William Wordsworth

"There!" said a Stripling, pointing with meet pride Towards a low roof with green trees half concealed, "Is Mosgiel Farm; and that's the very field

'Tis said, that some have died for love: And here and there a churchyard grave is found In the cold north's unhallowed ground,

I marvel how Nature could ever find space For so many strange contrasts in one human face: There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloom

There is a change and I am poor; Your love hath been, nor long ago, A fountain at my fond heart's door,

The Danish Conqueror, on his royal chair, Mustering a face of haughty sovereignty, To aid a covert purpose, cried "O ye

Farewell, thou little Nook of mountain-ground, Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair Of that magnificent temple which doth bound

Tell me, ye Zephyrs! that unfold, While fluttering o'er this gay Recess, Pinions that fanned the teeming mould

"Miserrimus," and neither name nor date, Prayer, text, or symbol, graven upon the stone; Nought but that word assigned to the unknown,

Genius of Raphael! if thy wings Might bear thee to this glen, With faithful memory left of things

Fancy, who leads the pastimes of the glad, Full oft is pleased a wayward dart to throw; Sending sad shadows after things not sad,

A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags, A rude and natural causeway, interposed Between the water and a winding slope

Lo! where the Moon along the sky Sails with her happy destiny; Oft is she hid from mortal eye

Lo! where the Moon along the sky Sails with her happy destiny; Oft is she hid from mortal eye

The sky is overcast With a continuous cloud of texture close, Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon,

Where holy ground begins, unhallowed ends, Is marked by no distinguishable line; The turf unites, the pathways intertwine;

Part fenced by man, part by a rugged steep That curbs a foaming brook, a Grave-yard lies; The hare's best couching-place for fearless sleep;

Failing impartial measure to dispense To every suitor, Equity is lame; And social Justice, stript of reverence

"Son of my buried Son, while thus thy hand" "Is clasping mine, it saddens me to think" "How Want may press thee down, and with thee sink"

A poet! He hath put his heart to school, Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff Which art hath lodged within his hand'must laugh

Art thou a Statist in the van Of public conflicts trained and bred? First learn to love one living man;

High deeds, O Germans, are to come from you! Thus in your books the record shall be found, "A watchword was pronounced, a potent sound

List, the winds of March are blowing; Her ground-flowers shrink, afraid of showing Their meek heads to the nipping air,

The little hedgerow birds, That peck along the road, regard him not. He travels on, and in his face, his step,

A slumber did my spirit seal; I had no human fears: She seemed a thing that could not feel

'Tis said that to the brow of yon fair hill Two Brothers clomb, and, turning face from face, Nor one look more exchanging, grief to still

A volant Tribe of Bards on earth are found, Who, while the flattering Zephyrs round them play, On "coignes of vantage" hang their nests of clay;

A Whirl-Blast from behind the hill Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound; Then, all at once the air was still,

Among the dwellings framed by birds In field or forest with nice care, Is none that with the little Wren's

"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,

What way does the wind come? What way does he go? He rides over the water, and over the snow, Through wood, and through vale; and, o'er rocky height

Child of loud-throated War! the mountain Stream Roars in thy hearing; but thy hour of rest Is come, and thou art silent in thy age;

Hast thou then survived Mild Offspring of infirm humanity, Meek Infant! among all forlornest things

I come, ye little noisy Crew, Not long your pastime to prevent; I heard the blessing which to you

Adieu, Rydalian Laurels! that have grown And spread as if ye knew that days might come When ye would shelter in a happy home,

Well may'st thou halt and gaze with brightening eye! The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook Hath stirred thee deeply; with its own dear brook,

Advance, come forth from thy Tyrolean ground, Dear Liberty! stern Nymph of soul untamed; Sweet Nymph, O rightly of the mountains named!

Aerial Rock, whose solitary brow From this low threshold daily meets my sight; When I step forth to hail the morning light;

I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide, As being past away. Vain sympathies! For, backward, Duddon! as I cast my eyes,

Ah! where is Palafox? Nor tongue no pen Reports of him, his dwelling or his grave! Does yet the unheard of vessel ride the wave?

