The wain stood ready, at our cottage-door,
Thoughtfully freighted with a various store;
And long or ere the uprising of the sun
O'er dew-damped dust our journey was begun,
A needful journey, under favouring skies,
Through peopled vales; yet something in the guise
Of those old patriarchs when from well to well
They roamed through waste where now the tented
Arabs dwell.

Say first, to whom did we the charge confide,
Who promptly undertook the wain to guide
Up many a sharply-twining road and down,
And over many a wide hill's craggy crown,
Through the quick turns of many a hollow nook,
And the rough bed of many an unbridged brook?
A blooming lass - who in her better hand
Bore a light switch her sceptre of command
When, yet a slender girl, she often led,
Skilful and bold, the horse and burthened sled*
From the peat-yielding moss on Gowdar's head.
What could go wrong with such a charioteer
For goods and chattels, or those infants dear,
A pair who smilingly sate side by side,
Our hope confirming that the salt-sea tide,
Whose free embraces we were bound to seek,
Would their lost strength restore and freshen the pale
cheek?

Such hope did either parent entertain
Pacing behind along the silent lane.

Blithe hopes and happy musings soon took flight,
For lo! an uncouth melancholy sight
On a green bank a creature stood forlorn
Just half protruded to the light of morn,
Its hinder part concealed by hedge-row thorn.
The figure called to mind a beast of prey
Stript of its frightful powers by slow decay,
And, though no longer upon rapine bent,
Dim memory keeping of its old intent.
We started, looked again with anxious eyes,
And in that griesly object recognise

The Curate's dog—his long-tried friend, for they,
As well we knew, together had grown grey.
The master died, his drooping servant's grief
Found at the widow's feet some sad relief;
Yet still he lived in pining discontent,
Sadness which no indulgence could prevent;
Hence whole day wanderings, broken nightly sleeps
And lonesome watch that out of doors he keeps;
Not oftentimes, I trust, as we, poor brute!
Espied him on his legs sustained, blank, mute,

And of all visible motion destitute,

So that the very heaving of his breath

Unscared by thronging fancies of strange hue
That haunted us in spite of what we knew.
Even now I sometimes think of him as lost
In second-sight appearances, or crost
By spectral shapes of guilt, or to the ground,
On which he stood, by spells unnatural bound,
Like a gaunt shaggy porter forced to wait
In days of old romance at Archimago's gate.

Advancing summer, Nature's law fulfilled,
The choristers in every grove had stilled;
But we, we lacked not music of our own,
For lightsome Fanny had thus early thrown,
Mid the gay prattle of those infant tongues,
Some notes prelusive, from the round of songs
With which, more zealous than the liveliest bird
That in wild Arden's brakes was ever heard,
Her work and her work's partners she can cheer,
The whole day long, and all days of the year.

Thus gladdened from our own dear vale we pass And soon approach Diana's looking-glass!

To Loughrigg-tarn, round, clear, and bright as heaven,
Such name Italian fancy would have given,
Ere on its banks the few grey cabins rose
That yet disturb not its concealed repose
More than the feeblest wind that idly blows.

Ah, Beaumont! when an opening in the road
Stopped me at once by chart of what it showed,
The encircling region vividly exprest

Within the mirror's depth, a world at rest-
Sky streaked with purple, grove and craggy bield,†
And the smooth green of many a pendent field,
And, quieted and soothed, a torrent small,

A little daring would-be waterfall,
One chimney sinoking and its azure wreath,
Associate all in the calm pool beneath,
With here and there a faint imperfect gleam
Of water-lilics veiled in misty steam
What wonder at this hour of stillness deep,
A shadowy link 'tween wakefulness and sleep,
When Nature's seit, amid such blending seems
To render visible her own soft dreams,

If, mixed with what appeared of rock, lawn, wood,
Fondly embosomed in the tranquil flood,
A glimpse I caught of that abode, by thee
Designed to rise in humble privacy,

A lowly dwelling, here to be outspread,
Like a small hamlet, with its bashful head
Half hid in native trees. Alas 'tis not,
Nor ever was; I sighed, and left the spot
Unconscious of its own untoward lot,
And thought in silence, with regret too keen,
Of unexperienced joys that might have been;

Long as we gazed upon the form and face,

A mild domestic pity kept its place,

* A local word for Sledge.

