The very sweetest, Fancy culls or frames,
When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep!
Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost steep
In rich reward all suffering; Balm that tames
All anguish; Saint that evil thoughts and aims
Takest away, and into souls dost creep,
Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone,
I surely not a man ungently made,
Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost?
Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown,
Mere slave of them who never for thee prayed,
Still last to come where thou art wanted most!
XIV.

TO SLEEP.

A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by,
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure
sky;

I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie
Sleepless! and soon the small birds' melodies
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees;
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

Even thus last night, and two nights more, 1 lay,

And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
So do not let me wear to-night away:
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
Come, blessed barrier between day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous

health!

XV.

THE WILD DUCK'S NEST.

THE imperial Consort of the Fairy-king
Owns not a sylvan bower; or gorgeous cell
With emerald floored, and with purpureal shell
Ceilinged and roofed; that is so fair a thing
As this low structure, for the tasks of Spring,
Prepared by one who loves the buoyant swell
Of the brisk waves, yet here consents to dwell;
And spreads in steadfast peace her brooding
wing.

Words cannot paint the o'ershadowing yew-tree bough,

And dimly-gleaming Nest,-a hollow crown
Of golden leaves inlaid with silver down,
Fine as the mother's softest plumes allow :
I gazed-and, self-accused while gazing, sighed
For human-kind, weak slaves of cumbrous
pride!

BELL;

Not negligent the style;-the matter?-good As aught that song records of Robin Hood: Or Roy, renowned through many a Scottish dell;

But some (who brook those hackneyed themes full well,

Nor heat, at Tam o' Shanter's name, their blood) Waxed wroth, and with foul claws, a harpy brood,

On Bard and Hero clamorously fell.
Heed not, wild Rover once through heatn and
glen,

Who mad'st at length the better life thy choice,
Heed not such onset! nay, if praise of men
To thee appear not an unmeaning voice,
Lift up that grey-haired forehead, and rejoice,
In the just tribute of thy Poet's pen!

XIX.

GRIEF, thou hast lost an ever ready friend
Now that the cottage Spinning-wheel is mute;
And Care-a comforter that best could suit
Her froward mood, and softliest reprehend;
And Love-a charmer's voice, that used to lend,
More efficaciously than aught that flows
From harp or lute, kind influence to compose
The throbbing pulse-else troubled without
end:

Even Joy could tell, Joy craving truce and rest
From her own overflow, what power sedate
On those revolving motions did await
Assiduously-to soothe her aching breast;
And, to a point of just relief, abate
The mantling triumphs of a day too blest.

XX.

TO S. H.

EXCUSE is needless when with love sincere
Of occupation, not by fashion led,
Thou turn'st the Wheel that slept with dust
o'erspread;

COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE VALLEYS OF WEST-
MORELAND, ON EASTER SUNDAY.

WITH each recurrence of this glorious morn
That saw the Saviour in his human frame
Rise from the dead, erewhile the Cottage-dame
Put on fresh raiment-till that hour unworn:
Domestic hands the home-bred wool had shorn,
And she who span it culled the daintiest fleece,
In thoughtful reverence to the Prince of Peace,
Whose temples bled beneath the platted thorn.
A blest estate when piety sublime

These humble props disdained not! O green

dales!

COMPOSED ON THE EVE OF THE MARRIAGE OF A
FRIEND IN THE VALE OF GRASMERE, 1812.
WHAT need of clamorous bells or ribands
These humble nuptials to proclaim or grace?
Angels of love, look down upon the place;
Shed on the chosen vale a sun-bright day!
Yet no proud gladness would the Bride display
Even for such promise:-serious is her face,
Modest her mien; and she, whose thoughts
keep pace

With gentleness, in that becoming way

Hath shown that nothing human can be clear
From frailty, for that insight may the Wife
To her indulgent Lord become more dear.

XXIV.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO.

I.

YES! hope may with my strong desire keep

расе,

And I be undeluded, unbetrayed;

For if of our affections none finds grace
In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God
made

The world which we inhabit? Better plea
Love cannot have, than that in loving thee
Glory to that eternal Peace is paid,
Who such divinity to thee imparts
As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.
His hope is treacherous only whose love dies
With beauty, which is varying every hour:
But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power
Of outward change, there blooms a deathless
flower,
That breathes on earth the air of paradise.

XXV.

FROM THE SAME.

II.

No mortal object did these eyes behold
When first they met the placid light of thine,
And my Soul felt her destiny divine,
And hope of endless peace in me grew bold:
Heaven-born, the Soul a heaven-ward course
must hold;

Beyond the visible world she soars to seek
(For what delights the sense is false and weak)
The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest
Ideal Form, the universal mould.
In that which perishes: nor will he lend
His heart to aught which doth on time depend.
That kills the soul: love betters what is best,
'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love,

Even here below, but more in heaven above.

