That in their keeping it might lie,
To crown their abbey's sanctity.
So had they rushed into the grot
Of sense despised, a world forgot,
And torn him from his loved retreat,
Where altar-stone and rock-hewn seat
Still hint that quiet best is found,
Even by the living, under ground;
But a bold knight, the selfish aim
Defeating, put the monks to shame,
There where you see his image stand
Bare to the sky, with threatening brand
Which lingering Nid is proud to show
Reflected in the pool below.

Thus, like the men of earliest days,
Our sires set forth their grateful praise;
Uncouth the workmanship, and rude!
But, nursed in mountain solitude,
Might some aspiring artist dare
To seize whate'er, through misty air,
A ghost, by glimpses, may present
Of imitable lineament,

And give the phantom such array

As less should scorn the abandoned clay;
Then let him hew, with patient stroke,
An Ossian out of mural rock,
And leave the figurative man
Upon thy margin, roaring Bran!
Fixed, liked the Templar of the steep,
An everlasting watch to keep;
With local sanctities in trust;
More precious than a hermit's dust;
And virtues through the mass infused,
Which old idolatry abused.

What though the granite would deny
All fervour to the sightless eye;
And touch from rising suns in vain

Solicit a Memnonian strain ;

Yet, in some fit of anger sharp,

From beauty infinitely growing
Upon a mind with love o'erflowing;
To sound the depths of every art
That seeks its wisdom through the heart?
Thus (where the intrusive pile, ill-graced
With baubles of theatric taste,
O'erlooks the torrent breathing showers
On motley bands of alien flowers,
In stiff confusion set or sown,
Till nature cannot find her own,
Or keep a remnant of the sod
Which Caledonian heroes trod)
I mused; and, thirsting for redress,
Recoiled into the wilderness.

YARROW VISITED,
SEPTEMBER, 1814.

AND is this-Yarrow?-This the stream
Of which my fancy cherished,
So faithfully, a waking dream?
An image that hath perished!

Oh, that some minstrel's harp were near,
To utter notes of gladness,

And chase this silence from the air,
That fills my heart with sadness!

Yet why?-A silvery current flows
With uncontrolled meanderings;
Nor have these eyes by greener hills
Been soothed, in all my wanderings.
And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake
Is visibly delighted;

For not a feature of those hills
Is in the mirror slighted.

A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale,
Save where that pearly whiteness
Is round the rising sun diffused,

To utter melancholy moans

Not unconnected with the tones
Of soul-sick flesh and weary bones;
While grove and river notes would lend,
Less deeply sad, with these to blend !

Vain pleasures of luxurious life,
For ever with yourselves at strife;
Through town and country both deranged
By affectations interchanged,
And all the perishable gauds
That heaven-deserted man applauds ;
When will your hapless patrons learn
To watch and ponder- to discern
The freshness, the eternal youth,
Of admiration sprung from truth;

Mild dawn of promise! that excludes All profitless dejection;

Though not unwilling here to admit A pensive recollection.

Where was it that the famous flower
Of Yarrow vale lay bleeding?
His bed perchance was yon smooth mound
On which the herd is feeding:
And haply from this crystal pool,
Now peaceful as the morning.
The water-wraith ascended thrice-
And gave his doleful warning.

Delicious is the lay that sings
The haunts of happy lovers,

The path that leads them to the grove,
The leafy grove that covers:
And pity sanctifies the verse
That paints, by strength of sorrow,
The unconquerable strength of love;
Bear witness, rueful Yarrow !

But thou, that didst appear so fair
To fond imagination,

Dost rival in the light of day
Her delicate creation :

Meek loveliness is round thee spread,
A softness still and holy;

The grace of forest charms decayed, And pastoral melancholy.

That region left, the vale unfolds
Rich groves of lofty stature,
With Yarrow winding through the pomp
Of cultivated nature;

And, rising from those lofty groves,
Behold a ruin hoary!

The shattered front of Newark's towers,
Renowned in Border story.

Fair scenes for chi dhood's opening bloom,
For sportive youth to stray in;
For manhood to enjoy his strength;
And age to wear away in!

Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,
A covert for protection

Of tender thoughts that nestle there,
The brood of chaste affection.

How sweet, on this autumnal day,
The wild-wood fruits to gather,
And on my true love's forehead plant
A crest of blooming heather!
And what if I enwreathed my own!
"Twere no offence to reason;
The sober hills thus deck their brows
To meet the wintry season.

I see-but not by sight alone,
Loved Yarrow, have I won thee !
A ray of fancy still survives-
Her sunshine plays upon thee!
Thy ever youthful waters keep
A course of lively pleasure;

And gladsome notes my lips can breathe,
According to the measure.

The vapours linger round the heights,
They melt-and soon must vanish;
One hour is theirs, no more is mine-
Sad thought, which I would banish,
But that I know where'er I go,
Thy genuine image, Yarrow!
Will dwell with me to heightened joy,
And cheer my mind in sorrow.