And golden summer days uniting cheerful hearts.

† A word common in the country, signifying shelter, as in Scotland.

Not far we travelled ere a shout of glee,
Startling us all, dispersed my reverie;
Such shout as many a sportive echo meeting
Oft-times from Alpine chalets sends a greeting.
Whence the blithe hail? behold a peasant stand
On high, a kerchief waving in her hand!
Not unexpectant that by early day

Our little band would thrid this mountain way,
Before her cottage on the bright hill side
She hath advanced with hope to be descried.
Right gladly answering signals we displayed,
Moving along a tract of morning shade,
And vocal wishes sent off like good will
To our kind friend high on the sunny hill
Luminous region, fair as if the pri:ne
Were tempting all astir to look aloft or climb;
Only the centre of the shining cot
With door left open makes a gloomy spot,
Emblem of those dark corners sometimes found
Within the happiest breast on earthly ground.

Rich prospect left behind of stream and vale, And mountain-tops, a barren ridge we scale; Descend and reach, in Yewdale's depths, a plain With haycocks studded, striped with yellowing grainAn area level as a lake and spread

Under a rock too steep for man to tread,

Where sheltered from the north and bleak north-west
Aloft the raven hangs a visible nest,

Fearless of all assaults that would her brood molest.
Hot sunbeams fill the steaming vale; but hark,
At our approach a jealous watch-dog's bark,
Noise that brings forth no liveried page of state,
But the whole household, that our coming wait.
With young and old warm greetings we exchange,
And jocund smiles, and toward the lowly grange
Press forward by the teasing dogs unscared.
Entering, we find the morning meal prepared:
So down we sit, though not till each had cast
Pleased looks around the delicate repast -
Rich cream, and snow-white eggs fresh from the nest,
With amber honey from the mountain's breast;
Strawberries from lane or woodland, offering wild
Of children's industry, in hillocks piled;
Cakes for the nonce, and butter fit to lie
Upon a lordly dish; frank hospitality
Where simple art with bounteous nature vied,
And cottage comfort shunned not seemly pride.

Kind Hostess! Handmaid also of the feast.
If thou be lovelier than the kindling east,
Words by thy presence unrestrained may speak
Of a perpetual dawn from brow and cheek
Instinct with light whose sweetest promise lies,
Never retiring, in thy large dark eyes,

Dark but to every gentle feeling true,

As if their lustre flowed from ether's purest blue

Let me not ask what tears may have been wept
By those bright eyes, what weary vigils kept,
Beside that hearth what sighs may have been heaved
For wounds inflicted, nor what toil relieved
By fortitude and patience, and the grace
Of heaven in pity visiting the place.
Not unadvisedly those secret springs

I leave unsearched: enough that memory clings,
Here as elsewhere, to notices that make
Their own significance for hearts awake,
To rural incidents, whose genial powers
Filled with delight three summer morning hours.

More could my pen report of grave or gay That through our gipsy travel cheered the way; But, bursting forth above the waves, the sun Laughs at my pains, and seems to say, "Be done." Yet, Beaumont, thou wilt not, I trust, reprove This humble offering made by Truth to Love, Nor chide the muse that stooped to break a spell Which might have else been on me yet:— FAREWELL

UPON PERUSING THE FOREGOING EPISTLE THIRTY YEARS
AFTER ITS COMPOSITION.

