Mona from our Abode is daily seen,
But with a wilderness of waves between ;
And by conjecture only can we speak
Of aught transacted there in bay or creek;
No tidings reach us thence from town or field,
Only faint news her mountain sunbeams yield,
And some we gather from the misty air,
And some the hovering clouds, our telegraph,
But these poetic mysteries I withhold;
For Fancy hath her fits both hot and cold,
And should the colder fit with You be on
When you might read, my credit would
gone.
Let more substantial themes the pen engage, And nearer interests culled from the opening stage
Of our migration.- Ere the welcome dawn
Had from the east her silver star withdrawn,
The Wain stood ready, at our Cottage-door,
Thoughtfully freighted with a various store;
And long o the uprising of the Sun
O'er dew-damped dust our journey was begun,
A needful journey, under favouring skies,
Through peopled Vales; yet something in the
Of those old Patriarchs when from well to wel!
They roamed through Wastes where now the
tented Arabs dwell.
Say first, to whom did we the charge confide,
Who promptly undertook the Wain to guide
Up many a sharply-twining road and down,
And over many a wide hill's craggy crown,
Through the quick turns of many a hollow nook,
And the rough bed of many an unbridged brook?
A blooming Lass-who in her better hand
Bore a light switch, her sceptre of command
When, yet a slender Girl, she often led,
Skilful and bold, the horse and burthened sled
From the peat-yielding Moss on Gowdar's
head.
What could go wrong with such a Charioteer
For goods and chattels, or those Infants dear,
A Pair who smilingly sate side by side,
Our hope confirming that the salt-sea tide,
Whose free embraces we were bound to seek,
Would their lost strength restore and freshen
the pale cheek?
Such hope did either Parent entertain
Pacing behind along the silent lane.
Sadness which no indulgence could prevent;
Hence whole day wanderings, broken nightly
sleeps
And lonesome watch that out of doors he keeps;
Not oftentimes, I trust, as we, poor brute !
Espied him on his legs sustained, blank, mute,
And of all visible motion destitute,
So that the very heaving of his breath
Seemed stopt, though by some other power than
death.
Long as we gazed upon the form and face,
A mild domestic pity kept its place,
Unscared by thronging fancies of strange hue
That haunted us in spite of what we knew.
Even now I sometimes think of him as lost
In second-sight appearances, or crost
By spectral shapes of guilt, or to the ground,
On which he stood, by spells unnatural bound,
Like a gaunt shaggy Porter forced to wait
In days of old romance at Archimago's gate.
Advancing Summer, Nature's law fulfilled,
'The choristers in every grove had stilled;
But we, we lacked not music of our own,
For lightsome Fanny had thus early thrown,
Mid the gay prattle of those infant tongues,
Some notes prelusive, from the round of songs
With which, more zealous than the liveliest bird
That in wild Arden's brakes was ever heard,
Her work and her work's partners she can cheer,
The whole day long, and all days of the year.
Thus gladdened from our own dear Vale we
And soon approach Diana's Looking-glass!
To Loughrigg-tarn, round clear and bright as
heaven,
Such name Italian fancy would have given,
Ere on its banks the few grey cabins rose
That yet disturb not its concealed repose
More than the feeblest wind that idly blows.
Ah, Beaumont! when an opening in the road
Stopped me at once by charm of what it showed,
The encircling region vividly exprest
Vithin the mirror's depth, a world at rest—
Sky streaked with purple, grove and craggy
bield,*
And the smooth green of many a pendent field,
And, quieted and soothed, a torrent small,
A little daring would-be waterfall,
One chimney smoking and its azure wreath,
Associate all in the calm Pool beneath,
Blithe hopes and happy musings soon took With here and there a faint imperfect gleam
or lo! an uncouth melancholy sighton a green bank a creature stood forlorn 1st half protruded to the light of morn,
Jus hinder part concealed by hedge-row thorn.
he Figure called to mind a beast of prey
ript of its frightful powers by slow decay,
d, though no longer upon rapine bent,
im memory keeping of its old intent.
e started, looked again with anxious eyes,
nd in that griesly object recognise
e Curate's Dog-his long-tried friend, for
they,
well we knew, together had grown grey. he Master died, his drooping servant's grief ound at the Widow's feet some sad relief; et still he lived in pining discontent,
* A local word for Sledge.