FROM THE SAME.

XXVI.

TO THE SUPREME BEING.
III.

THE prayers I make will then be sweet indeed
If Thou the spirit give by which I pray :
My unassisted heart is barren clay,
That of its native self can nothing feed:
Of good and pious works thou art the seed,
That quickens only where thou say'st it may :
Unless Thou show to us thine own true way
No man can find it: Father! Thou must lead.
Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my

mind

By which such virtue may in me be bred That in thy holy footsteps I may tread; The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind, That I may have the power to sing of thee, And sound thy praises everlastingly.

XXVII.

pear;

No disproportion in her soul, no strife:

That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind-

But how could I forget thee? Through what power,

Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss?-That thought's

return

Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more; That neither present time, nor years unborn Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

XXVIII.

I.

METHOUGHT I saw the footsteps of a throne Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud

Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed; But all the steps and ground about were strown With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone Ever put on a miserable crowd,

Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud,

"Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan."

Those steps I clomb; the mists before me gave Smooth way and I beheld the face of one Sleeping alone within a mossy cave,

With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have

Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone; A lovely Beauty in a summer grave!

XXIX.

NOVEMBER, 1836.

II.

EVEN So for me a Vision sanctified
The sway of Death; long ere mine eyes had

seen

Thy countenance-the still rapture of thy mienWhen thou, dear Sister wert become Death's Bride:

No trace of pain or languor could abide
That change:-age on thy brow was smoothed
-thy cold

Wan cheek at once was privileged to unfold
A loveliness to living youth denied.

Oh! if within me hope should e'er decline,
The lamp of faith, lost Friend! too faintly burn:
Then may that heaven-revealing smile of thine,
The bright assurance, visibly return:
And let my spirit in that power divine
Rejoice, as, through that power, it ceased to

IT is a beauteous evening, calm and free,
The holy time is quiet as a Nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea:
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder-everlastingly.

Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,

If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year;
And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.

XXXI.

WHERE lies the Land to which yon Ship must go?

Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day,
Festively she puts forth in trim array;
Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?
What boots the inquiry?-Neither friend nor
foe

She cares for; let her travel where she may
She finds familiar names, a beaten way
Ever before her, and a wind to blow.
Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark?"
And, almost as it was when ships were rare,
(From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there
Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark,
Of the old Sea some reverential fear,

Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark!

XXXII.

WITH Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh,
Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed;
Some lying fast at anchor in the road,
Some veering up and down, one knew not why.
A goodly Vessel did I then espy
Come like a giant from a haven broad;
And lustily along the bay she strode,
Her tackling rich, and of apparel high.
This Ship was nought to me, nor I to her,
Yet I pursued her with a Lover's look;
This Ship to all the rest did I prefer:
When will she turn, and whither? She will
brook

No tarrying where She comes the winds must

stir:

On went She, and due north her journey took.

XXXIII. THE world is too much with us: late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for every thing, we are out of tune; It moves us not. -Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn: So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn. XXXIV

A VOLANT Tribe of Bards on earth are found, Who, while the flattering Zephyrs round them play,

On "coignes of vantage" hang their nests of clay:

How quickly from that aery hold unbound,
Dust for oblivion! To the solid ground
Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye
Convinced that there, there only, she can lay
Secure foundations. As the year runs round,
Apart she toils within the chosen ring;
While the stars shine, or while day's purple eye
Is gently closing with the flowers of spring;
Where even the motion of an Angel's wing
Would interrupt the intense tranquillity
Of silent hills, and more than silent sky.

A mournful thing, so transient is the blaze!"
Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days
Who wants the glorious faculty assigned
To elevate the more-than-reasoning Mind,
And colour life's dark cloud with orient rays
Imagination is that sacred power,
Imagination lofty and refined:

'Tis hers to pluck the amaranthine flower
Of Faith, and round the Sufferer's temples bind
Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower,
And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.

XXXVI.

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.

PART II.

I.

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;
With it Camöens soothed an exile's grief;
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned
His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp,
It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land
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!

Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues),
Demands the service of a mind and heart,
Though sensitive, yet, in their weakest part,
Heroically fashioned-to infuse
Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse,
While the whole world seems adverse to desert.
And, oh! when Nature sinks, as oft she may,
Through long-lived pressure of obscure distress,
Still to be strenuous for the bright reward,
And in the soul admit of no decay,
Brook no continuance of weak-mindedness--
Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!

IV.

