XXXIV. SKY-PROSPECT-FROM THE PLAIN OF FRANCE. Lo! in the burning west, the craggy nape Of a proud Ararat! and, thereupon, The Ark, her melancholy voyage done! lon rampant cloud mimics a lion's shape; There, combats a huge crocodile-agape A golden spear to swallow ! and that brown Tnd massy grove, so near yon blazing town, Stirs and recedes-destruction to escape! Yet all is harmless-as the Elysian shades Where Spirits dwell in undisturbed reposeSilently disappears, or quickly fades: Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows 'That for oblivion take their daily birth From all the fuming vanities of Earth!

XXXV.

ON BEING STRANDED NEAR THE HARBOUR OF
BOULOGNE.

WHY cast ye back upon the Gallic shore,
Ye furious waves! a patriotic Son

Of England-who in hope her coast had won,
His project crowned, his pleasant travel o'er?
Well-let him pace this noted beach once more,
That gave the Roman his triumphal shells;
That saw the Corsican his cap and bells
Haughtily shake, a dreaming Conqueror !-
Enough: my Country's cliffs I can behold,
And proudly think, beside the chafing sea,
Of checked ambition, tyranny controlled,
And folly cursed with endless memory:
These local recollections ne'er can cloy;
Such ground I from my very heart enjoy!

UPON RECEIVING THE PRECEDING SHEETS FROM
THE PRESS.

Is then the final page before me spread
Nor further outlet left to mind or heart?
Presumptuous Book! too forward to be read,
How can I give thee licence to depart?
One tribute more: unbidden feelings start
Forth from their coverts; slighted objects rise;
My spirit is the scene of such wild art
As on Parnassus rules, when lightning flies,
Visibly leading on the thunder's harmonies.
All that I saw returns upon my view,
All that I heard comes back upon my ear,
All that I felt this moment doth renew;
And where the foot with no unmanly fear
Recoiled-and wings alone could travel-there
I move at ease; and meet contending themes
That press upon me, crossing the career
Of recollections vivid as the dreams

Of midnight,-cities, plains, forests, and mighty

Fancy hath flung for me an airy bridge
Across thy long deep Valley, furious Rhone!
Arch that here rests upon the granite ridge
Of Monte Rosa-there on frailer stone
Of secondary birth, the Jung-frau's cone;
And, from that arch, down-looking on the Vale
The aspect I behold of every zone;
A sea of foliage, tossing with the gale,
Blithe Autumn's purple crown, and Winter's
icy mail!

Far as ST MAURICE, from yon eastern FORKS,*
Down the main avenue my sight can range:
And all its branchy vales, and all that lurks
Within them, church, and town, and hut, and,

In whose experience trusting, day by day Treasures I gained with zeal that neither

feared

The toils nor felt the crosses of the way, RYDAL MOUNT, Feb. 14th, 1842.

Were but the Gift a meet Return to thee
For kindnesses that never ceased to flow,
And prompt self-sacrifice to which I owe
Far more than any heart but mine can know.
W. WORDSWORTH.

I.

MUSINGS NEAR AQUAPENDENT.

APRIL, 1837,

YE Apennines! with all your fertile vales
Deeply embosomed, and your winding shores
Of either sea, an Islander by birth,
A Mountaineer by habit, would resound
Your praise, in meet accordance with your
claims

Bestowed by Nature, or from man's great deeds

Inherited :-presumptuous thought!-it fled Like vapour, like a towering cloud, dissolved. Not, therefore, shall my mind give way to sadness;

Yon snow-white torrent-fall, plumb down it drops

Yet ever hangs or seems to hang in air, Lulling the leisure of that high perched town, AQUAPENDENTE, in her lofty site

Its neighbour and its namesake-town, and flood

Forth flashing out of its own gloomy chasm Bright sunbeams-the fresh verdure of this

lawn

Strewn with grey rocks, and on the horizon's verge,

O'er intervenient waste, through glimmering haze,

Unquestionably kenned, that cone-shaped hill

With fractured summit, no indifferent sight
To travellers, from such comforts as are thine,
Bleak Radicofani! escaped with joy-
These are before me; and the varied scene
May well suffice, till noon-tide's sultry heat
Relax, to fix and satisfy the mind
Passive yet pleased. What! with this Broom
in flower

Close at my side! She bids me fly to greet
Her sisters, soon like her to be attired
With golden blossoms opening at the feet
Of my own Fairfield. The glad greeting
given,