Not a breath of air Ruffles the bosom of this leafy glen. From the brook's margin, wide around, the trees

Alas! what boots the long laborious quest Of moral prudence, sought through good and ill; Or pains abstruse, to elevate the will,

The post-boy drove with fierce career, For threatening clouds the moon had drowned; When, as we hurried on, my ear

Among all lovely things my Love had been; Had noted well the stars, all flowers that grew About her home; but she had never seen

Addressed To A Young Lady Far from my dearest Friend, 'tis mine to rove Through bare grey dell, high wood, and pastoral cove;

Far from my dearest Friend, 'tis mine to rove Through bare grey dell, high wood, and pastoral cove; Where Derwent rests, and listens to the roar

And is it among rude untutored Dales, There, and there only, that the heart is true? And, rising to repel or to subdue,

I hate that Andrew Jones; he'll breed His children up to waste and pillage. I wish the press-gang or the drum

I have a boy of five years old; His face is fair and fresh to see; His limbs are cast in beautys mold

The little hedgerow birds, That peck along the roads, regard him not. He travels on, and in his face, his step,

Shout, for a mighty Victory is won! On British ground the Invaders are laid low; The breath of Heaven has drifted them like snow,

No more: the end is sudden and abrupt, Abrupt, as without preconceived design Was the beginning; yet the several Lays

No more: the end is sudden and abrupt, Abrupt, as without preconceived design Was the beginning; yet the several Lays

Where be the temples which, in Britain's Isle, For his paternal Gods, the Trojan raised? Gone like a morning dream, or like a pile

Beaumont! it was thy wish that I should rear A seemly Cottage in this sunny Dell, On favoured ground, thy gift, where I might dwell

Broken in fortune, but in mind entire And sound in principle, I seek repose Where ancient trees this convent-pile enclose,

Ah why deceive ourselves! by no mere fit Of sudden passion roused shall men attain True freedom where for ages they have lain

Hard task! exclaim the undisciplined, to lean On Patience coupled with such slow endeavour, That long-lived servitude must last for ever.

As leaves are to the tree whereon they grow And wither, every human generation Is, to the Being of a mighty nation,

Here, where, of havoc tired and rash undoing, Man left this Structure to become Time's prey A soothing spirit follows in the way

Well have yon Railway Labourers to THIS ground Withdrawn for noontide rest. They sit, they walk Among the Ruins, but no idle talk

Bold words affirmed, in days when faith was strong And doubts and scruples seldom teased the brain, That no adventurer's bark had power to gain

Avaunt all specious pliancy of mind In men of low degree, all smooth pretense! I better like a blunt indifference,

She had a tall man's height or more; Her face from summer's noontide heat No bonnet shaded, but she wore

"Beloved Vale!" I said, "when I shall con Those many records of my childish years, Remembrance of myself and of my peers

Blest Statesman He, whose Mind's unselfish will Leaves him at ease among grand thoughts: whose eye Sees that, apart from magnanimity,

Immured in Bothwell's Towers, at times the Brave (So beautiful is the Clyde) forgot to mourn The liberty they lost at Bannockburn.

Immured in Bothwell's towers, at times the Brave (So beautiful is Clyde) forgot to mourn The liberty they lost at Bannockburn.

Brave Schill! by death delivered, take thy flight From Prussia's timid region. Go, and rest With heroes, 'mid the islands of the Blest,

It is not to be thought of that the Flood Of British freedom, which, to the open sea Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity

Brook! whose society the Poet seeks, Intent his wasted spirits to renew; And whom the curious Painter doth pursue

By a blest Husband guided, Mary came From nearest kindred, Vernon her new name; She came, though meek of soul, in seemly pride

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,

By Moscow self-devoted to a blaze Of dreadful sacrifice, by Russian blood Lavished in fight with desperate hardihood;

Why stand we gazing on the sparkling Brine, With wonder smit by its transparency, And all-enraptured with its purity?