Soon did the Almighty giver of all rest
Take those dear young ones to a fearless nest;
And in Death's arms has long reposed the friend
For whom this simple register was penned.
Thanks to the moth that spared it for our eyes;
And strangers even the slighted scroll may prize,
Moved by the touch of kindred sympathies.
Forsave the calm, repentance sheds o'er strife
Raised by remembrances of misused life,
The light from past endeavours purely willed
And by Heaven's favour happily fulfilled;
Save hope that we, yet bound to earth, may share
The joys of the departed— what so fair
As blameless pleasure, not without some tears,
Reviewed through Love's transparent veil of years?

Note.-LOUGHRIGG TARN, alluded to in the foregoing Epistle, resembles, though much smaller in compass, the Lake Nemi, or Speculum Diana as it is often called, not only in its clear waters and circular form, and the beauty immediately surrounding it, but also as being overlooked by the eminence of Langdale Pikes as Lake Nemi is by that of Monte Calvo. Since this Epistle was written Loughrigg Tarn has lost much of its beauty by the felling of many natural clumps of wood, relics of the old forest, particularly upon the farm called "The Oaks," from the abundance of that tree which grew there.

It is to be regretted, upon public grounds, that Sir George Beaumont did not carry into effect his intention of constructing here a Summer Retreat in the style I have described; as his taste would have set an example how

Kindly emotion tending to console

And reconcile; and both with young and old
Exalt the sense of thoughtful gratitude
For benefits that still survive, by faith
In progress, under laws divine, maintained.

RYDAL MOUNT, March 26, 1842.

PRELUDE,

PREFIXED TO THE VOLUME ENTITLED "POEMS CHIEFLY OF EARLY
AND LATE YEARS."

In desultory walk through orchard grounds,
Or some deep chestnut grove, oft have I paused
The while a Thrush, urged rather than restrained
By gusts of vernal storm, attuned his song
To his own genial instincts; and was heard
(Though not without some plaintive tones between)
To utter, above showers of blossom swept
From tossing boughs, the promise of a calm,
Which the unsheltered traveller might receive
With thankful spirit. The descant, and the wind
That seemed to play with it in love or scorn,
Encouraged and endeared the strain of words
That haply flowed from me, by fits of silence
Impelled to livelier pace. But now, my Book!
Charged with those lays, and others of like mood,
Or loftier pitch if higher rose the theme,
Go, single yet aspiring to be joined
With thy forerunners that through many a year
Have faithfully prepared each other's way -
Go forth upon a mission best fulfilled
When and wherever, in this changeful world,
Power hath been given to please for higher ends
Than pleasure only; gladdening to prepare
For wholesome sadness, troubling to refine,
Calming to raise; and by a sapient art

Diffused through all the mysteries of our being,
Softening the toils and pains that have not ceased
To cast their shadows on our mother earth
Since the primeval doom. Such is the grace
Which, though unsued for, fails not to descend
With heavenly inspiration; such the aim
That Reason dictates; and, as even the wish
Has virtue in it, why should hope to me
Be wanting that sometimes, where fancied ills
Harass the mind and strip from off the bowers
Of private life their natural pleasantness,
A voice-devoted to the love whose seeds
Are sown in every human breast, to beauty
Lodged within compass of the humblest sight,
To cheerful intercourse with wood and field,
And sympathy with man's substantial griefs —
Will not be heard in vain? And in those days
When unforeseen distress spreads far and wide
Among a people mournfully cast down,
Or into anger roused by venal words
In recklessness flung out to overturn
The judgment, and divert the general heart

TO A CHILD.

WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM.

SMALL Service is true service while it lasts:
Of humblest friends, bright creature! scorn not one:
The daisy, by the shadow that it casts,
Protects the lingering dew-drop from the sun.

ODE

ON THE INSTALLATION

OF

HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS PRINCE ALBERT

AS

CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE,

JULY, 1847.

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH,

POET LAUREATE.