Is slow towards the sympathies of them Who look upon the hills with tenderness, And make dear friendships with the streams and groves.

nance

voice

Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the The shepherd's dog, the linnet and the

thrush

Vied with this waterfall, and made a song Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth

Or like some natural produce of the air, That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here:

But 'twas the foliage of the rocks, the birch, The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn,

With hanging islands of resplendent furze :
And on a summit, distant a short space,
By any who should look beyond the dell,
A single mountain cottage might be seen.
I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said,
"Our thoughts at least are ours; and this
wild nook,

My Emma, I will dedicate to thee."
Soon did the spot become my other home,
My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode.
And, of the shepherds who have seen me
there,

To whom I sometimes in our idle talk
Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps,
Years after we are gone and in our graves,
When they have cause to speak of this wild
place,

May call it by the name of Emma's Dell.

we, who are trangressors in this kind, Dwelling retired in our simplicity Among the woods and fields, we love you well,

Joanna and I guess, since you have been So distant from us now for two long years, However trivial, if you thence are taught That you will gladly listen to discourse That they, with whom you once were happy, talk

Familiarly of you and of old times.

While I was seated, now some ten days past,

Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop Their ancient neighbour, the old steeple tower,

The vicar from his gloomy house hard by Came forth to greet me; and when he had asked,

[maid'

"How fares Joanna; that wild-hearted And when will she return to us?' he paused;

And, after short exchange of village news. He with grave looks demanded, for what

cause,

flower,

again :

blew

That ancient woman seated on Helm-Crag
Was ready with her cavern: Hammer-Scar,
And the fall steep of Silver-how, sent forth
A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg
heard,
[tone
And Fairfield answered with a mountain
Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky
Carried the lady's voice, -old Skiddaw
[clouds
His speaking trumpet ;-back out of the
Of Glaramara southward came the voice:
And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head.
Now whether (said I to our cordial friend,
Who in the hey-day of astonishment
Smiled in my face) this were in simple truth
A work accomplished by the brotherhood
Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched
With dreams and visionary impulses
To me alone imparted, sure I am
That there was a loud uproar in the hills:
And, while we both were listening, to my
side

The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished
To shelter from some object of her fear.
And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen

And when at evening we pursue our walk
Along the public way, this clift, so high
Above us, and so distant in its height,
Is visible; and often seems to send
Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts.
The meteors make of it a favourite haunt:
The star of Jove, so beautiful and large
In the mid heavens, is never half so fair
As when he shines above it. 'Tis in truth
The loneliest place we have among the
clouds.
[loved
And she who dwells with me, whom I have
With such communion, that no place on
Can ever be a solitude to me,
(earth
Hath to this lonely summit given my name.

Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy.
And there, myself and two beloved friends,
One calm September morning, ere the mist
Had altogether yielded to the sun,
Sauntered on this retired and difficult way.
Ill suits the road with one in haste, but we
Played with our time; and, as we strolled
It was our occupation to observe [along,
Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered
Such objects as the waves had tossed ashore,

bough,

Each on the other heaped, along the line Of the dry wreck. And, in our vacant mood,

Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft
Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard,
That skimmed the surface of the dead
calm lake,

Suddenly halting now-a lifeless stand! And starting off again with freak as sudden;

In all its sportive wanderings, all the while.
Making report of an invisible breeze
That was its wings, its chariot, and its
horse,

the head of the vale of Grasmere, is a rock which from most points of view bears a striking resemblance to an old woman cowering. Close by this rock is one of those fissures of caverns, which in the language of the country are called dungeons. Most of the mountains here mentioned immediately surround the vale of Grasmere; of the others, some are at a considerable distance, but they belong to the same cluster.

Before us, on a point of jutting land,
The tall and upright figure of a man
Attired in peasant's garb, who stood alone,
Angling beside the margin of the lake.
Improvident and reckless, we exclaimed,
The man must be, who thus can lose a
day
[hire
Of the mid-harvest, when the labourer's
Is ample, and some little might be stored
Wherewith to cheer him in the winter time.
Thus talking of that peasant, we ap-
proached

cheeks

Close to the spot where with his rod and line [head He stood alone; whereat he turned his To greet us and we saw a man worn down By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken [lean And wasted limbs, his legs so long and That for my single self I looked at them, Forgetful of the body they sustained. Too weak to labour in the harvest field, The man was using his best skill to gain A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake That knew not of his wants. I will not say What thoughts immediately were ours, nor

how

The happy idleness of that sweet morn, With all its lovely images, was changed To serious musing and to self-reproach. Nor did we fail to see within ourselves

What need there is to be reserved in speech,

And temper all our thoughts with charity. Therefore, unwilling to forget that day, My friend, myself, and she who then received

The same admonishment, have called the place

By a memorial name, uncouth indeed
As e'er by mariner was given to bay
Or foreland, on a new-discovered coast;
And Point Rash Judgment is the name it
bears.

TO M. H.

OUR walk was far among the ancient trees;
There was no road, nor any woodman's
But the thick umbrage, checking the wild
path;
growth

Of weed and sapling, along soft green turf
Beneath the branches, of itself had made
A track, that brought us to a slip of lawn,
And a small bed of water in the woods.
All round this pool both flocks and herds
might drink

On its firm margin, even as from a well,
Or some stone-basin which the herdsman's
hand
did sun.
Or wind from any quarter, ever come,
Had shaped for their refreshment; nor
But as a blessing, to this calm recess,
This glade of water and this one green
field.

The spot was made by nature for herself. The travellers know it not, and 'twill

remain