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With fancied spots contending; But she is innocent of blood,

The moon is not more pure That shines aloft, while through the wood She thrids her way, the sounding Flood Her melancholy lure!

While 'mid the fern-brake sleeps the doe,
And owls alone are waking,

In white arrayed, glides on the Maid
The downward pathway taking,
That leads her to the torrent's side
And to a holly bower;

By whom on this still night descried?
By whom in that lone place espied?
By thee, Sir Eglamore!

A wandering Ghost, so thinks the Knight, His coming step has thwarted,

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ΙΟΙ

Beneath the boughs that heard their

VOWS,

Within whose shade they parted.
Hush, hush, the busy Sleeper see!
Perplexed her fingers seem,
As if they from the holly tree
Green twigs would pluck, as rapidly
Flung from her to the stream.

What means the Spectre? Why intent
To violate the Tree,

Thought Eglamore, by which I swore
Unfading constancy?

Here am I, and to-morrow's sun,

To her I left, shall prove

That bliss is ne'er so surely won
As when a circuit has been run
Of valour, truth, and love.

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So from the spot whereon he stood,
He moved with stealthy pace;
And, drawing nigh, with his living eye, 120
He recognised the face;

And whispers caught, and speeches small,
Some to the green-leaved tree,
Some muttered to the torrent-fall; -
"Roar on, and bring him with thy call;
I heard, and so may He!"

Soul-shattered was the Knight, nor knew
If Emma's Ghost it were,

Or boding Shade, or if the Maid
Her very self stood there.

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He touched; what followed who shall tell?

The soft touch snapped the thread Of slumber-shrieking back she fell, And the Stream whirled her down the dell

Along its foaming bed.

In plunged the Knight! - when on firm ground

The rescued Maiden lay,

Her eyes grew bright with blissful light,
Confusion passed away;

She heard, ere to the throne of grace
Her faithful Spirit flew,

His voice-beheld his speaking face;
And, dying, from his own embrace,
She felt that he was true.

So was he reconciled to life:
Brief words may speak the rest;
Within the dell he built a cell,
And there was Sorrow's guest;
In hermits' weeds repose he found,
From vain temptations free;
Beside the torrent dwelling-bound
By one deep heart-controlling sound,
And awed to piety.

Wild stream of Aira, hold thy course,
Nor fear memorial lays,

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Where clouds that spread in solemn shade, Are edged with golden rays!

Dear art thou to the light of heaven,

Though minister of sorrow;
Sweet is thy voice at pensive even;
And thou, in lovers' hearts forgiven,
Shalt take thy place with Yarrow !

XLVI

TO CORDELIA M

HALLSTEADS, ULLSWATER

1833. 1835

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Into this flexible yet faithful Chain;
Nor is it silver of romantic Spain

But from our loved Helvellyn's depths was brought,

Our own domestic mountain. Thing and thought

Mix strangely; trifles light, and partly vain,

Can prop, as you have learnt, our nobler being:

Yes, Lady, while about your neck is wound

(Your casual glance oft meeting) this bright cord,

What witchery, for pure gifts of inward seeing,

Lurks in it, Memory's Helper, Fancy's Lord,

For precious tremblings in your bosom found!

XLVII

1833. 1835

MOST sweet it is with unuplifted eyes

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pace the ground, if path be there or none,
While a fair region round the traveller lies
Which he forbears again to look upon;
Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,
The work of Fancy, or some happy tone
Of meditation, slipping in between
The beauty coming and the beauty gone.
If Thought and Love desert us, from that day
Let us break off all commerce with the
Muse:

With Thought and Love companions of our

way,

Whate'er the senses take or may refuse, The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews

Of inspiration on the humblest lay.

COMPOSED BY THE SEASHORE

1833. 1845

These lines were suggested during my residence under my Son's roof at Moresby, on the coast near Whitehaven, at the time when I was composing those verses among the "Evening Voluntaries" that have reference to the sea. It was in that neighbourhood I first became acquainted with the ocean and its appearances and movements. My infancy and early childhood were passed at Cockermouth, about eight miles from the coast, and I well remember that mysterious awe with which I used to listen to anything said about storms and shipwrecks. Sea-shells of many descriptions were common in the town; and I was not a little surprised when I heard that Mr. Landor had denounced me as a plagiarist from himself for having described a boy applying a sea-shell to his ear and listening to it for intimations of what was going on in its native element. This I had done myself scores of times, and it was a belief among us that we could know from the sound whether the tide was ebbing or flowing.

