With patience merit the reward of peace, With bounteous hand beneath a cottage-roof Most soothing was it for a welcome Friend, So when the rain is over, the storm laid, Drying their feathers in the sun, at ease; Two glow-worms in such nearness that they shared, FROWNS are on every Muse's face, A very Harp in all but size! Needles for strings in apt gradation! Even her own needle that subdued Though wrought in Vulcan's happiest mood, Such honour could not merit. And this, too, from the Laureate's Child, I spake, when whispered a low voice, presence of the lyre. The Minstrels of Pygmean bands, And suit their slender lays. Some, still more delicate of ear, Have lutes (believe my words) Gay Sylphs this miniature will court, 20 Made vocal by their brushing wings, 30 And sullen Gnomes will learn to sport Around its polished strings; In the cottage, Town-end, Grasmere, one afternoon in 1801, my sister read to me the Sonnets of Milton. I had long been well acquainted with them, but I was particularly struck on that occasion by the dignified simplicity and majestic harmony that runs through most of them, in character so totally differ ent from the Italian, and still more so from Shakspeare's fine Sonnets. I took fire, if I may be allowed to say so, and produced three Sonnets the same afternoon, the first I ever wrote except an irregular one at school. Of 10 these three, the only one I distinctly remember "Think, gentle Lady, of a Harp so far From its own country, and forgive the strings." A simple answer! but even so forth springs, Sun, moon, and stars, all struggle in the toils Of mortal sympathy; what wonder then That the poor Harp distempered music yields To its sad Lord, far from his native fields? TO S. H. 1827. 1827 EXCUSE is needless when with love sincere My nerves from no such murmur shrink, — tho' near, Soft as the Dorhawk's to a distant ear, When twilight shades darken the mountain's head. Even She who toils to spin our vital thread Its own; though Rulers, with undue respect, DECAY OF PIETY Attendance at church on prayer-days, Wednesdays and Fridays and Holidays, received a shock at the Revolution. It is now, however, happily reviving. The ancient people described in this Sonnet were among the last of that pious class. May we hope that the practice, now in some degree renewed, will continue to spread. OFT have I seen, ere Time had ploughed my cheek, Matrons and Sires- who, punctual to the call Of their loved Church, on fast or festival Through the long year the house of Prayer would seek: By Christmas snows, by visitation bleak But with one fervour of devotion meek. I see the places where they once were known, And ask, surrounded even by kneeling crowds, Is ancient Piety for ever flown? Alas! even then they seemed like fleecy clouds That, struggling through the western sky, have won Their pensive light from a departed sun! "SCORN NOT THE SONNET" 1827. 1827 Composed, almost extempore, in a short walk on the western side of Rydal Lake. SCORN not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound; A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound; To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew Soul-animating strains - alas, too few! "FAIR PRIME OF LIFE! WERE IT ENOUGH TO GILD" 1827. 1827 Suggested by observation of the way in which a young friend, whom I do not choose to name, misspent his time and misapplied his talents. He took afterwards a better course, and became a useful member of society, respected, I believe, wherever he has been known. FAIR Prime of life! were it enough to gild With ready sunbeams every straggling shower; And, if an unexpected cloud should lower, Swiftly thereon a rainbow arch to build For Fancy's errands, - then, from fields half-tilled Gathering green weeds to mix with poppy flower, Thee might thy Minions crown, and chant thy power, Unpitied by the wise, all censure stilled. Ah! show that worthier honours are thy due; Fair Prime of life! arouse the deeper heart; Confirm the Spirit glorying to pursue Some path of steep ascent and lofty aim; And, if there be a joy that slights the claim Of grateful memory, bid that joy depart. When happiest Fancy has inspired the Disperse the tear, or to the sigh give vent, Slackening the pains of ruthless banishment From his loved home, and from heroic toil. And trust that spiritual Creatures round us move, Griefs to allay which Reason cannot heal; Yea, veriest reptiles have sufficed to prove To fettered wretchedness, that no Bastile Is deep enough to exclude the light of love, Though man for brother man has ceased to feel. 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 stedfast 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 Stream 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 |