Of friends, who live within an easy walk, Or neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight: And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright,
Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk, These all wear out of me, like forms with chalk
Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast- night.
Better than such discourse doth silence long, Long, barren silence, square with my desire; To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,
In the loved presence of my cottage-fire, And listen to the flapping of the flame, Or kettle whispering its faint undersong.
TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND. (AN AGRICULTURIST.)
COMPOSED WHILE WE WERE LABOURING TO- GETHER IN HIS PLEASURE-GROUND.
SPADE! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his lands,
And shaped these pleasant walks by Emont's side,
Thou art a tool of honour in my hands;
I press thee, through the yielding soil, with pride.
Rare master has it been thy lot to know; Long hast Thou served a man to reason true; Whose life combines the best of high and low,
"Yet life," you say, "is life; we have seen and The labouring many and the resting few;
Nor can I not believe but that hereby Great gains are mine; for thus I live remote From evil-speaking; rancour, never sought, Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie. Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought:
And thus from day to day my little boat Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably. Blessings be with them and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares- The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays! Oh! might my name be numbered among theirs, Then gladly would I end my mortal days.
Health, meekness, ardour, quietness secure, And industry of body and of mind; And elegant enjoyments, that are pure As nature is ;-too pure to be refined. Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing In concord with his river murmuring by; Or in some silent field, while timid spring Is yet uncheered by other minstrelsy. Who shall inherit Thee when death has laid Low in the darksome cell thine own dear lord? That man will have a trophy, humble Spade! A trophy nobler than a conqueror's sword. If he be one that feels, with skill to part False praise from true, or greater from the less, Thee will he welcome to his hand and heart, Thou monument of peaceful happiness!
He will not dread with Thee a toilsome day- Thee his loved servant, his inspiring mate! And, when thou art past service, worn away, No dull oblivious nook shall hide thy fate. His thrift thy uselessness will never scorn; An heir-loom in his cottage wilt thou be :- High will he hang thee up, well pleased to adorn
His rustic chimney with the last of Thee! 1804.
CHARACTERISTIC OF A FAVOURITE DOG.
On his morning rounds the Master Goes to learn how all things fare; Searches pasture after pasture, Sheep and cattle eyes with care: And, for silence or for talk,
He hath comrades in his walk; Four dogs, each pair of different breed, Distinguished two for scent, and two for speed.
See a hare before him started! -Off they fly in earnest chase; Every dog is eager-hearted, All the four are in the race: And the hare whom they pursue Knows from instinct what to do;
Her hope is near: no turn she makes; But, like an arrow, to the river takes. Deep the river was, and crusted Thinly by a one night's frost; But the nimble Hare hath trusted To the ice, and safely crost; She hath crost, and without heed All are following at full speed, When, lo! the ice, so thinly spread, Breaks-and the greyhound, DART, is over- head!
Better fate have PRINCE and SWALLOW- See them cleaving to the sport! MUSIC has no heart to follow, Little MUSIC, she stops short. She hath neither wish nor heart, Hers is now another part:
A loving creature she, and brave!
And fondly strives her struggling friend to
From the brink her paws she stretches,
Very hands as you would say !
And afflicting moans she fetches,
As he breaks the ice away.
For herself she hath no fears,
Him alone she sees and hears,
Makes efforts with complainings; nor gives
Until her fellow sinks to re-appear no more. 1805.
TO THE MEMORY OF THE SAME DOG.
LIE here, without a record of thy worth, Beneath a covering of the common earth! It is not from unwillingness to praise, Or want of love, that here no Stone we raise; More thou deserv'st; but this man gives to man, Brother to brother, this is all we can.
Yet they to whom thy virtues made thee dear Shall find thee through all changes of the year: This Oak points out thy grave; the silent tree Will gladly stand a monument of thee.
We grieved for thee, and wished thy end were past;
And willingly have laid thee here at last : For thou hadst lived till every thing that cheers In thee had yielded to the weight of years;
Extreme old age had wasted thee away, And left thee but a glimmering of the day; Thy ears were deaf,and feeble were thy knees,- I saw thee stagger in the summer breeze, Too weak to stand against its sportive breath, And ready for the gentlest stroke of death. It came, and we were glad ; yet tears were shed; Both man and woman wept when thou wert dead, Not only for a thousand thoughts that were, Old household thoughts, in which thou hadst thy share ;
But for some precious boons vouchsafed to thee, Found scarcely anywhere in like degree! For love, that comes wherever life and sense Are given by God, in thee was most intense; A chain of heart, a feeling of the mind, A tender sympathy, which did thee bind Not only to us Men, but to thy Kind: Yea, for thy fellow-brutes in thee we saw A soul of love, love's intellectual law :- Hence, if we wept, it was not done in shame; Our tears from passion and from reason came, And, therefore, shalt thou be an honoured namie, 1805.
A BARKING Sound the Shepherd hears, A cry as of a dog or fox;
He halts-and searches with his eyes Among the scattered rocks:
And now at distance can discern A stirring in a brake of fern; And instantly a dog is seen, Glancing through that covert green.