FROM the dark chambers of dejection freed,
Spurning the unprofitable yoke of care,
Rise, GILLIES, rise: the gales of youth shall
bear

Thy genius forward like a winged steed.
Though bold Bellerophon (so Jove decreed
In wrath) fell headlong from the fields of air,
Yet a rich guerdon waits on minds that dare,
If aught be in them of immortal seed,
And reason govern that audacious flight
Which heaven-ward they direct.-Then droop
not thou,

Erroneously renewing a sad vow

In the low dell inid Roslin's faded grove :
A cheerful life is what the Muses love,
A soaring spirit is their prime delight.

V.

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.

VI.

I WATCH, and long have watched, with calm regret

Yon slowly-sinking star-immortal Sire
(So might he seem) of all the glittering quire!
Blue ether still surrounds him-yet-and yet;
But now the horizon's rocky parapet
Is reached, where, forfeiting his bright attire,,
He burns- transmuted to a dusky fire-
Then pays submissively the appointed debt
To the flying moments, and is seen no more.
Angels and gods! We struggle with our fate,
While health, power, glory, from their height
decline,

Depressed and then extinguished: and our state,

In this, how different, lost Star, from thine,
That no to-morrow shall our beams restore !
VII.

I HEARD (alas! 'twas only in a dream)
Strains-which, as sage Antiquity believed,
By waking ears have sometimes been received
Wafted adown the wind from lake or stream;

Ir the whole weight of what we think and feel,
Save only far as thought and feeling blend
With action, were as nothing, patriot Friend!
From thy remonstrance would be no appeal ;
But to promote and fortify the weal

Of our own Being is her paramount end;
A truth which they alone shall comprehend
Who shun the mischief which they cannot heal.
Peace in these feverish times is sovereign bliss:
Here, with no thirst but what the stream can
slake,

And startled only by the rustling brake,
Cool air I breathe; while the unincumbered
Mind

By some weak aims at services assigned
To gentle Natures, thanks not Heaven amiss.

IX.

NOT Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell
Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change,
Nor Duty struggling with afflictions strange-
Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell;
But where untroubled peace and concord dwell,
There also is the Muse not loth to range,
Watching the twilight smoke of cot or grange,
Skyward ascending from a woody dell.
Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavour,
And sage content, and placid melancholy;
She loves to gaze upon a crystal river-
Diaphanous because it travels slowly;
Soft is the music that would charm for ever;
The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly.

X.

MARK the concentred hazels that enclose
Yon old grey Stone, protected from the ray
Of noontide suns:-and even the beams that
play

And glance, while wantonly the rough wind blows,

Are seldom free to touch the moss that grows Upon that roof, amid embowering gloom, The very image framing of a Tomb,

In which some ancient Chieftain finds repose Among the lonely mountains.-Live, ye trees! And thou, grey Stone, the pensive likeness keep

Of a dark chamber where the Mighty sleep: For more than Fancy to the influence bends When solitary Nature condescends

To mimic Time's forlorn humanities.

When little could be gained from that rich Hower

Of prospect, whereof many thousands tell.
Yet did the glowing west with marvellous
power

Salute us; there stood Indian citadel,
Temple of Greece, and minster with its tower
Substantially expressed-a place for bell
Or clock to toll from! Many a tempting isle,
With groves that never were imagined, lay
'Mid seas how steadfast! objects all for the eye
Of silent rapture; but we felt the while
We should forget them; they are of the sky,
And from our earthly memory fade away.

XII.

they are of the sky,

And from our earthly memory fade away." THOSE Words were uttered as in pensive mood We turned, departing from that solemn sight: And life's unspiritual pleasures daily wooed! A contrast and reproach to gross delight, But now upon this thought I cannot brood; It is unstable as a dream of night;

Nor will I praise a cloud, however bright, Disparaging Man's gifts, and proper food. Grove, isle, with every shape of sky-built dome, Though clad in colours beautiful and pure, Find in the heart of man no natural home: The immortal Mind craves objects that endure: These cleave to it; from these it cannot roam, Nor they from it: their fellowship is secure.

XIII.

SEPTEMBER, 1815.

WHILE not a leaf seems faded; while the fields,

With ripening harvest prodigally fair,

In brightest sunshine bask; this nipping air, Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields

His icy scimitar, a foretaste yields

Of bitter change, and bids the flowers beware;
And whispers to the silent birds, "Prepare
Against the threatening foe your trusties
shields."

For me, who under kindlier laws belong
To Nature's tuneful quire, this rustling dry
Through leaves yet green, and yon crystalline
sky,

Announce a season potent to renew,

Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song,

And nobler cares than listless summer knew.

XIV. NOVEMBER I.

How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright The effluence from yon distant mountain's head,

Which, strown with snow smooth as the sky can shed,

Shines like another sun-on mortal sight
L