(ON THE BANKS OF THE DERWENT., PASTOR and Patriot!-at whose bidding rise These modest walls, amid a flock that need, For one who comes to watch them and to feed, A fixed Abode-keep down presageful sighs. Threats, which the unthinking only can despise, Perplex the Church; but be thou firm,-be true To thy first hope, and this good work pursue, Poor as thou art. A welcome sacrifice

remains are laid.)

A POINT of life between my Parents' dust,
And yours, my buried Little-ones! am I;
And to those graves looking habitually
In kindred quiet I repose my trust.
Death to the innocent is more than just,
And, to the sinner, mercifully bent;
So may I hope, if truly I repent
And meekly bear the ills which bear I must:
And You, my Offspring! that do still remair
Yet may outstrip me in the appointed race,
If e'er, through fault of mine, in mutual pain
We breathed together for a moment's space,
The wrong, by love provoked, let love arraign,
And only love keep in your hearts a place.

VII.

ADDRESS FROM THE SPIRIT OF COCKERMOUTH
CASTLE.

"THOU look'st upon me, and dost fondly think,
Poet! that, stricken as both are by years,
We, differing once so much, are now Compeers,
Prepared, when each has stood his time, to sink
Into the dust. Erewhile a sterner link
United us; when thou, in boyish play,
Entering my dungeon, didst become a prey
To soul-appalling darkness. Not a blink
Of light was there;-and thus did I, thy Tutor,
Make thy young thoughts acquainted with the
grave;

While thou wert chasing the wing'd butterfly Through my green courts; or climbing, a bold suitor,

Up to the flowers whose golden progeny
Still round my shattered brow in beauty wave."

The encircling turf into a barren clod;
Through which the waters creep, then disappear,
Born to be lost in Derwent flowing near;
Yet, o'er the brink, and round the lime-stone cell
Of the pure spring (they call it the "Nun's
Well,"

Name that first struck by chance my startled ear)

A tender Spirit broods-the pensive Shade
Of ritual honours to this Fountain paid
By hooded Votaresses with saintly cheer;
Albeit oft the Virgin-mother mild
Looked down with pity upon eyes beguiled
Into the shedding of too soft a tear."

Of thy new hearth; and sooner shall its wreaths, Mounting while earth her morning incense

wore ;

And to the throng, that on the Cumbrian shore
Her landing hailed, how touchingly she bowed!
And like a Star (that, from a heavy cloud
Of pine-tree foliage poised in air, forth darts,
When a soft summer gale at evening parts
The gloom that did its loveliness enshroud)
She smiled; but Time, the old Saturnian seer,
Sighed on the wing as her foot pressed the
strand,

With step prelusive to a long array

Of woes and degradations hand in hand-
Weeping captivity, and shuddering fear
Stilled by the ensanguined block of Fotherin-
gay!

XI.

STANZAS SUGGESTED IN A STEAM-BOAT OFF SAINT BEES' HEADS, ON THE COAST OF CUM

BERLAND.

IF Life were slumber on a bed of down,
Toil unimposed, vicissitude unknown,
Sad were out lot: no hunter of the hare
Has roused the lion; no one plucks the rose,
Exults like him whose javelin from the lair
Whose proffered beauty in safe shelter blows
'Mid a trim garden's summer luxuries,
With joy like his who climbs, on hands and
knees,

For some rare plant, yon Headland of St Bees.
This independence upon oar and sail,
This new indifference to breeze or gale,
This straight-lined progress, furrowing a flat
lea,

And regular as if locked in certainty

Depress the hours. Up, Spirit of the storm! That Courage may find something to perform That Fortitude, whose blood disdains to freeze At Danger's bidding, may confront the seas, Firm as the towering Headlands of St Bees.

appease;

yore

And, from her vow well weighed in Heaven's decrees,

Rose, where she touched the strand, the Chantry of St Bees.

