By persons resident in the country, and attached to rural objects, many places will be found unnamed or of unknown names, where little Incidents must have occurred, or feelings been experienced, which will have given to such places a private and peculiar interest. From a wish to give some sort of record to such Incidents, and renew the gratification of such feelings, Names have been given to places by the Author and some of his Friends, and the following Poems written in consequence.
"IT WAS AN APRIL MORNING. FRESH AND CLEAR"
It was an April morning: fresh and clear The rivulet, delighting in its strength,
Ran with a young man's speed; and yet the voice Of waters which the winter had supplied
Was softened down into a vernal tone.
The spirit of enjoyment and desire,
And hopes and wishes, from all living things Went circling, like a multitude of sounds. The budding groves seemed eager to urge on The steps of June; as if their shades
Of various green were hindrances that stood Between them and their object: yet, meanwhile, There was such deep contentment in the air That every naked ash, and tardy tree Yet leafless, showed as if the countenance With which it looked on this delightful day Were native to the summer. Up the brook I roamed in the confusion of my heart, Alive to all things and forgetting all. At length I to a sudden turning came In this continuous glen, where down a rock The stream, so ardent in its course before, Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all Which I till then had heard appeared the voice Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb,
The shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush, Vied with this waterfall, and made a song
Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth Or like some natural produce of the air, That could not cease to be.
Green leaves were here;
But 'twas the foliage of the rocks--the birch, The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn, With hanging islands of resplendent furze : And on a summit, distant a short space, By any who should look beyond the dell A single mountain-cottage might be seen. I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said,
Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook, My EMMA, I will dedicate to thee."
Soon did the spot become my other home,
My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode.
And of the shepherds who have seen me there, To whom I sometimes in our idle talk
Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps, Years after we are gone and in our graves, When they have cause to speak of this wild place, May call it by the name of EMMA'S DELL.
AMID the smoke of cities did you pass The time of early youth; and there you learned, From years of quiet industry, to love The living Beings by your own fire-side,
With such a strong devotion, that your heart Is slow to meet the sympathies of them
Who look upon the hills with tenderness,
And make dear friendships with the streams and
Yet we, who are transgressors in this kind,
Dwelling retired in our simplicity
Among the woods and fields, we love you well, Joanna! and I guess, since you have been So distant from us now for two long years,
That you will gladly listen to discourse However trivial, if you thence be taught
That they, with whom you once were happy, talk Familiarly of you and of old times.
While I was seated, now some ten days past, Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop
Their ancient neighbour, the old steeple-tower, The vicar from his gloomy house hard by Came forth to greet me; and, when he had asked, "How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted maid! And when will she return to us?" he paused; And, after short exchange of village news, He with grave looks demanded for what cause, Reviving obsolete idolatry,
I, like a Runic priest, in characters
Of formidable size had chiselled out Some uncouth name upon the native rock, Above the Rotha, by the forest-side. Now, by those dear immunities of heart Engendered between malice and true love, I was not loth to be so catechised, And this was my reply: "As it befell, One summer morning we had walked abroad At break of day, Joanna and myself.
'Twas that delightful season when the broom, Full-flowered, and visible on every steep, Along the copses runs in veins of gold.
Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks; And, when we came in front of that tall rock That eastward looks, I there stopped short- and stood
Tracing the lofty barrier with my eye
From base to summit; such delight I found To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower, That intermixture of delicious hues,
Along so vast a surface, all at once,
In one impression, by connecting force Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart. When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' space,
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