The sun is couched, the sea-fowl gone to rest, And the wild storm hath somewhere found a nest; Air slumbers'wave with wave no longer strives,

The linnet's warble, sinking towards a close, Hints to the thrush 'tis time for their repose; The shrill-voiced thrush is heedless, and again

Long time his pulse hath ceased to beat But benefits, his gift, we trace, Expressed in every eye we meet

Festivals have I seen that were not names: This is young Buonaparte's natal day, And his is henceforth an established sway,

Is it a reed that's shaken by the wind, Or what is it that ye go forth to see? Lords, lawyers, statesmen, squires of low degree,

Call not the royal Swede unfortunate, Who never did to Fortune bend the knee; Who slighted fear; rejected steadfastly

Calm is all nature as a resting wheel. The kine are couched upon the dewy grass; The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,

Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to lose Day's grateful warmth, tho' moist with falling dews. Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none;

"As the cold aspect of a sunless way Strikes through the Traveller's frame with deadlier chill, Oft as appears a grove, or obvious hill,

We saw, but surely, in the motley crowd, Not One of us has felt the far-famed sight; How 'could' we feel it? each the other's blight,

Ye shadowy Beings, that have rights and claims In every cell of Fingal's mystic Grot, Where are ye? Driven or venturing to the spot,

Thanks for the lessons of this Spot fit school For the presumptuous thoughts that would assign Mechanic laws to agency divine;

By vain affections unenthralled, Though resolute when duty called To meet the world's broad eye,

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

Loving she is, and tractable, though wild; And Innocence hath privilege in her To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes;

Chatsworth! thy stately mansion, and the pride Of thy domain, strange contrast do present To house and home in many a craggy rent

Never enlivened with the liveliest ray That fosters growth or checks or cheers decay, Nor by the heaviest rain-drops more deprest,

Dark and more dark the shades of evening fell; The wished-for point was reached, but at an hour When little could be gained from that rich dower

"People! your chains are severing link by link; Soon shall the Rich be leveled down the Poor Meet them half way." Vain boast! for These, the more

Through shattered galleries, 'mid roofless halls, Wandering with timid footsteps oft betrayed, The Stranger sighs, nor scruples to upbraid

If with old love of you, dear Hills! I share New love of many a rival image brought From far, forgive the wanderings of my thought:

I dropped my pen; and listened to the Wind That sang of trees uptorn and vessels tost A midnight harmony; and wholly lost

Fair Star of evening, Splendour of the west, Star of my Country! on the horizon's brink Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink

What mischief cleaves to unsubdued regret, How fancy sickens by vague hopes beset; How baffled projects on the spirit prey,

Clouds, lingering yet, extend in solid bars Through the grey west; and lo! these waters, steeled By breezeless air to smoothest polish, yield

One who was suffering tumult in his soul, Yet failed to seek the sure relief of prayer, Went forth, his course surrendering to the care

With each recurrence of this glorious morn That saw the Saviour in his human frame Rise from the dead, 'erewhile the Cottage-dame

The wind is now thy organist; a clank (We know not whence) ministers for a bell To mark some change of service. As the swell

"This Land of Rainbows spanning glens whose walls, Rock-built, are hung with rainbow-coloured mists Of far-stretched Meres whose salt flood never rests

Here, on our native soil, we breathe once more. The cock that crows, the smoke that curls, that sound Of bells; those boys who in yon meadow-ground

Jones! as from Calais southward you and I Went pacing side by side, this public Way Streamed with the pomp of a too-credulous day,

Life with you Lambs, like day, is just begun, Yet Nature seems to them a heavenly guide. Does joy approach? they meet the coming tide;

Dogmatic Teachers, of the snow-white fur! Ye wrangling Schoolmen, of the scarlet hood! Who, with a keenness not to be withstood,

I Had this effulgence disappeared With flying haste, I might have sent,

Earth has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty:

Not 'mid the world's vain objects that enslave The free-born Soul, that World whose vaunted skill In selfish interest perverts the will,

What need of clamorous bells, or ribands gay, These humble nuptials to proclaim or grace? Angels of love, look down upon the place;

If these brief Records, by the Muses' art Produced as lonely Nature or the strife That animates the scenes of public life

While the Poor gather round, till the end of time May this bright flower of Charity display Its bloom, unfolding at the appointed day;

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

Were there, below, a spot of holy ground Where from distress a refuge might be found, And solitude prepare the soul for heaven;

Surprised by joy, impatient as the Wind I turned to share the transport O! with whom But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,

Desire we past illusions to recall? To reinstate wild Fancy, would we hide Truths whose thick veil Science has drawn aside?