"Cruel of heart were they, bloody of hand," Who in these Wilds then struggled for command;

The strong were merciless, without hope the weak;

Till this bright Stranger came, fair as daybreak,

And as a cresset true that darts its length
Of beamy lustre from a tower of strength;
Guiding the mariner through troubled seas,
And cheering oft his peaceful reveries,
Like the fixed Light that crowns yon Headland

of St Bees.

To aid the Votaress, miracles believed
Wrought in men's minds, like miracles achieved;
So piety took root; and Song might tell
What humanising virtues near her cell
Sprang up, and spread their fragrance wide
around;

How savage bosoms melted at the sound
Of gospel-truth enchained in harmonies
Wafted o'er waves, or creeping through close

trees,

From her religious Mansion of St Bees
When her sweet Voice, that instrument of love,
Was glorified, and took its place, above
The silent stars, among the angelic quire,
Her chantry blazed with sacrilegious fire,
And perished utterly; but her good deeds
Had sown the spot, that witnessed them, with
seeds

Which lay in earth expectant, till a breeze With quickening impulse answered their mute pleas,

And lo! a statelier pile, the Abbey of St Bees.
There are the naked clothed, the hungry fed;
And Charity extendeth to the dead
Her intercessions made for the soul's rest
Of tardy penitents; or for the best
Among the good (when love might else have
slept,

Sickened, or died) in pious memory kept.

Thanks to the austere and simple Devotees,
Who, to that service bound by venial fees,
Keep watch before the altars of St Bees.
Are not, in sooth, their Requiems sacred ties
Woven out of passion's sharpest agonies,
Subdued, composed, and formalized by art,
To fix a wiser sorrow in the heart?
The prayer for them whose hour is past away
Says to the Living, profit while ye may !
Who thinks that priestly cunning holds the keys
A little part, and that the worst, he sees
That best unlock the secrets of St Bees.
Conscience, the timid being's inmost light,
Hope of the dawn and solace of the night,
Cheers these Recluses with a steady ray
In many an hour when judgment goes astray.
Ah! scorn not hastily their rule who try
Earth to despise, and flesh to mortify;
Consume with zeal, in wingèd ecstasies
Of

prayer and praise forget their rosaries, Nor hear the loudest surges of St Bees. The forlorn traveller, or sailor wrecked Yet none so prompt to succour and protect On the bare coast; nor do they grudge the boon

Which staff and cockle hat and sandal shoon Claim for the pilgrim: and, though chidings sharp

May sometimes greet the strolling minstrel's harp,

It is not then when, swept with sportive ease,
It charms a feast-day throng of all degrees,
Brightening the archway of revered St Bees.
How did the cliffs and echoing hills rejoice
What time the Benedictine Brethren's voice,
Imploring, or commanding with meet pride,
Summoned the Chiefs to lay their feuds aside,
And under one blest ensign serve the Lord
In Palestine. Advance, indignant Sword!
Flaming till thou from Panym hands release
That tomb, dread centre of all sanctities
Nursed in the quiet Abbey of St Bees.
But look we now to them whose minds from far
Follow the fortunes which they may not share.
While in Judea Fancy loves to roam,
She helps to make a Holy-land at home:
The Star of Bethlehem from its sphere invites
To sound the crystal depth of maiden rights;
And wedded Life, through scriptural mysteries,
Heavenward ascends with all her charities,
Taught by the hooded Celibates of St Bees.

Nor be it e'er forgotten how by skill

Of cloistered Architects, free their souls to fill With love of God, throughout the Land were raised

Churches on whose symbolic beauty gazed
Peasant and mail-clad Chief with pious awe;
As at this day men seeing what they saw,
Or the bare wreck of faith's solemnities,
Aspire to more than earthly destinies ;
Witness yon Pile that greets us from St Bees.
Yet more; around those Churches, gathered
Towns

Safe from the feudal Castle's haughty frowns;
Peaceful abodes, where Justice might uphold
Her scales with even hand, and culture mould
The heart to pity, train the mind in care

To instantaneous plunging in, deep Sea! And revelling in long embrace with thee.*

XVII.