Of water-lilies veiled in misty steam-
What wonder at this hour of stillness deep,
A shadowy link 'tween wakefulness and sleep,
When Nature's self, amid such blending, seems
To render visible her own soft dreams,
If, mixed with what appeared of rock, lawn,
Of unexperienced joys that might have been ;
Of neighbourhood and intermingling arts,
And golden summer days uniting cheerful hearts.
But time, irrevocable time, is flown,
And let us utter thanks for blessings sown
And reaped-what hath been, and what is, our
Not far we travelled ere a shout of glee, Startling us all, dispersed my reverie; Such shout as many a sportive echo meeting Oft-times from Alpine chalets sends a greeting. Whence the blithe hail? behold a Peasant stand On high, a kerchief waving in her hand! Not unexpectant that by early day Our little Band would thrid this mountain way, Before her cottage on the bright hill side She hath advanced with hope to be descried. Right gladly answering signals we displayed, Moving along a tract of morning shade, And vocal wishes sent of like good will To our kind Friend high on the sunny Luminous region, fair as if the prime Were tempting all astir to look aloft or climb; Only the centre of the shining cot With door left open makes a gloomy spot, Emblem of those dark corners sometimes found Within the happiest breast on earthly ground.
Rich prospect left behind of stream and vale, And mountain-tops, a barren ridge we scale; Descend and reach, in Yewdale's depths, a plain With haycocks studded, striped with yellowing grain
An area level as a Lake and spread
Under a rock too steep for man to tread,
Where sheltered from the north and bleak
north-west
Aloft the Raven hangs a visible nest,
Fearless of all assaults that would her brood
molest.
Hot sunbeams fill the steaming vale; but hark, At our approach, a jealous watch-dog's bark, Noise that brings forth no liveried Page of state, But the whole household, that our coming wait. With Young and Old warm greetings we exchange,
And jocund smiles, and toward the lowly Grange Press forward by the teasing dogs unscared. Entering, we find the morning meal prepared: So down we sit, though not till each had cast Pleased looks around the delicate repastRich cream, and snow-white eggs fresh from
Of children's industry, in hillocks piled;
Cakes for the nonce, and butter fit to lie
Upon a lordly dish; frank hospitality
Where simple art with bounteous nature vied,
And cottage comfort shunned not seemly pride.
Kind Hostess! Handmaid also of the feast,
If thou be lovelier than the kindling East,
Words by thy presence unrestrained may speak
Of a perpetual dawn from brow and cheek
Instinct with light whose sweetest promise lies,
Never retiring, in thy large dark eyes,
Dark but to every gentle feeling true,
As if their lustre flowed from ether's purest blue.
Let me not ask what tears may have been
wept
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UPON PERUSING THE FOREGOING EPISTLE
THIRTY YEARS AFTER ITS COMPOSITION.
Soon did the Almighty Giver of all rest
Take those dear young Ones to a fearless nest;
And in Death's arms has long reposed the
Friend
For whom this simple Register was penned.
Thanks to the moth that spared it for our eyes;
And Strangers even the slighted Scroll may
prize,
Moved by the touch of kindred sympathies.
For-save the calm, repentance sheds o'er strife
Raised by remembrances of misused life,
The light from past endeavours purely willed
And by Heaven's favour happily fulfilled;
Save hope that we, yet bound to Earth, may
share
The joys of the Departed-what so fair
As blameless pleasure, not without some ears,
Reviewed through Love's transparent veil of
years? *
*LOUGHRIGG TARN, alluded to in the foregoing Epistle, resembles, though much smaller in compass, the Lake Nemi, or Speculum Diana as it is often called, not only in its immediately surrounding it, but also as being clear waters and circular form, and the beauty overlooked by the eminence of Langdale Pikes as Lake Nemi is by that of Monte Calvo. Since this Epistle was written Loughrigg Tarn has lost much of its beauty by the felling of many natural clumps of wood, relics of the old forest, particularly upon the farm called "The Oaks," from the abundance of that tree which grew there.