For thirst of power that Heaven disowns,
For temples, towers, and thrones

Too long insulted by the spoiler's shock,
Indignant Europe cast
Her stormy foe at last

To reap the whirlwind on a Libyan rock.
War is passion's basest game,
Madly played to win a name:

Up starts some tyrant, Heaven and Earth to dare;
The servile million bow;

But will the lightning glance aside and spare
The despot's laurelled brow

War is mercy, glory, fame,

Waged in Freedom's holy cause,
Freedom such as man may claim
Under God's restraining laws.
Such is Albion's fame and glory,
Let rescued Europe tell the story.
But lo! what sudden cloud has darkened all
The land as with a funeral pall?

The Rose of England suffers blight:

This day, when Granta hails her chosen Lord,

The Flower has drooped, the Isle's delight;

Flower and bud together fall;

And, proud of her award, Confiding in that Star serene,

Hall.

Time a chequered mantle wears-
Earth awakes from wintr sleep:
Again the tree a blossom bears;

Cease, Britannia, cease to weep!
Hark to the peals on this bright May morn!
They tell that your future Queen is born.
A guardian angel fluttered

Above the babe, unseen;
One word he softly uttered,

It named the future Queen;

And a joyful cry through the island rang,
As bold and clear as the trumpet's clang,
As bland as the reed of peace:
"Victoria be her name!"

For righteous triumphs are the base Whereon Britannia rests her peaceful fame.

Time in his mantle's sunniest fold
Uplifted on his arms the child,
And while the fearless infant siniled
Her happier destiny foretold. -
"Infancy, by wisdom mild

Trained to health and artless beauty

Youth, by pleasure unbeguiled
From the lore of lofty duty:
Womanhood, in pure renown
Seated on her lineal throne:
Leaves of myrtle in her crown,
Fresh with lustre all their own.
Love, the treasure worth possessing
More than all the world beside,
This shall be her choicest blessing,
Oft to royal hearts denied."

That eve, the Star of Brunswick shone
With stedfast ray benign

On Gotha's ducal roof, and on

The softly flowing Leine,

Nor failed to gild the spires of Bonn,
And glittered on the Rhine

Old Camus too, on that prophetic night
Was conscious of the ray;

And his willows whispered in its light
Not to the zephyr's sway,

But with a Delphic life, in sight
Of this auspicious day –

Prince, in these collegiate bowers,

Where science, leagued with holier truth,
Guards the sacred heart of youth,
Solemn monitors are our's.

These reverend aisles, these hallowed towers
Raised by many a hand august,

Are haunted by majestic powers,
The memories of the wise and just,
Who, faithful to a pious trust,
Here, in the Founder's spirit, sought
To mould and stamp the ore of thought
In that bold form and impress high
That best betoken patriot loyalty.

Not in vain those sages taught:
True disciples, good as great,
Have pondered here their country's weal,
Weighed the Future by the Past,
Learnt how social frames may last,
And how a land may rule its fate

By constancy inviolate,

Though worlds to their foundations reel, The sport of faction's hate or godless zeal.

Albert, in thy race we cherish

A nation's strength that will not perish
While England's sceptred line,

True to the King of kings is found,

Like that wise ancestor of thine
Who threw the Saxon shield o'er Luther's life
When first above the yells of bigot strife

The trumpet of the Living Word
Assumed a voice of deep portentous sound,
From gladdened Elbe to startled Tiber heard.
What shield more sublime
E'er was blazoned or sung?
And the Prince whom we greet
From its Hero is sprung.
Resound, resound the strain
That hails him for our own!
Again, again, and yet again,

For the Church, the State, the Throne!
And that Presence fair and bright,

Ever blest wherever seen,

Who deigns to grace our festal rite—

The pride of the Islands, VICTORIA THE QUEEN!

