WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL UPON A STONE IN THE WALL OF THE HOUSE (AN OUT-HOUSE) ON THE
RUDE is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained Proportions more harmonious, and approached To somewhat of a closer fellowship With the ideal grace. Yet, as it is, Do take it in good part:— -alas! the poor Vitruvius of our village had no help
. From the great City; never, on the leaves
Of red Morocco folio saw displayed The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts Of Beauties yet unborn, the rustic Box,
Snug Cot, with Coach-house, Shed, and Hermitage. Thou see'st a homely Pile, yet to these walls The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here The new-dropped lamb finds shelter from the wind. And hither does one Poet sometimes row His Pinnace, a small vagrant Barge, up-piled With plenteous store of heath and withered fern, (A lading which he with his sickle cuts, Among the mountains) and beneath this roof He makes his summer couch, and here at noon Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unshorn, the Sheep, Panting beneath the burthen of their wool, Lie round him, even as if they were a part Of his own Household: nor, while from his bed He through that door-place looks, toward the lake And to the stirring breezes, does he want Creations lovely as the work of sleep, Fair sights and visions of romantic joy!
WRITTEN WITH A SLATE-PENCIL UPON A STONE, THE LARGEST OF A HEAP LYING NEAR A DESERTED QUARRY, UPON ONE OF THE ISLANDS AT RYDAL STRANGER! this hillock of mis-shapen stones Is not a Ruin of the ancient time,
Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the Cairn Of some old British Chief: 't is nothing more Than the rude embryo of a little Dome Or Pleasure-house, once destined to be built Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle. But, as it chanced, Sir William having learned That from the shore a full-grown man might wade, And make himself a freeman of this spot At any hour he chose, the Knight forthwith Desisted, and the quarry and the mound Are monuments of his unfinished task. —
The block on which these lines are traced, perhaps, Was once selected as the corner-stone
Of the intended Pile, which would have been
WRITTEN WITH a slate-PENCIL ON A STONE, ON THE Some quaint odd plaything of elaborate skill,
SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN OF BLACK COMB.*
STAY, bold Adventurer; rest awhile thy limbs On this commodious Seat! for much remains Of hard ascent before thou reach the top from blackness named, Of this huge Eminence, - And, to far-travelled storms of sea and land, A favourite spot of tournament and war! But thee may no such boisterous visitants Molest; may gentle breezes fan thy brow; And neither cloud conceal, nor misty air Bedim, the grand terraqueous spectacle, From centre to circumference, unveiled! Know, if thou grudge not to prolong thy rest, That on the summit whither thou art bound, A geographic Labourer pitched his tent, With books supplied and instruments of art,
So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush, And other little builders who dwell here, Had wondered at the work. But blame him not, For old Sir William was a gentle Knight, Bred in this vale, to which he appertained With all his ancestry. Then peace to him, And for the outrage which he had devised Entire forgiveness! But if thou art one On fire with thy impatience to become An inmate of these mountains, — if, disturbed By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn Out of the quiet rock the elements
Of thy trim Mansion destined soon to blaze In snow-white splendour, think again, and, taugh By old Sir William and his quarry, leave Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose; There let the vernal Slow-worm sun himself, And let the Redbreast hop from stone to stone.
FOR THE SPOT WHERE THE HERMITAGE STOOD ON ST. HERBERT'S ISLAND, DERWENT-WATER.
Ir thou in the dear love of some one Friend Hast been so happy that thou knowest what thoughts Will sometimes in the happiness of love Make the heart sink, then wilt thou reverence This quiet spot; and, Stranger! not unmoved Wilt thou behold this shapeless heap of stones, The desolate ruins of St. Herbert's Cell. Here stood his threshold; here was spread the roof That sheltered him, a self-secluded Man,
After long exercise in social cares And offices humane, intent to adore
The Deity, with undistracted mind, And meditate on everlasting things, In utter solitude. But he had left
A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man loved As his own soul. And, when with eye upraised
THE massy Ways, carried across these Heights By Roman Perseverance, are destroyed, Or hidden under ground, like sleeping worms. How venture then to hope that Time wili spare This humble Walk? Yet on the mountain's side A Poet's hand first shaped it; and the steps Of that same Bard, repeated to and fro At morn, at noon, and under moonlight skies, Through the vicissitudes of many a year, Forbade the weeds to creep o'er its gray line. No longer, scattering to the heedless winds The vocal raptures of fresh poesy,
Shall he frequent these precincts; locked no more
In earnest converse with beloved Friends,
Here will he gather stores of ready bliss,
As from the beds and borders of a garden
Choice flowers are gathered! But, if Power may spring
Out of a farewell yearning favoured more
Than kindred wishes mated suitably With vain regrets, the Exile would consign This Walk, his loved possession, to the care Of those pure Minds that reverence the Muse.
REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF OLD AGE.
THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR.
