Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;
By turns have all been thought of; yet I 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, I 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 betwixt day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep!
And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names;
The very sweetest words that fancy 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 crossed?
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!
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 gaze-and almost wish to lay aside
Humanity, weak slave of cumbrous pride!
WRITTEN UPON A BLANK LEAF IN
"THE COMPLETE ANGLER."
WHILE flowing rivers yield a blameless sport,
Shall live the name of Walton ;-sage benign!
Whose pen the mysteries of the rod and line
Unfolding, did not fruitlessly exhort
To reverend watching of each still report
That Nature utters from her rural shrine.
Meek, nobly versed in simple discipline,
He found the longest summer day too short,
To his loved pastime given by sedgy Lee,
Or down the tempting maze of Shawford brook!
Fairer than life itself is this sweet book,
The cowslip bank and shady willow tree,
And the fresh meads; where flowed from every nook Of his full bosom, gladsome piety!
BARD of the Fleece, whose skilful genius made
That work a living landscape fair and bright;
Nor hallowed less with musical delight
Than those soft scenes thro' which thy childhood strayed,
Those southern tracts of Cambria, "deep embayed,
With green hills fenced, with ocean's murmur lulled,"
Though hasty Fame hath many a chaplet culled
For worthless crowns, while in the pensive shade
Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced,
Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and still,
A grateful few, shall love thy modest lay,
Long as the shepherd's bleating flock shall stray
O'er naked Snowdon's wide aërial waste;
Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill !
ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED
THE PUBLICATION OF A CERTAIN POEM.
A BOOK came forth of late, called 'Peter Bell;'
Not negligent the style;—the matter?-good
As aught that song record of Robin Hood;
Or Roy, renowned through many a Scottish dell;
But some (who brook these hackneyed themes full well,
Nor heat at Tom 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 heath 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 gray-haired forehead, and rejoice
In the just tribute of thy poet's pen!
AMONG the mountains were we nursed, loved stream! Thou, near the eagle's nest-within brief sail,
I, of his bold wing floating on the gale,
Where thy deep voice could lull me! Faint the beam Of human life when first allowed to gleam
On mortal notice. Glory of the vale,
Such thy meek outset, with a crown though frail,
Kept in perpetual verdure by the steam
Of thy soft breath! Less vivid wreath entwined
Nemæan victor's brow; less bright was worn,
Meed of some Roman chief-in triumph borne
With captives chained; and shedding from his car
The sunset splendours of a finished war
Upon the proud enslavers of mankind!
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!
Sad may be who heard your Sabbath chime
When art's abused inventions were unknown;
Kind nature's various wealth was all your own;
And benefits were weighed in reason's scales!
THE SPINNING-WHEEL.
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 reprehence;
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.
EXCUSE is needless when with love sincere
Of occupation, not by fashion led,
Thou turn'st the wheel that slept with dust o'erspread;
My nerves from no such murmur shrink-though near,
Soft as the dorhawk's to a distant ear,
When twilight shades bedim the mountain's head.
She who was feigned to spin our vital thread
Might smile, O lady! on a task once dear
To household virtues. Venerable art,
Torn from the poor! yet will kind Heaven protect
Its own, not left without a guiding chart,
If rulers, trusting with undue respect
To proud discoveries of the intellect,
Sanction the pillage of man's ancient heart.
OFT have I seen, ere time had ploughed my cheek,
Matrons and sires-who, punctual to the call
Of their loved church, on fast or festival
Through the long year the house of prayer would seek:
By Christmas snows, by visitation bleak
Of Easter winds, unscared, from hut or hall
They came to lowly bench or sculptured stall,
But with one fervour of devotion meek.
I see the places where they once were known,
And ask, surrounded even by kneeling crowds,
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