ISLE OF MAN.

A YOUTH too certain of his power to wade
On the smooth bottom of this clear bright sea,
To sight so shallow, with a bather's glee
Leapt from this rock, and but for timely aid
He, by the alluring element betrayed,
Had perished. Then might Sea-nymphs (and
with sighs

Of self-reproach) have chanted elegies
Bewailing his sad fate, when he was laid

In peaceful earth: for, doubtless, he was frank,
Utterly in himself devoid of guile;

Knew not the double-dealing of a smile;
Nor aught that makes men's promises a blank,
Or deadly snare: and he survives to bless
The Power that saved him in his strange

distress.

XVIII.

ISLE OF MAN.

DID pangs of grief for lenient time too keen, Grief that devouring waves had caused-or guilt

Which they had witnessed, sway the man who built

This Homestead, placed where nothing could be seen,

Nought heard, of ocean troubled or serene?
A tired Ship-soldier on paternal land,
That o'er the channel holds august command,
The dwelling raised,-a veteran Marine.
He, in disgust, turned from the neighbouring

sea

To shun the memory of a listless life

That hung between two callings. May no strife More hurtful here beset him, doomed though free,

Self-doomed, to worse inaction, till his eye Shrink from the daily sight of earth and sky!

XIX.

BY A RETIRED MARINER.

(A FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR.) FROM early youth I ploughed the restless Main, My mind as restless and as apt to change; Through every clime and ocean did I range, In hope at length a competence to gain : For poor to Sea I went, and poor I still remain. Year after year I strove, but strove in vain, And hardships manifold did I endure, For Fortune on me never deign'd to smile; Yet I at last a resting-place have found, With just enough life's comforts to procure, In a snug Cove on this our favoured Isle, A peaceful spot where Nature's gifts abound; Then sure I have no reason to complain, Though poor to Sea I went, and poor I still re

main.

Where ancient trees this convent-pile enclose,*
In ruin beautiful. When vain desire
Intrudes on peace, I pray the eternal Sire
To cast a soul-subduing shade on me,
A grey-haired, pensive, thankful Refugee;
A shade-but with some sparks of heavenly fire
Once to these cells vouchsafed. And when I

note

The old Tower's brow yellowed as with the beams

Of sunset ever there, albeit streams Of stormy weather-stains that semblance wrought,

I thank the silent Monitor, and say "Shine so, my aged brow, at all hours of the day!

XXI.

TYNWALD HILL.

ONCE on the top of Tynwald's formal mound
(Still marked with green turf circles narrowing
Stage above stage) would sit this Island's King,
The laws to promulgate, enrobed and crowned;
While, compassing the little mount around,
Degrees and Orders stood, each under each:
Now, like to things within fate's easiest reach,
The power is merged, the pomp a grave has
found.

Off with yon cloud, old Snafell! that thine eye
Over three Realms may take its widest range;
And let, for them, thy fountains utter strange
Voices, thy winds break forth in prophecy,
If the whole State must suffer mortal change,
Like Mona's miniature of sovereignty.

XXII.

DESPOND Who will-I heard a voice exclaim, "Though fierce the assault, and shatter'd the It cannot be that Britain's social frame, defence, The glorious work of time and providence, Before a flying season's rash pretence, Should fall; that She, whose virtue put to shame,

When Europe prostrate lay, the Conqueror's aim,

Should perish, self-subverted. Black and dense The cloud is; but brings that a day of doom To Liberty? Her sun is up the while,

That orb whose beams round Saxon Alfred

IN THE FRITH OF CLYDE, AILSA CRAG. DURING AN ECLIPSE OF THE SUN, JULY 17. SINCE risen from ocean, ocean to defy, Appeared the Crag of Ailsa, ne'er did morn With gleaming lights more gracefully adorn His sides, or wreathe with mist his forehead high:

Now, faintly darkening with the sun's eclipse,
Still is he seen, in lone sublimity,

Towering above the sea and little ships:
For dwarfs the tallest seem while sailing by,
Each for her haven; with her freight of Care,

*Rushen Abbey.