It is to be regretted, upon public grounds, that Sir George Beaumont did not carry into effect his intention of constructing here a Summer Retreat in the style I have described; as his taste would have set an example how buildings, with all the accommodations modern society requires, might be introduced even into the most secluded parts of this country without
GOLD AND SILVER FISHES IN A VASE.
THE soaring lark is blest as proud
When at heaven's gate she sings;
The roving bee proclaims aloud
Her flight by vocal wings;
While Ye, in lasting durance pent,
Your silent lives employ
For something more than dull content,
Though haply less than joy.
Yet might your glassy prison seem
A place where joy is known,
Where golden flash and silver gleam
Have meanings of their own;
While, high and low, and all about,
Your motions, glittering Elves!
Ye weave-no danger from without,
And peace among yourselves.
Type of a sunny human breast
Is your transparent cell;
Where Fear is but a transient guest,
No sullen Humours dwell;
Where, sensitive of every ray
That smites this tiny sea,
Your scaly panoplies repay
The loan with usury.
How beautiful!-Yet none knows why
This ever-graceful change,
Renewed-renewed incessantly---
Within your quiet range.
Is it that ye with conscious skill
For mutual pleasure glide;
And sometimes, not without your will,
Are dwarfed, or magnified?
Fays, Genii of gigantic size!
And now, in twilight dim,
Clustering like constellated eyes
In wings of Cherubim,
When the fierce orbs abate their glare ;-
Whate'er your forms
express,
Whate'er ye seem, whate'er ye are-
All leads to gentleness.
Cold though your nature be, 'tis pure;
Your birthright is a fence
From all that haughtier kinds endure
Through tyranny of sense.
Ah! not alone by colours bright
Are Ye to Heaven allied,
When, like essential Forms of light,
Ye mingle, or divide.
For day-dreams soft as e'er beguiled
Day-thoughts while limbs repose;
For moonlight fascinations mild,
Your gift, ere shutters close-
(SEQUEL TO The above.) [ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND; THE GOLD AND SILVER FISHES HAVING BEEN REMOVED TO A POOL IN THE PLEASURE-GROUND OF RYDAL MOUNT.]
"The liberty of a people consists in being governed by laws which they have made for themselves, under whatever form it be of government. The liberty of a private man, in being master of his own time and actions, as far as may consist with the laws of God and of his country. Of this latter we are here to discourse."-COWLEY.
THOSE breathing Tokens of your kind regard,
(Suspect not, Anna, that their fate is hard:
Not soon does aught to which mild fancies
cling,
In lonely spots, become a slighted thing ;)
Those silent Inmates now no longer share
Nor do they need, our hospitable care,
Removed in kindness from their glassy Cell
To the fresh waters of a living Well-
An elfin pool so sheltered that its rest
No winds disturb; the mirror of whose breast
Is smooth as clear, save where with dimples
small
A fly may settle, or a blossom fall.
-There swims, of blazing sun and beating
shower
Fearless (but how obscured!) the golden
Power,
That from his bauble prison used to cast
Gleams by the richest jewel unsurpast;
And near him, darkling like a sullen Gnome,
The silver Tenant of the crystal dome;
Dissevered both from all the mysteries
Of hue and altering shape that charmed all
eyes.
Alas! they pined, they languished while they
shone;
And, if not so, what matters beauty gone
And admiration lost, by change of place
That brings to the inward creature no dis
grace?
But if the change restore his birthright, then,
Whate'er the difference, boundless is the gain.
Who can divine what impulses from God
Reach the caged lark, within a town-abode,
From his poor inch or two of daisied sod?
O yield him back his privilege !- No sea
Swells like the bosom of a man set free;
A wilderness is rich with liberty.
Roll on, ye spouting whales, who die or keep
Your independence in the fathomless Deep!
Spread, tiny nautilus, the living sail;
Accept, mute Captives! thanks and praise; Dive, at thy choice, or brave the freshening
That gentle admirations raise
Delight resembling love.
injuring their native character. The design was not abandoned from failure of inclination on his part, but in consequence of local untowardnesses which need not be particularised.