The Dog is not of mountain breed ; Its motions, too, are wild and shy; With something, as the Shepherd thinks, Unusual in its cry:
Nor is there any one in sight
All round, in hollow or on height;
Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear;
What is the creature doing here?
It was a cove, a huge recess,
That keeps, till June, December's snow;
A lofty precipice in front,
A silent tarn below!
Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,
Remote from public road or dwelling, Pathway, or cultivated land;
From trace of human foot or hand.
There sometimes doth a leaping fish Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; The crags repeat the raven's croak, In symphony austere ;
Thither the rainbow comes-the cloud- And mists that spread the flying shroud; And sunbeams; and the sounding blast, That, if it could, would hurry past; But that enormous barrier holds it fast. Not free from boding thoughts, a while The Shepherd stood; then makes his way O'er rocks and stones, following the Dog As quickly as he may;
Nor far had gone before he found A human skeleton on the ground; The appalled Discoverer with a sigh Looks round, to learn the history.
From those abrupt and perilous rocks The Man had fallen, that place of fear! At length upon the Shepherd's mind It breaks, and all is clear:
He instantly recalled the name,
And who he was, and whence he came ; Remembered, too, the very day
On which the Traveller passed this way. But hear a wonder, for whose sake This lamentable tale I tell! A lasting monument of words This wonder merits well.
The Dog, which still was hovering nigh, Repeating the same timid cry,
This Dog, had been through three months' space
A dweller in that savage place.
Yes, proof was plain that, since the day When this ill-fated Traveller died, The Dog had watched about the spot, Or by his master's side:
How nourished here through such long time He knows, who gave that love sublime; And gave that strength of feeling, great Above all human estimate! 1805.
Through no disturbance of my soul, Or strong compunction in me wrought, I supplicate for thy control; But in the quietness of thought: Me this unchartered freedom tires; I feel the weight of chance-desires: My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same. Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear The Godhead's most benignant grace; Nor know we any thing so fair As is the smile upon thy face: Flowers laugh before thee on their beds And fragrance in thy footing treads; Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.
To humbler functions, awful Power! I call thee: I myself commend Unto thy guidance from this hour; Oh, let my weakness have an end! Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice;
The confidence of reason give;
And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live!
'Jam non consilio bonus, sed more eò perductus, ut non tantum rectè facere possim, sed nisi rectè facere non possim."
STERN Daughter of the Voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove; Thou, who art victory and law When empty terrors overawe; From vain temptations dost set free; And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!
There are who ask not if thine eye Be on them; who, in love and truth, Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth: Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot; Who do thy work, and know it not: Oh! if through confidence misplaced They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.
Serene will be our days and bright, And happy will our nature be, When love is an unerring light, And joy its own security.
And they a blissful course may hold Even now, who, not unwisely bold, Live in the spirit of this creed ;
CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR.
WHO is the happy Warrior? Who is he That every man in arms should wish to be? -It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought: Whose high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright: Who, with a natural instinct to discern What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn ;
Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, But makes his moral being his prime care; Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train! Turns his necessity to glorious gain;
In face of these doth exercise a power Which is our human nature's highest dower; Controls them and subdues, transmutes, be-
Of their bad influence, and their good receives: By objects, which might force the soul to abate
Her feeling, rendered more compassionate; Is placable-because occasions rise
So often that demand such sacrifice; More skilful in self-knowledge, even
As tempted more; more able to endure As more exposed to suffering and distress;
Yet seek thy firm support, according to Thence, also, more alive to tenderness.
-'Tis he whose law is reason; who depends Upon that law as on the best of friends; Whence, in a state where men are tempted still To evil for a guard against worse ill, And what in quality or act is best Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, He labours gcod on good to fix, and owes To virtue every triumph that he knows :
Who, if he rise to station of command, Rises by open means; and there will stand
Or mild concerns of ordinary life,
A constant influence, a peculiar grace; But who, if he be called upon to face
Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined
Great issues, good or bad for human kind, Is happy as a Lover; and attired
With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired; And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw; Or if an unexpected call succeed, Come when it will, is equal to the need: -He who, though thus endued as with a sense And faculty for storm and turbulence, Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes; Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be, Are at his heart; and such fidelity It is his darling passion to approve;
More brave for this, that he hath much to love :
'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high, Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye, Or left unthought-of in obscurity,- Who, with a toward or untoward lot, Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not- Plays, in the many games of life, that one Where what he most doth value must be won: Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray; Who, not content that former worth stand fast, Looks forward, persevering to the last From well to better, daily self-surpast: Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth For ever, and to noble deeds give birth, Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, And leave a dead unprofitable name- Finds comfort in himself and in his cause; And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause: This is the happy Warrior; this is He That every Man in arms should wish to be. 1806.
And she made answer ENDLESS SORROW!' For she knew that her Son was dead. She knew it by the Falconer's words, And from the look of the Falconer's eye; And from the love which was in her soul For her youthful Romilly.
-Young Romilly through Barden woods Is ranging high and low;
And holds a greyhound in a leash, To let slip upon buck or doe.
The pair have reached that fearful chasm, How tempting to bestride!
For lordly Wharf is there pent in With rocks on either side.