Despond who will, 'I' heard a voice exclaim, "Though fierce the assault, and shattered the defense, It cannot be that Britain's social frame,

"Not to the earth confined, Ascend to heaven." Where will they stop, those breathing Powers,

See Plutarch. Serene, and fitted to embrace, Where'er he turned, a swan-like grace

Dishonoured Rock and Ruin! that, by law Tyrannic, keep the Bird of Jove embarred Like a lone criminal whose life is spared.

If there be prophets on whose spirits rest Past things, revealed like future, they can tell What Powers, presiding o'er the sacred well

Screams round the Arch-druid's brow the seamew white As Menai's foam; and toward the mystic ring Where Augurs stand, the Future questioning,

Mercy and Love have met thee on thy road, Thou wretched Outcast, from the gift of fire And food cut off by sacerdotal ire,

That heresies should strike (if truth be scanned Presumptuously) their roots both wide and deep, Is natural as dreams to feverish sleep.

Darkness surrounds us; seeking, we are lost On Snowdon's wilds, amid Brigantian coves, Or where the solitary shepherd roves

Lament! for Diocletian's fiery sword Works busy as the lightning; but instinct With malice ne'er to deadliest weapon linked

As, when a storm hath ceased, the birds regain Their cheerfulness, and busily retrim Their nests, or chant a gratulating hymn

Watch, and be firm! for, soul-subduing vice, Heart-killing luxury, on your steps await. Fair houses, baths, and banquets delicate,

Rise! they 'have' risen: of brave Aneurin ask How they have scourged old foes, perfidious friends: The Spirit of Caractacus descends

Nor wants the cause the panic-striking aid Of hallelujahs tost from hill to hill For instant victory. But Heaven's high will

'The oppression of the tumult, wrath and scorn The tribulation and the gleaming blades' Such is the impetuous spirit that pervades

A bright-haired company of youthful slaves, Beautiful strangers, stand within the pale Of a sad market, ranged for public sale,

For ever hallowed be this morning fair, Blest be the unconscious shore on which ye tread, And blest the silver Cross, which ye, instead

How beautiful your presence, how benign, Servants of God! who not a thought will share With the vain world; who, outwardly as bare

But, to remote Northumbria's royal Hall, Where thoughtful Edwin, tutored in the school Of sorrow, still maintains a heathen rule,

"Man's life is like a Sparrow, mighty King! "That, while at banquet with your Chiefs you sit "Housed near a blazing fire, is seen to flit

Prompt transformation works the novel Lore; The Council closed, the Priest in full career Rides forth, an armed man, and hurls a spear

Nor scorn the aid which Fancy oft doth lend The Soul's eternal interests to promote: Death, darkness, danger, are our natural lot;

Ah, when the Body, round which in love we clung, Is chilled by death, does mutual service fail? Is tender pity then of no avail?

Lance, shield, and sword relinquished, at his side A bead-roll, in his hand a clasped book, Or staff more harmless than a shepherd's crook,

Methinks that to some vacant hermitage 'My' feet would rather turn to some dry nook Scooped out of living rock, and near a brook

But what if One, through grove or flowery mead, Indulging thus at will the creeping feet Of a voluptuous indolence, should meet

By such examples moved to unbought pains, The people work like congregated bees; Eager to build the quiet Fortresses

Woe to the Crown that doth the Cowl obey! Dissension, checking arms that would restrain The incessant Rovers of the northern main,

Not sedentary all: there are who roam To scatter seeds of life on barbarous shores; Or quit with zealous step their knee-worn floors

Behold a pupil of the monkish gown, The pious Alfred, King to Justice dear! Lord of the harp and liberating spear;

When thy great soul was freed from mortal chains, Darling of England! many a bitter shower Fell on thy tomb; but emulative power

Urged by Ambition, who with subtlest skill Changes her means, the Enthusiast as a dupe Shall soar, and as a hypocrite can stoop,

A pleasant music floats along the Mere, From Monks in Ely chanting service high, While-as Canute the King is rowing by:

The woman-hearted Confessor prepares The evanescence of the Saxon line. Hark! 'tis the tolling Curfew! the stars shine;

