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His speaking trompet;--back out of the clouds
Of Glaramara southward came the voice;
And Kirkstone toss’d it from his misty head.
Now whether (said I to our cordial Friend.
Who in the hey-day of astonishment
Smild in my face) this were in simple truth
A work accomplish'd by the brotherhood
Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touch'd
With dreams and visionary impulses,
Is not for me to tell; but 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, is if she wish'd
To shelter from some object of her fear.
--~And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen

moons
Were wasted, as I chanc'd to walk alone
Beneath this rock, at sun-rise on a calm
And silent morning, I sate down, and there,
In memory of affections old and true,
I chissel'd out in those rude characters
Joanna's name upon the living stone.
And I, and all who dwell by my fire-side,
Have calld the lovely rock, Joanna's Rock."

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NOTE.

In Cumberland and Westmoreland are several Inscriptions upon the native rock which from the wasting of

III.

THERE is an Eminence of these our hills
The last that parleys with the setting sun.
We can behold it from our Orchard-seat,
And, when at evening we pursue our walk
Along the public way, this Cliff, 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 favorite haunt;
The-star of Jove, so beautiful and large

Time, and the rudeness of the workmanship had been misa taken for Runic. They are without doubt Roman.

The Rotha, mentioned in this Poem, is the River which Aowing through the Lakes of Grasmere and Rydole, falls into Wyndermere. On Helm-Crag, the impressive single mountain at 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 or Caverns, which in the language of the country are called Dungeons. The other mountains either immediately surround the vale of Grasmere, or belong to the same cluster.

In the mid heav'ns, is never half so fair
As when he shines above it. 'Tis in truth
The loneliest place we have among the clouds.
And She who dwells with me, whom I have

lov'd
With such communion, that no place on earth
Can ever be a solitude to me,
Hath said, this lonesome Peak shall bear my

Name.

IV.

A NARROW girdle of rough stones and crags,
A rude and natural causeway, interpos'd
Between the water and a winding slope
Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore.
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,
Saunter'd on this retir'd, and difficult way. ,
lll suits the road with one in haste, but we
Play'd with our time; and as we stroll'd along,
It was our occupation to observe

Such objects as the waves had toss'd ashore,
Feather, or leaf, or weed, or wither'd bough,
Each on the other heap'd 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,
Which, seeming lifeless half, and half impelld
By some internal feeling, skimm'd along
Close to the surface of the lake that lay
Asleep in a dead calm, ran closely on
Along the dead calm lake; now here, now there,
In all its sportive wanderings all the while
Making report of an invisible breeze
That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse,
Its very playmate, and its moving soul.
And often, trifling with a privilege
Alike indulg'd to all, we paus’d, one now,
And now the other, to point out, perchance
To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fair,
Either to be divided from the place
On which it grew, or to be left alone
To its own beauty. Many such there are,
Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall plant
So stately, of the Queen Osmunda named,
Plant lovelier in its own retir'd abode
On Grasmere's beach, than Naid by the side
Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere
Sole sitting by the shores of old Romance.
--So fared we that sweet morning: from the

fields

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Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth
Of Reapers, Men and Women, Boys and Girls.
Delighted much to listen to those sounds,
And in the fashion which I have describ'd,
Feeding unthinking fancies, we advanc'd
Along the indented shore; when suddenly,
Through a thin veil of glittering haze, we saw
Before us on a point of jutting land
The tall and upright figure of a Man
Attir'd in Peasant's garb, who stood alone,
Angling beside the margin of the lake.
That
way

we turn’d our steps; nor was it long, Ere making ready comments on the sight Which then we saw, with one and the same

voice We all cried out, that he must be indeed An idle man, who thus could lose a day Of the mid-harvest, when the labourer's hire Is ample, and some little might be stor'd Wherewith to cheer him in the winter time. Thus talking of that Peasant we approach'd Close to the spot where with his rod and line He stood alone, whereat he turn'd his head To greet us-and

we saw a man worn down By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean, That for my single self I look'd at them, Forgetful of the body they sustain'd. Too weak to labour in the harvest field,

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