WHAT mischief cleaves to unsubdued regret,

How fancy sickens by vague hopes beset; How baffled projects on the spirit prey, And fruitless wishes eat the heart away, The Sailor knows; he best, whose lot is cast On the relentless sea that holds him fast

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And motionless; and, to the gazer's eye,
Deeper than ocean, in the immensity
Of its vague mountains and unreal sky!
But, from the process in that still retreat,
Turn to minuter changes at our feet;
Observe how dewy Twilight has with-
drawn

The crowd of daisies from the shaven lawn,
And has restored to view its tender green,
That, while the sun rode high, was lost
beneath their dazzling sheen.

An emblem this of what the sober Hour Can do for minds disposed to feel its power! Thus oft, when we in vain have wished

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"THE LEAVES THAT RUSTLED ON THIS OAK-CROWNED HILL" 1834. 1835

Composed by the side of Grasmere lake. The mountains that enclose the vale, especially towards Easdale, are most favourable to the reverberation of sound. There is a passage in the

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Excursion," towards the close of the fourth book, where the voice of the raven in flight is traced through the modifications it undergoes, as I have often heard it in that vale and others of this district.

"Often, at the hour
When issue forth the first pale stars, is heard,
Within the circuit of this fabric huge,
One voice-the solitary raven."

THE leaves that rustled on this oak-crowned hill,

And sky that danced among those leaves, are still;

Rest smooths the way for sleep; in field and bower

Soft shades and dews have shed their blended power

On drooping eyelid and the closing flower; Sound is there none at which the faintest heart

Might leap, the weakest nerve of superstition start;

Save when the Owlet's unexpected scream Pierces the ethereal vault; and ('mid the gleam

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Of unsubstantial imagery, the dream, From the hushed vale's realities, transferred To the still lake) the imaginative Bird Seems, 'mid inverted mountains, not unheard.

Grave Creature! - whether, while the moon shines bright

On thy wings opened wide for smoothest flight,

Thou art discovered in a roofless tower, Rising from what may once have been a lady's bower;

Or spied where thou sitt'st moping in thy

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Bishop Ken's Morning and Evening Hymns are, as they deserve to be, familiarly known. Many other hymns have also been written on the same subject; but, not being aware of any being designed for noon-day, I was induced to compose these verses. Often one has occasion to observe cottage children carrying, in their baskets, dinner to their Fathers engaged with their daily labours in the fields and woods. How gratifying would it be to me could I be assured that any portion of these stanzas had been sung by such a domestic concert under such circumstances. A friend of mine has told me that she introduced this Hymn into a village-school which she superintended, and the stanzas in succession furnished her with texts to comment upon in a way which without difficulty was made intelligible to the children, and in which they obviously took delight, and they were taught to sing it to the tune of the old 100th Psalm.

UP to the throne of God is borne
The voice of praise at early morn,
And he accepts the punctual hymn
Sung as the light of day grows dim:

Nor will he turn his ear aside
From holy offerings at noontide:
Then here reposing let us raise
A song of gratitude and praise.

What though our burthen be not light,
We need not toil from morn to night;
The respite of the mid-day hour
Is in the thankful Creature's power.

Blest are the moments, doubly blest,
That, drawn from this one hour of rest,

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Help with thy grace, through life's short day,

Our upward and our downward way;
And glorify for us the west,
When we shall sink to final rest.

THE REDBREAST

SUGGESTED IN A WESTMORELAND COTTAGE

1834. 1835

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Written at Rydal Mount. All our cats having been banished the house, it was soon frequented by redbreasts. Two or three of them, when the window was open, would come in, particularly when Mrs. Wordsworth was breakfasting alone, and hop about the table picking up the crumbs. My sister being then confined to her room by sickness, as, dear creature, she still is, had one that, without being caged, took up its abode with her, and at night used to perch upon a nail from which a picture had hung. It used to sing and fan her face with its wings in a manner that was very touching.

DRIVEN in by Autumn's sharpening air
From half-stripped woods and pastures bare,
Brisk Robin seeks a kindlier home:
Not like a beggar is he come,
But enters as a looked-for guest,
Confiding in his ruddy breast,
As if it were a natural shield
Charged with a blazon on the field,
Due to that good and pious deed
Of which we in the Ballad read.

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