Coldly we spake. The Saxons, overpowered By wrong triumphant through its own excess, From fields laid waste, from house and home devoured

"And shall," the Pontiff asks, "profaneness flow "From Nazareth, source of Christian piety, "From Bethlehem, from the Mounts of Agony

The turbaned Race are poured in thickening swarms Along the west; though driven from Aquitaine, The Crescent glitters on the towers of Spain;

Unless to Peter's Chair the viewless wind Must come and ask permission when to blow, What further empire would it have? for now

Redoubted King, of courage leonine, I mark thee, Richard! urgent to equip Thy warlike person with the staff and scrip;

Realms quake by turns: proud Arbitress of grace, The Church, by mandate shadowing forth the power She arrogates o'er heaven's eternal door,

As with the Stream our voyage we pursue, The gross materials of this world present A marvelous study of wild accident;

Black Demons hovering o'er his mitred head, To Caesar's Successor the Pontiff spake; "Ere I absolve thee, stoop! that on thy neck

In series, 1821-22. Part I. From the introduction of Christianity into Britain, to the consummation of the papal dominion "a verse may catch a wandering soul, that flies

Part II. To the close of the Troubles in the Reign of Charles I How soon, alas! did Man, created pure By Angels guarded, deviate from the line

From false assumption rose, and, fondly hailed By superstition, spread the Papal power; Yet do not deem the Autocracy prevailed

"Here Man more purely lives, less oft doth fall, "More promptly rises, walks with stricter heed, "More safely rests, dies happier, is freed

Deplorable his lot who tills the ground, His whole life long tills it, with heartless toil Of villain-service, passing with the soil

As faith thus sanctified the warrior's crest While from the Papal Unity there came, What feebler means had failed to give, one aim

Record we too, with just and faithful pen, That many hooded Cenobites there are, Who in their private cells have yet a care

And, not in vain embodied to the sight, Religion finds even in the stern retreat Of feudal sway her own appropriate seat;

And what melodious sounds at times prevail! And, ever and anon, how bright a gleam Pours on the surface of the turbid Stream!

Furl we the sails, and pass with tardy oars Through these bright regions, casting many a glance Upon the dream-like issues, the romance

Where long and deeply hath been fixed the root In the blest soil of gospel truth, the Tree, (Blighted or scathed tho' many branches be,

Enough! for see, with dim association The tapers burn; the odorous incense feeds A greedy flame; the pompous mass proceeds;

But whence came they who for the Saviour Lord Have long borne witness as the Scriptures teach? Ages ere Valdo raised his voice to preach

Praised be the Rivers, from their mountain springs Shouting to Freedom, "Plant thy banners here!" To harassed Piety, "Dismiss thy fear,

Those had given earliest notice, as the lark Springs from the ground the morn to gratulate; Or rather rose the day to antedate,

And what is Penance with her knotted thong; Mortification with the shirt of hair, Wan cheek, and knees indurated with prayer,

Holy and heavenly Spirits as they are, Spotless in life, and eloquent as wise, With what entire affection do they prize

Men, who have ceased to reverence, soon defy, Their forefathers; lo! sects are formed, and split With morbid restlessness; the ecstatic fit

Fear hath a hundred eyes that all agree To plague her beating heart; and there is one (Nor idlest that!) which holds communion

The Jung-Frau And The Fall Of The Rhine Near Schaffhausen, The Virgin Mountain, wearing like a Queen A brilliant crown of everlasting snow,

Even such the contrast that, where'er we move, To the mind's eye Religion doth present; Now with her own deep quietness content;

Prejudged by foes determined not to spare, An old weak Man for vengeance thrown aside, Laud, "in the painful art of dying" tried,

Harp! could'st thou venture, on thy boldest string, The faintest note to echo which the blast Caught from the hand of Moses as it passed

"What beast in wilderness or cultured field "The lively beauty of the leopard shows? "What flower in meadow-ground or garden grows

Thus is the storm abated by the craft Of a shrewd Counselor, eager to protect The Church, whose power hath recently been checked,

Once more the Church is seized with sudden fear, And at her call is Wicliffe disinhumed: Yea, his dry bones to ashes are consumed

"Woe to you, Prelates! rioting in ease "And cumbrous wealth the shame of your estate; "You, on whose progress dazzling trains await