The class of Beggars, to which the old Man here described belongs, will probably soon be extinct. It consisted of poor, and, mostly, old and infirm persons, who confined themselves to a stated round in their neighbourhood, and had certain fixed days,
on which, at different houses, they regularly received alms, sometimes in money, but mostly in provisions.
I SAW an aged Beggar in my walk; And he was seated, by the highway side, On a low structure of rude masonry Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they Who lead their horses down the steep rough road May thence remount at ease. The aged Man Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone That overlays the pile; and, from a bag All white with flour, the dole of village dames, He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one; And scanned them with a fixed and serious look Of idle computation. In the sun, Upon the second step of that small pile, Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills, He sat, and ate his food in solitude:
And ever, scattered from his palsied hand, That, still attempting to prevent the waste, Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers Fell on the ground; and the small mountain birds, Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal, Approached within the length of half his staff.
Him from my childhood have I known; and then He was so old, he seems not older now; He travels on, a solitary Man,
So helpless in appearance, that for him The sauntering Horseman-traveller does not throw With careless hand his alms upon the ground, But stops, that he may safely lodge the coin Within the old Man's hat; nor quits him so, But still, when he has given his horse the rein, Watches the aged Beggar with a look Sidelong- and half-reverted. She who tends The Toll-gate, when in summer at her door She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees The aged Beggar coining, quits her work, And lifs the latch for him that he may pass.
The Post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'ertake The aged Beggar in the woody lane, Shouts to him from behind; and, if thus warned The old Man does not change his course, the Boy Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside, And passes gently by without a curse Upon his lips, or anger at his heart. He travels on, a solitary Man;
His age has no companion. On the ground His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along, They move along the ground; and, evermore, Instead of common and habitual sight Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale, And the blue sky, one little span of earth Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day, Bow-bent, his eyes for ever on the ground, He plies his weary journey; seeing still, And seldom knowing that he sees, some straw Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track, The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left Impressed on the white road, in the same line, At distance still the same. Poor Traveller! His staff trails with him; scarcely do his feet Disturb the summer dust: he is so still
But deem not this Man useless. -Statesmen! ye Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye Who have a broom still ready in your hands To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud, Heart-swoln, while in your pride ve contemplate Your talents, power, and wisdom, deem him not A burthen of the earth. "T is Nature's law That none, the meanest of created things, Of forms created the most vile and brute, The dullest or most noxious, should exist Divorced from good - a spirit and pulse of good A life and soul, to every mode of being Inseparably linked. While thus he creeps From door to door, the Villagers in hin Behold a record which together binds
Past deeds and offices of charity, Else unremembered, and so keeps alive The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years, And that half-wisdom half-experience gives, Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign To selfishness and cold oblivious cares. Among the farms and solitary huts, Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages, Where'er the aged Beggar takes his rounds, The mild necessity of use compels To acts of love; and habit does the work Of reason; yet prepares that after-joy Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul, By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued, Doth find herself insensibly disposed
To virtue and true goodness. Some there are, By their good works exalted, lofty minds And meditative, authors of delight And happiness, which to the end of time Will live, and spread, and kindle: even such minds In childhood, from this solitary Being, Or from like Wanderer, haply have received (A thing more precious far than all that books Or the solicitudes of love can do!) That first mild touch of sympathy and thought, In which they found their kindred with a world Where want and sorrow were. The easy Man Who sits at his own door, and, like the pear That overhangs his head from the green wall, Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and young, The prosperous and unthinking, they who live Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove Of their own kindred ;- all behold in him A silent monitor, which on their minds Must needs impress a transitory thought Of self-congratulation, to the heart Of each recalling his peculiar boons, His charters and exemptions; and, perchance Though he to no one give the fortitude And circumspection needful to preserve His present blessings, and to husband up The respite of the season, he, at least, And 't is no vulgar service, makes them felt.
Many, I believe, there are Who live a life of virtuous decency, Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel No self-reproach; who of the moral law Established in the land where they abide Are strict observers; and not negligent, In acts of love to those with whom they dwell, Their kindred, and the children of their blood. Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace!
- Then let him pass, a blessing on his head! And, long as he can wander, let him breathe The freshness of the valleys; let his blood Struggle with frosty air and winter snows; And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath Beat his gray locks against his withered face. Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness Gives the last human interest to his heart. May never HOUSE, misnamed of INDUSTRY, Make him a captive! for that pent-up din, Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air, Be his the natural silence of old age! Let him be free of mountain solitudes; And have around him, whether heard or not, The pleasant melody of woodland birds. Few are his pleasures: if his eyes have now Been doomed so long to settle on the earth That not without some effort they behold The countenance of the horizontal sun, Rising or setting, let the light at least Find a free entrance to their languid orbs. And let him, where and when he will, sit down Beneath the trees, or by the grassy bank Of highway side, and with the little birds Share his chance-gathered meal; and, finally, As in the eye of Nature he has lived, So in the eye of Nature let him die!
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