Pleasure, or Grief, and Toil that seldom looks Into the secret of to-morrow's fare;

Though poor, yet rich, without the wealth of books,

Or aught that watchful Love to Nature owes For her mute Powers, fix'd Forms, or transient Shows.

XXIV.

ON THE FRITH OF CLYDE.

(IN A STEAM-BOAT.)

ARRAN! a single-crested Teneriffe,
A St Helena next-in shape and hue,
Varying her crowded peaks and ridges blue;
Who but must covet a cloud-seat, or skiff
Built for the air, or wingèd Hippogriff?
That he might fly, where no one could pursue,
From this dull Monster and her sooty crew;
And, as a God, light on thy topmost cliff.
Impotent wish! which reason would despise
If the mind knew no union of extremes,
No natural bond between the boldest schemes
Ambition frames, and heart-humilities.
Beneath stern mountains many a soft vale lies,
And lofty springs give birth to lowly streams.

NOT to the clouds, not to the cliff, he flew;
But when a storm, on sea or mountain bred,
Came and delivered him, alone he sped
Into the castle-dungeon's darkest mew.
Now, near his master's house in open view
He dwells, and hears indignant tempests howl,
Kennelled and chained. Ye tame domestic
fowl,

Beware of him! Thou, saucy cockatoo,
Look to thy plumage and thy life!-The roe,
Fleet as the west wind, is for him no quarry ;
Balanced in ether he will never tarry,

Eyeing the sea's blue depths. Poor Bird! even

With ear not coveting the whole,
A part so charmed the pensive soul:
While a dark storm before my sight
Was yielding, on a mountain height
Loose vapours have I watched, that won
Prismatic colours from the sun;

Nor felt a wish that heaven would show
The image of its perfect bow.

What need, then, of these finished Strains
Away with counterfeit Remains!
An abbey in its lone recess,

A temple of the wilderness,

Wrecks though they be, announce with feeling
The majesty of honest dealing.
Spirit of Ossian! if im bound

In language thou may'st yet be found,
If aught (intrusted to the pen
Or floating on the tongues of men,
Albeit shattered and impaired)
Subsist thy dignity to guard,

In concert with memorial claim
Of old grey stone, and high-born name
That cleaves to rock or pillared cave
Where moans the blast, or beats the wave,
Let Truth, stern arbitress of all,
Interpret that Original,

And for presumptuous wrongs atone ;-
Authentic words be given, or none !
Time is not blind;-yet He, who spares
Pyramid pointing to the stars,
Hath preyed with ruthless appetite
On all that marked the primal flight
Of the poetic ecstasy

Into the land of mystery.
No tongue is able to rehearse
One measure, Orpheus! of thy verse;
Musæus, stationed with his lyre
Supreme among the Elysian quire,
Is, for the dwellers upon earth
Mute as a lark ere morning's birth.
Why grieve for these, though past away
The music, and extinct the lay?
When thousands, by severer doom,
Full early to the silent tomb

Have sunk, at Nature's call; or strayed
From hope and promise, self-betrayed;
The garland withering on their brows;
Stung with remorse for broken vows;
Frantic else how might they rejoice?
And friendless, by their own sad choice!
Hail, Bards of mightier grasp! on you
I chiefly call, the chosen Few,
Who cast not off the acknowledged guide,
Who faltered not, nor turned aside;
Whose lofty genius could survive
Privation, under sorrow thrive;
In whom the fiery Muse revered
The symbol of a snow-white beard,
Bedewed with meditative tears
Dropped from the lenient cloud of years.

Brothers in soul! though distant times
Produced you nursed in various climes,
Ye, when the orb of life had waned,
A plenitude of love retained:
Hence, while in you each sad regret
By corresponding hope was met,
Ye lingered among human kind,
Sweet voices for the passing wind;
Departing sunbeams, loth to stop,
Though smiling on the last hill top!