If unreproved the ambitious eagle mount
Sunward to seek the daylight in its fount,
Bays, gulfs, and ocean's Indian width, shall be,
Till the world perishes, a field for thee!
While musing here I sit in shadow cool,
And watch these mute Companions, in the
pool,
(Among reflected boughs of leafy trees)
By glimpses caught--disporting at their ease,
If doomed to breathe against his lawful will
An element that flatters him-to kill,
But would rejoice to barter outward show
For the least boon that freedom can bestow?
But most the Bard is true to inborn right,
Lark of the dawn, and Philomel of night,
Exults in freedom, can with rapture vouch
For the dear blessings of a lowly couch,
A natural meal-days, months, from Nature's
hand;
Time, place, and business, all at his command!
Who bends to happier duties, who more wise
Than the industrious Poet, taught to prize,
Above all grandeur, a pure life uncrossed
By cares in which simplicity is lost?
That life the flowery path that winds by
Which Horace needed for his spirit's health;
Sighed for, in heart and genius, overcome
By noise and strife, and questions wearisome,
And the vain splendours of Imperial Rome?---
Let easy mirth his social hours inspire,
And fiction animate his sportive lyre,
Attuned to verse that, crowning light Distress
With garlands, cheats her into happiness;
Give me the humblest note of those sad strains
Drawn forth by pressure of his gilded chains,
As a chance-sunbeam from his memory fell
Upon the Sabine farm he loved so well;
Or when the prattle of Blandusia's spring
Haunted his ear-he only listening-
He proud to please, above all rivals, fit
To win the palm of gaiety and wit;
He, doubt not, with involuntary dread,
Shrinking from each new favour to be shed,
By the world's Ruler, on his honoured head!
Such earnest longings and regrets as keen
In a deep vision's intellectual scene,
Depressed the melancholy Cowley, laid
Under a fancied yew-tree's luckless shade;
A doleful bower for penitential song,
Where Man and Muse complained of mutual
wrong;
While Cam's ideal current glided by,
And antique towers nodded their foreheads high,
Citadels dear to studious privacy.
With this tried Servant of a thankless Court,
But Fortune, who had long been used to sport
Relenting met his wishes; and to you
The remnant of his days at least was true;
You, whom, though long deserted, he loved best;
You, Muses, books, fields, liberty, and rest!
Far happier they who, fixing hope and aim
On the humanities of peaceful fame,
Enter betimes with more than martial fire
The generous course, aspire, and still aspire ;
Upheld by warnings heeded not too late
Stifle the contradictions of their fate,
And to one purpose cleave, their Being's god-
like mate!
Thus, gifted Friend, but with the placid brow That woman ne'er should forfeit, keep thy vow; The ethereal eyesight, cramp the winged mind! With modest scorn reject whate'er would blind Then, with a blessing granted from above To every act, word, thought, and look of love, Shall with a thankful tear bedrop its latest page.* Life's book for Thee may lie unclosed, till age 1829.
Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, And lilies face the March-winds in full blow,
*There is now, alas! no possibility of the anticipation, with which the above Epistle concludes, being realised: nor were the verses ever seen by the Individual for whom they were intended. She accompanied her husband, the Rev. Wm. Fletcher, to India, and died of cholera, at the age of thirty-two or thirty-three years, on her way from Shalapore to Bombay, deeply lamented by all who knew her.
Her enthusiasm was ardent, her piety steadfast; and her great talents would have enabled her to be eminently useful in the difficult pat oflife to which she had been called. The opinion she entertained of her own performances, give.. to the world under her maiden name, Jewsbur was modest and humble, and, indeed, far belo their merits; as is often the case with those wh are making trial of their powers, with a hope discover what they are best fitted for. In o quality, viz., quickness in the motions of h mind, she had, within the range of the Author' acquaintance, no equal.