This striding-place is called THE STRID, A name which it took of yore:
A thousand years hath it borne that name, And shall a thousand more.
And hither is young Romilly come, And what may now forbid
That he, perhaps for the hundredth time, Shall bound across THE STRID?
He sprang in glee,- for what cared he That the river was strong, and the rocks were steep?-
But the greyhound in the leash hung back, And checked him in his leap.
The Boy is in the arms of Wharf,
And strangled by a merciless force; For never more was young Romilly seen Till he rose a lifeless corse.
Now there is stillness in the vale, And long, unspeaking, sorrow: Wharf shall be to pitying hearts A name more sad than Yarrow. If for a lover the Lady wept, A solace she might borrow From death, and from the passion of death ;- Old Wharf might heal her sorrow. She weeps not for the wedding-day Which was to be to-morrow: Her hope was a further-looking hope, And hers is a mother's sorrow..
He was a tree that stood alone, And proudly did its branches wave; And the root of this delightful tree Was in her husband's grave!
Long, long in darkness did she sit, And her first words were, "Let there be In Bolton, on the field of Wharf, A stately Priory!"
The stately Priory was reared; And Wharf, as he moved along, To matins joined a mournful voice, Nor failed at even-song.
And the Lady prayed in heaviness That looked not for relief! But slowly did her succour come, And a patience to her grief.
Oh! there is never sorrow of heart That shall lack a timely end, If but to God we turn, and ask Of Him to be our friend!
A FACT, AND AN IMAGINATION;
CANUTE AND ALFRED, ON THE SEA-SHORE. THE Danish Conqueror, on his royal chair, Mustering a face of haughty sovereignty, To aid a covert purpose, cried-"O ye Approaching Waters of the deep, that share With this green isle my fortunes, come not where
Your Master's throne is set."-Deaf was the Sea;
Her waves rolled on, respecting his deeree Less than they heed a breath of wanton air. -Then Canute, rising from the invaded throne, Said to his servile Courtiers," Poor the reach, The undisguised extent, of mortal sway! He only is a King, and he alone Deserves the name (this truth the billows preach)
Whose everlasting laws, sea, earth, and heaven, obey."
This just reproof the prosperous Dane Drew from the influx of the main,
For some whose rugged northern mouths would strain
And Canute (fact more worthy to be known) From that time forth did for his brows disown The ostentatious symbol of a crown; Esteeming earthly royalty Contemptible as vain.
Now hear what one of elder days, Rich theme of England's fondest praise, Her darling Alfred, might have spoken; To cheer the remnant of his host
When he was driven from coast to coast, Distressed and harassed, but with mind unbroken:
"My faithful followers, lo! the tide is spent
That rose, and steadily advanced to fill The shores and channels, working Nature's
Among the mazy streams that backward went, And in the sluggish pools where ships are pent: And now, his task performed, the flood stands still,
At the green base of many an inland hill, In placid beauty and sublime content! Such the repose that sage and hero find; Such measured rest the sedulous and good Of humbler name; whose souls do, like the flood
Of Ocean, press right on; or gently wind, Neither to be diverted nor withstood, Until they reach the bounds by Heaven as- signed."
Planting his favourite silver diadem, Nor he, nor minister of his--intent To run before him, hath enrolled me yet, Though not unmenaced, among those who lean Upon a living staff, with borrowed sight. -O my own Dora, my beloved child! Should that day come-but hark! the birds salute
The cheerful dawn, brightening for me the east;
For me, thy natural leader, once again Impatient to conduct thee, not as erst A tottering infant, with compliant stoop From flower to flower supported; but to curb Thy nymph-like step swift-bounding o'er the lawn,
Along the loose rocks, or the slippery verge Of foaming torrents. From thy orisons Come forth; and while the morning air is Transparent as the soul of innocent youth, Let me, thy happy guide, now point thy way, And now precede thee, winding to and fro, Till we by perseverance gain the top Of some smooth ridge, whose brink precipitous Kindles intense desire for powers withheld From this corporeal frame; whereon who stands
Is seized with strong incitement to push forth His arms, as swimmers use, and plungedread thought,
For pastime plunge-into the "abrupt abyss," Where ravens spread their plumy vans, at ease!
And yet more gladly thee would I conduct Through woods and spacious forests,—to behold There, how the Original of human art, Heaven-prompted Nature, measures and erects Her temples, fearless for the stately work, Though waves, to every breeze, its high-arched roof,
And storms the pillars rock. But we such schools
In the still summer noon, while beams of light, Reposing here, and in the aisles beyond Traceably gliding through the dusk, recal To mind the living presences of nuns ; Whose saintly radiance mitigates the gloom A gentle, pensive, white-robed sisterhood, Of those terrestrial fabrics, where they serve, To Christ, the Sun of righteousness, espoused.
Of reverential awe will chiefly seek
Now also shall the page of classic lore, To these glad eyes from bondage freed, again Lie open; and the book of Holy Writ, Again unfolded, passage clear shall yield To heights more glorious still, and into shades More awful, where, advancing hand in hand, We may be taught, O Darling of my care! To calm the affections, elevate the soul, And consecrate our lives to truth and love.
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