Given with a voice and by a look returned
Of old companionship, Time counts not
minutes

Ere, from accustomed paths, familiar fields,
The local Genius hurries me aloft,
Transported over that cloud-wooing hill,
Seat Sandal, a fond suitor of the clouds,
With dream-like smoothness, to Helvellyn's
top,

There to alight upon crisp moss, and range
Obtaining ampler boon, at every step,
Of visual sovereignty-hills multitudinous,
(Not Apennine can boast of fairer) hills
Pride of two nations, wood and lake and plains,
And prospect right below of deep coves shared
By skeleton arms, that, from the mountain's
trunk

Extended, clasp the winds, with mutual moan

And downward by the skirt of Greenside fell,
And by Glenridding-screes, and low Glencoign,
Places forsaken now, though loving still
The muses, as they loved them in the days
Of the old minstrels and the border bards.-
But here am I fast bound; and let it pass,
The simple rapture-who that travels far
To feed his mind with watchful eyes could share
Or wish to share it ?-One there surely was,
"The Wizard of the North," with anxious hope
Brought to this genial climate, when disease
Preyed upon body and mind-yet not the less
Had his sunk eye kindled at those dear words
That spake of bards and minstrels; and his
spirit

Had flown with mine to old Helvellyn's brow
Where once together, in his day of strength,
We stood rejoicing, as if earth were free
From sorrow, like the sky above our heads.
Years followed years, and when, upon the eve
Of his last going from Tweed-side, thought
turned,

Or by another's sympathy was led,

To this bright land, Hope was for him no friend,
Knowledge no help; Imagination shaped
No promise. Still, in more than ear-deep seats,
Survives for me, and cannot but survive
The tone of voice which wedded borrowed
words

To sadness not their own, when, with faint

smile

Peace to their Spirits! why should Poesy
Yield to the lure of vain regret, and hover
In gloom on wings with confidence outspread
To move in sunshine!-Utter thanks, my Soul!
Tempered with awe, and sweetened by com-
passion

For them who in the shades of sorrow dwell
That I-so near the term to human life
Appointed by man's common heritage,
Frail as the frailest, one withal (if that
Deserve a thought) but little known to fame-
Am free to rove where Nature's loveliest looks,
Art's noblest relics, history's rich bequests,
Failed to reanimate and but feebly cheered
The whole world's Darling-free to rove at will
O'er high and low, and if requiring rest,
Rest from enjoyment only.

Thanks poured forth For what thus far hath blessed my wanderings, thanks

Fervent but humble as the lips can breathe
Where gladness seems a duty--let me guard
Those seeds of expectation which the fruit
Already gathered in this favoured Land
Enfolds within its core. The faith be mine,

Of Genoa the superb-should there be led
However humble in themselves, with thoughts
To meditate upon his own appointed tasks,
Raised and sustained by memory of Him
Who oftentimes within those narrow bounds

Rocked on the surge, there tried his spirit's
strength
And
of
grasp purpose, long ere sailed his ship
To lay a new world open.

storm

Nor less prized To mild, to lowly, and to seeming weak, Be those impressions which incline the heart Bend that way her desires. The dew, the The dew whose moisture fell in gentle drops On the small hyssop destined to become, By Hebrew ordinance devoutly kept, That shook on Lebanon the cedar's top, A purifying instrument-the storm And as it shook, enabling the blind roots With magnitude and strength fit to uphold Further to force their way, endowed its trunk The glorious temple-did alike proceed From the same gracious will, were both an offspring

Of bounty infinite.

Between Powers that aim
Higher to lift their lofty heads, impelled
By no profane ambition, Powers that thrive
By conflict, and their opposites, that trust
In lowliness-a mid-way tract there lies
Of thoughtful sentiment for every mind
Pregnant with good. Young, Middle-aged,
and Old,

From century on to century, must have known
The emotion-nay, more fitly were it said—
The blest tranquillity that sunk so deep
Into my spirit, when I paced, enclosed
In Pisa's Campo Santo, the smooth floor
Of its Arcades paved with sepulchral slabs,
And through each window's open fret-work
looked

O'er the blank Area of sacred earth
Fetched from Mount Calvary, or haply delved
In precincts nearer to the Saviour's tomb,
By hands of men, humble as brave, who fought
For its deliverance-a capacious field
That to descendants of the dead it holds
And to all living mute memento breathes,