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XLIX. TO THE MEMORY OF RAISLEY CALVERT.

CALVERT! it must not be unheard by them
Who may respect my name, that I to thee
Owed many years of early liberty.

This care was thine when sickness did condemn
Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem-
That I, if frugal and severe, might stray
Where'er I liked; and finally array
My temples with the Muse's diadem.
Hence, if in freedom I have loved the truth;
If there be aught of pure, or good, or great,
In my past verse; or shall be, in the lays
Of higher mood which now I meditate ;-
It gladdens me, O worthy, short-lived Youth!
To think how much of this will be thy praise.

L.-TO ROTHA QUILLINAN.

ROTHA, my Spiritual Child! this head was grey
When at the sacred font for thee I stood :
Pledged till thou reach the verge of womanhood,
And shalt become thy own sufficient stay:
Too late, I feel, sweet Orphan ! was the day
For steadfast hope the contract to fulfil;
Yet shall my blessing hover o'er thee still,
Embodied in the music of this Lay,

Breathed forth beside the peaceful mountain Stream1
Whose murmur soothed thy languid Mother's ear
After her throes, this Stream of name more dear
Since thou dost bear it,-a memorial theme

For others; for thy future self, a spell

To summon fancies out of Time's dark cell.

1 The river Rotha, that flows into Windermere from the Lakes of Grasmere and Rydal.

LI. THE TROSSACHS.

THERE'S not a nook within this solemn Pass,
But were an apt confessional for One

Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,
That Life is but a tale of morning grass

Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase
That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes
Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,

Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass
Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy Guest,
If from a golden perch of aspen spray
(October's workmanship to rival May)
The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast
That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,
Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!

LII.-COMPOSED ON A MAY MORNING, 1838.

LIFE with yon Lambs, like day, is just begun,
Yet Nature seems to them a heavenly guide.
Does joy approach? they meet the coming tide,
And sullenness avoid, as now they shun
Pale twilight's lingering glooms and in the sun
Couch near their dams, with quiet satisfied;
Or gambol-each with his shadow at his side,
Varying its shape wherever he may run.
As they from turf yet hoar with sleepy dew
All turn, and court the shining and the green,
Where herbs look up and opening flowers are seen,
Why to God's goodness cannot we be true?
And so, His gifts and promises between,
Feed to the last on pleasures ever new?

LIII.-HIGHLAND HUT.

SEE what gay wild flowers deck this earth-built Cot,
Whose smoke, forth-issuing whence and how it may,
Shines in the greeting of the sun's first ray

Like wreaths of vapour without stain or blot.
The limpid mountain rill avoids it not,

And why shouldst thou ?—If rightly trained and bred,
Humanity is humble, finds no spot

Which her Heaven-guided feet refuse to tread.
The walls are cracked, sunk is the flowery roof,
Undressed the pathway leading to the door.
But love, as Nature loves, the lonely Poor!
Search, for their worth, some gentle heart wrong-proof,
Meek, patient, kind,—and, were its trials fewer,
Belike less happy.—Stand no more aloof!

LIV.

"THERE!" said a Stripling, pointing with meet pride Towards a low roof with green trees half concealed,

"Is Mosgiel Farm; and that's the very field Where Burns ploughed up the Daisy.'

Far and wide

A plain below stretched seaward, while, descried
Above sea-clouds, the Peaks of Arran rose;
And, by that simple notice, the repose
Of earth, sky, sea, and air, was vivified.
Beneath "the random bield of clod or stone"
Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower
Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour
Have passed away; less happy than the One
That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died to prove
The tender charm of poetry and love.

LV.-TO A PAINTER

WHO HAD PAINTED MRS. WORDSWORTH'S PORTRAIT.

ALL praise the Likeness by thy skill pourtrayed ;
But 'tis a fruitless task to paint for me,

Who, yielding not to changes Time has made,

By the habitual light of memory see

Eyes unbedimmed, see bloom that cannot fade,
And smiles that from their birth-place ne'er shall flee
Into the land where ghosts and phantoms be;
And, seeing this, own nothing in its stead.
Couldst thou go back into far distant years,
Or share with me, fond thought! that inward eye,
Then, and then only, Painter! could thy Art
The visual powers of Nature satisfy,

Which hold, whate'er to common sight appears,
Their sovereign empire in a faithful heart.

LVI. ON THE SAME SUBJECT.

THOUGH I beheld at first with blank surprise
This Work, I now have gazed on it so long
I see its truth with unreluctant eyes;
O, my Beloved! I have done thee wrong,
Conscious of blessedness, but, whence it sprung,
Ever too heedless, as I now perceive :
Morn into noon did pass, noon into eve,
And the old day was welcome as the young,
As welcome, and as beautiful-in sooth
More beautiful, as being a thing more holy :
Thanks to thy virtues, to the eternal youth
Of all thy goodness, never melancholy;
To thy large heart and humble mind, that cast
Into one vision, future, present, past.

LVII.-IN SIGHT OF THE TOWN OF COCKERMOUTH. (Where the Author was born, and his Father's remains are laid.)

A POINT of life between my Parents' dust,
And yours, my buried Little-ones! am I ;
And to those graves looking habitually
In kindred quiet I repose my trust.
Death to the innocent is more than just,
And, to the sinner, mercifully bent;
So may I hope, if truly I repent

And meekly bear the ills which bear I must :
And You, my Offspring! that do still remain,
Yet may outstrip me in the appointed race,
If e'er, through fault of mine, in mutual pain
We breathed together for a moment's space,
The wrong, by love provoked, let love arraign,
And only love keep in your hearts a place.

LVIII.

TRANQUILLITY! the sovereign aim wert thou
In heathen schools of philosophic lore;
Heart-stricken by stern destiny of yore

The Tragic Muse thee served with thoughtful vow;
And what of hope Elysium could allow
Was fondly seized by Sculpture, to restore

Peace to the Mourner. But when He, who wore
The crown of thorns around His bleeding brow,
Warmed our sad being with His glorious light,
Then Arts, which still had drawn a softening grace
From shadowy fountains of the Infinite,
Communed with that Idea face to face;
And move around it now, as planets run,
Each in its orbit, round the central Sun.

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