The small wild Geranium known by th
And humbler growths as moved with one desire
Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire,
Poor Robin is yet flowerless; but how gay
With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
And, as his tufts of leaves he spreads, content
With a hard bed and scanty nourishment,
Mixed with the green, some shine not lacking
power
To rival summer's brightest scarlet flower;
And flowers they well might seem to passers-by
If looked at only with a careless eye;
Flowers-or a richer produce (did it suit
The season) sprinklings of ripe strawberry fruit.
But while a thousand pleasures come unsought,
Why fix upon his wealth or want a thought?
Is the string touched in prelude to a lay
Of pretty fancies that would round him play
When all the world acknowledged elfin sway?
Or does it suit our humour to commend
Poor Robin as a sure and crafty friend,
Whose practice teaches, spite of names to show
Bright colours whether they deceive or no?-
Nay, we would simply praise the free good-will
With which, though slighted, he, on naked hill
Or in warm valley, seeks his part to fill ;
Cheerful alike if bare of flowers as now,
Or when his tiny gems shall deck his brow:
Yet more, we wish that men by men despised,
And such as lift their foreheads overprized,
Should sometimes think, where'er they chance
to spy
This child of Nature's own humility,
What recompense is kept in store or left
For all that seem neglected or bereft ;
With what nice care equivalents are given,
How just, how bountiful, the hand of Heaven.
March, 1840.
THE GLEANER.
(SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE.)
THAT happy gleam of vernal eyes, Those locks from summer's golden skies,
That o'er thy brow are shed;
That cheek-a kindling of the morn,
That lip-a rose-bud from the thorn,
I saw; and Fancy sped
To scenes Arcadian, whispering, through
Of bliss that grows without a care,
And happiness that never flies-
(How can it where love never dies?)
Whispering of promise, where no blight
Can reach the innocent delight;
Where pity, to the mind conveyed
In pleasure, is the darkest shade
That Time, unwrinkled grandsire, flings
From his smoothly gliding wings.
What mortal form, what earthly face
Inspired the pencil, lines to trace,
And mingled colours, that should breed
Such rapture, nor want power to feed;
For had thy charge been idle flowers,
Fair Damsel! o'er my captive mind,
To truth and sober reason blind,
'Mid that soft air, those long-lost bowers,
The sweet illusion might have hung, for
Thanks to this tell-tale sheaf of corn, That touchingly bespeaks thee born Life's daily tasks with them to share Who, whether from their lowly bed They rise, or rest the weary head, Ponder the blessing they entreat From Heaven, and feel what they repeat, While they give utterance to the prayer That asks for daily bread.
TO A REDBREAST (IN SICKNESS),
STAY, little cheerful Robin! stay,
And at my casement sing,
Though it should prove a farewell lay
And this our parting spring.
Though I, alas! may ne'er enjoy
The promise in thy song;
A charm, that thought can not destroy,
Doth to thy strain belong.
Methinks that in my dying hour
Thy song would still be dear,
And with a more than earthly power
My passing Spirit cheer.
Then, little Bird, this boon confer,
Come, and my requiem sing,
Nor fail to be the harbinger
Of everlasting Spring.
These lines are by the Author of the Address to the Wind, &c., published heretofore along with my Poems. The above to a Redbreast are by a deceased female Relative.
HARMONIOUS Powers with Nature work On sky, earth, river, lake, and sea; Sunshine and cloud, whirlwind and breeze, All in one duteous task agree.
Once did I see a slip of earth
(By throbbing waves long undermined)
Loosed from its hold; how, no one knew,
But all might see it float, obedient to the wind,
Might see it, from the mossy shore
Dissevered, float upon the Lake,
Float with its crest of trees adorned
On which the warbling birds their pastime
take.
Food, shelter, safety, there they find;
There berries ripen, flowerets bloom;
There insects live their lives, and die;
A peopled world it is; in size a tiny room.
And thus through many seasons' space
This little Island may survive;
But Nature, though we mark her not,
Will take away, may cease to give.
Perchance when you are wandering forth
Upon some vacant sunny day,
Without an object, hope, or fear,
Thither your eyes may turn the Isle is
passed away;
Buried beneath the glittering Lake,
Its place no longer to be found;
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