Gives plaintive ditties to the heedless wind,
Or listens to its play among the boughs
Above her head and so forgets her vows
If such a visitant of earth there be
And she would deign this day to smile on me
And aid my verse, content with local bounds
Of natural beauty and life's daily rounds,
Thoughts, chances, sights, or doings, which we tell
Without reserve to those whom we love well-

Then, haply, Beaumont! words in current clear
Will flow, and on a welcome page appear
Duly before thy sight, unless they perish here.



FAR from our home by Grasmere's quiet lake,
From the vale's peace which all her fields partake,
Here on the bleakest point of Cumbria's shore
We sojourn stunned by Ocean's ceaseless roar;
While, day by day, grim neighbour! huge Black Comb
Frowns, deepening visibly his native gloom,
Unless, perchance rejecting in despite

What on the plain we have of warmth and light,
In his own storms he hides himself from sight.
Rough is the time; and thoughts, that would be free
From heaviness, oft fly, dear friend, to thee;
Turn from a spot where neither sheltered road
Nor hedge-row screen invites my steps abroad;
Where one poor plane-tree, having as it might
Attained a stature twice a tall man's height,
Hopeless of further growth, and brown and sere
Through half the summer, stands with top cut sheer,
Like an unshifting weathercock which proves
How cold the quarter that the wind best loves,
Or like a centinel that, evermore
Darkening the window, ill defends the door
Of this unfinished house - - a fortress bare,
Where strength has been the builder's only care,
Whose rugged walls may still for years demand
The final polish of the plasterer's hand.

What shall I treat of? News from Mona's Isle?
Such have we, but unvaried in its style;
No tales of runagates fresh landed, whence
And wherefore fugitive or on what pretence;
Of feasts, or scandal, eddying like the wind
Most restlessly alive when most confined.
Ask not of me whose tongue can best appease
The mighty tumults of the House of Keys;
The last year's cup whose ram or heifer gained,
What slopes are planted, or what mosses drained:
An eye of fancy only can I cast

On that proud pageant now at hand or past,
When full five hundred boats in trim array,
With nets and sails outspread and streamers gay,
And chanted hymns and stiller voice of prayer,
For the old Manx-harvest to the deep repair,

-This dwelling's inmate more than three weeks' space Soon as the herring-shoals at distance shine

Like beds of moonlight shifting on the brine.

And oft a prisoner in the cheerless place,
I-of whose touch the fiddle would complain,
Whose breath would labour at the flute in vain,
In music all unversed, nor blessed with skill

A bridge to copy, or to paint a mill,
Tired of my books, a scanty company!
And tired of listening to the boisterous sea-
Pace between door and window muttering rhyme,
An old resource to cheat a froward time!
Though these dull hours (mine is it, or their shame!)
Would tempt me to renounce that humble aim.
-But if there be a Muse who, free to take
Her seat upon Olympus, doth forsake
Those heights (like Phoebus when his golden locks
He veiled, attendant on Thessalian flocks)
And, in disguise, a milkmaid with her pail
Trips down the pathways of some winding dale;
Or, like a Mermaid, warbles on the shores
To fishers mending nets beside their doors;

Mona from our abode is daily seen,

But with a wilderness of waves between;
And by conjecture only can we speak
Of aught transacted there in bay or creek;
No tidings reach us thence from town or field,
Only faint news her mountain sunbeams yield,
And some we gather from the misty air,

And some the hovering clouds, our telegraph, declare
But these poetic mysteries I withhold;

For Fancy hath her fits both hot and cold,
And should the colder fit with you be on
When you might read, my credit would be gone.

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