Yet more, round many a Convent's blazing fire Unhallowed threads of revelry are spun; There Venus sits disguised like a Nun,

Threats come which no submission may assuage, No sacrifice avert, no power dispute; The tapers shall be quenched, the belfries mute,

The lovely Nun (submissive, but more meek Through saintly habit than from effort due To unrelenting mandates that pursue

Yet many a Novice of the cloistral shade, And many chained by vows, with eager glee The warrant hail, exulting to be free;

Ye, too, must fly before a chasing hand, Angels and Saints, in every hamlet mourned! Ah! if the old idolatry be spurned,

But, to outweigh all harm, the sacred Book, In dusty sequestration wrapt too long, Assumes the accents of our native tongue;

Mother! whose virgin bosom was uncrost With the least shade of thought to sin allied; Woman! above all women glorified,

Not utterly unworthy to endure Was the supremacy of crafty Rome; Age after age to the arch of Christendom

Deep is the lamentation! Not alone From Sages justly honoured by mankind; But from the ghostly tenants of the wind,

Grant, that by this unsparing hurricane Green leaves with yellow mixed are torn away, And goodly fruitage with the mother spray;

For what contend the wise? for nothing less Than that the Soul, freed from the bonds of Sense, And to her God restored by evidence

"Sweet is the holiness of Youth" so felt Time-honoured Chaucer speaking through that Lay By which the Prioress beguiled the way,

The tears of man in various measure gush From various sources; gently overflow From blissful transport some, from clefts of woe

The saintly Youth has ceased to rule, discrowned By unrelenting Death. O People keen For change, to whom the new looks always green!

How fast the Marian death-list is unrolled! See Latimer and Ridley in the might Of Faith stand coupled for a common flight!

Methinks that I could trip o'er heaviest soil, Light as a buoyant bark from wave to wave, Were mine the trusty staff that Jewel gave

Outstretching flameward his upbraided hand (O God of mercy, may no earthly Seat Of judgment such presumptuous doom repeat!)

Aid, glorious Martyrs, from your fields of light, Our mortal ken! Inspire a perfect trust (While we look round) that Heaven's decrees are just:

Scattering, like birds escaped the fowler's net, Some seek with timely flight a foreign strand; Most happy, re-assembled in a land

Hail, Virgin Queen! o'er many an envious bar Triumphant, snatched from many a treacherous wile! All hail, sage Lady, whom a grateful Isle

Part III. From the Restoration to the Present Times. I saw the figure of a lovely Maid Seated alone beneath a darksome tree,

Last night, without a voice, that Vision spake Fear to my Soul, and sadness which might seem Wholly dissevered from our present theme;

Who comes with rapture greeted, and caressed With frantic love, his kingdom to regain? Him Virtue's Nurse, Adversity, in vain

Yet Truth is keenly sought for, and the wind Charged with rich words poured out in thought's defense; Whether the Church inspire that eloquence,

Calm as an under-current, strong to draw Millions of waves into itself, and run, From sea to sea, impervious to the sun

There are no colours in the fairest sky So fair as these. The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men,

Nor shall the eternal roll of praise reject Those Unconforming; whom one rigorous day Drives from their Cures, a voluntary prey

When Alpine Vales threw forth a suppliant cry, The Majesty of England interposed And the sword stopped; the bleeding wounds were closed;

A voice, from long-expecting thousands sent, Shatters the air, and troubles tower and spire; For Justice hath absolved the innocent,

Ungrateful Country, if thou e'er forget The sons who for thy civil rights have bled! How, like a Roman, Sidney bowed his head,

A sudden conflict rises from the swell Of a proud slavery met by tenets strained In Liberty's behalf. Fears, true or feigned,

Down a swift Stream, thus far, a bold design Have we pursued, with livelier stir of heart Than his who sees, borne forward by the Rhine,

I. The Pilgrim Fathers Well worthy to be magnified are they Who, with sad hearts, of friends and country took

II. Continued From Rite and Ordinance abused they fled To Wilds where both were utterly unknown;

Yes, if the intensities of hope and fear Attract us still, and passionate exercise Of lofty thoughts, the way before us lies