TO THE EDITORS OF THE PHILOLOGICAL MUSEUM. Your letter reminding me of an expectation I some time since held out to you of allowing some specimens of my translation from the Eneid to be printed in the Philological Museum, was not very acceptable: for I had abandoned the thought of ever sending into the world any part of that experiment,—for it was nothing more,-an experiment begun for amusement, and I now think a less fortunate one than when I first named it to you. Having been displeased in modern translations with the additions of incongruous matter, 1 began to translate with a resolve to keep clear of that fault, by adding nothing; but I became convinced that a spirited translation can scarcely be accomplished in the English language without admitting a principle of compensation. On this point, however, 1 do not wish to insist, and merely send the following passage, taken at random, from a wish to comply with your request.-W. W.

BUT Cytherea, studious to invent

Arts yet untried, upon new counsels bent,
Resolves that Cupid, changed in form and face
To young Ascanius, should assume his place;
Present the maddening gifts, and kindle heat
Of passion at the bosom's inmost seat.

She dreads the treacherous house, the double tongue;
She burns, she frets- by Juno's rancour stung⚫
The calm of night is powerless to remove
These cares, and thus she speaks to wingéd Love.

O son, my strength, my power! who dost despise (What save thyself, none dares through earth and skies,) The giant-quelling bolts of Jove, I flee,

O son, a suppliant to thy deity!

What perils meet Æneas in his course,

How Juno's hate with unrelenting force
Pursues thy brother this to thee is known;

And oft-times hast thou made my griefs thine own.
Him now the generous Dido by soft chains
Of bland entreaty at her court detains;
Junonian hospitalities prepare

Such apt occasion that I dread a snare.
Hence, ere some hostile god can intervene
Would I, by previous wiles, inflame the queen
With passion for Æneas, such strong love
That at my beck, mine only, she shall move.
Hear, and assist, - the father's mandate calls
His young Ascanius to the Tyrian walls.

[*This translation is taken from "The Philological Museum," Vol. I., p. 382, Cambridge, 1832, edited by the Rev. Julius Charles Hare, now Archdeacon of Lewes. It was a contribution to that periodical, in which it ap. peared with the above prefatory note.-H. R.]

He comes, my dear delight, and costliest things
Preserv'd from fire and flood for presents brings;
Him will I take, and in close covert keep,
Mid groves Idalian, lulled to gentle sleep,
Or on Cytherea's far-sequestered steep,
That he may neither know what hope is mine,
Nor by his presence traverse the design.
Do thou, but for a single night's brief space,
Dissemble; be that boy in form and face!
And when enraptured Dido shall receive
Thee to her arms, and kisses interweave
With many a fond embrace, while joy runs high,
And goblets crown the proud festivity,
Instil thy subtle poison, and inspire
At every touch an unsuspected fire.

Love, at the word, before his mother's sight
Puts off his wings, and walks with proud delight,
Like young Iulus; but the gentlest dews
Of slumber Venus sheds, to circumfuse
The true Ascanius, steep'd in placid rest;

Then wafts him, cherished on her careful breast,
Through upper air to an Idalian glade,
Where he on soft amaracus is laid,

With breathing flowers embraced, and fragrant shade.
But Cupid following cheerily his guide
Achates, with the gifts to Carthage hied
And, as the hall he entered, there, between
The sharers of her golden couch, was seen
Reclin'd in festal pomp the Tyrian queen.
The Trojans too (Eneas at their head)
On couches lie, with purple overspread;
Meantime in canisters is heaped the bread,
Pellucid water for the hands is borne,
And napkins of smooth texture, finely shorn
Within are fifty handmaids, who prepare,
As they in order stand the dainty fare;
And fume the household deities with store
Of odorous incense; while a hundred more
Match'd with an equal number of like age,
But each of manly sex, a docile page,
Marshal the banquet, giving with due grace
To cup or viand its appointed place.
The Tyrians rushing in, an eager band,
Their painted couches seck, obedient to command.
They look with wonder on the gifts- they gaze
Upon Julus, dazzled with the rays
That from his ardent countenance are flung,
And charmed to hear his simulating tongue,