Mine ear has rung, my spirit sunk subdued, Sharing the strong emotion of the crowd, When each pale brow to dread hosannas bowed

The encircling ground, in native turf arrayed, Is now by solemn consecration given To social interests, and to favouring Heaven;

Open your gates, ye everlasting Piles! Types of the spiritual Church which God hath reared; Not loth we quit the newly-hallowed sward

Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned Albeit labouring for a scanty band

What awful perspective! while from our sight With gradual stealth the lateral windows hide Their Portraitures, their stone-work glimmers, dyed

They dreamt not of a perishable home Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear Or groveling thought, to seek a refuge here;

Glory to God! and to the Power who came In filial duty, clothed with love divine, That made his human tabernacle shine

Why sleeps the future, as a snake enrolled, Coil within coil, at noon-tide? For the WORD Yields, if with unpresumptuous faith explored,

III Concluded. American Episcopacy Patriots informed with Apostolic light Were they, who, when their Country had been freed,

Bishops and Priests, blessed are ye, if deep (As yours above all offices is high) Deep in your hearts the sense of duty lie;

As star that shines dependent upon star Is to the sky while we look up and love; As to the deep fair ships which though they move

A genial hearth, a hospitable board, And a refined rusticity, belong To the neat mansion, where, his flock among,

Dear be the Church, that, watching o'er the needs Of Infancy, provides a timely shower Whose virtue changes to a Christian Flower

Father! to God himself we cannot give A holier name! then lightly do not bear Both names conjoined, but of thy spiritual care

From Little down to Least, in due degree, Around the Pastor, each in new-wrought vest, Each with a vernal posy at his breast,

The Young-ones gathered in from hill and dale, With holiday delight on every brow: 'Tis passed away; far other thoughts prevail;

I saw a Mother's eye intensely bent Upon a Maiden trembling as she knelt; In and for whom the pious Mother felt

Shun not this Rite, neglected, yea abhorred, By some of unreflecting mind, as calling Man to curse man, (thought monstrous and appalling.)

By chain yet stronger must the Soul be tied: One duty more, last stage of this ascent, Brings to thy food, mysterious Sacrament!

The Vested Priest before the Altar stands; Approach, come gladly, ye prepared, in sight Of God and chosen friends, your troth to plight

Woman! the Power who left his throne on high, And deigned to wear the robe of flesh we wear, The Power that thro' the straits of Infancy

The Sabbath bells renew the inviting peal; Glad music! yet there be that, worn with pain And sickness, listen where they long have lain,

To kneeling Worshipers no earthly floor Gives holier invitation than the deck Of a storm-shattered Vessel saved from Wreck

From the Baptismal hour, thro' weal and woe, The Church extends her care to thought and deed; Nor quits the Body when the Soul is freed,

Closing the sacred Book which long has fed Our meditations, give we to a day Of annual joy one tributary lay;

Would that our scrupulous Sires had dared to leave Less scanty measure of those graceful rites And usages, whose due return invites

From low to high doth dissolution climb, And sink from high to low, along a scale Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail;

Be this the chosen site; the virgin sod, Moistened from age to age by dewy eve, Shall disappear, and grateful earth receive

Monastic Domes! following my downward way, Untouched by due regret I marked your fall! Now, ruin, beauty, ancient stillness, all

Even while I speak, the sacred roofs of France Are shattered into dust; and self-exiled From altars threatened, leveled, or defiled,

Thus all things lead to Charity secured By them who blessed the soft and happy gale That landward urged the great Deliverer's sail,

But liberty, and triumphs on the Main, And laureled armies, not to be withstood What serve they? if, on transitory good

With copious eulogy in prose or rhyme Graven on the tomb we struggle against Time, Alas, how feebly! but our feelings rise

Lulled by the sound of pastoral bells, Rude Nature's Pilgrims did we go, From the dread summit of the Queen

O for a dirge! But why complain? Ask rather a triumphal strain When Fermor's race is run;

I The Sheep-boy whistled loud, and lo! That instant, startled by the shock,

I The Sheep-boy whistled loud, and lo! That instant, startled by the shock,

I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile! Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee: I saw thee every day; and all the while

Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate Upon the braes of Kirtle, Was lovely as a Grecian maid

Emperors and Kings, how oft have temples rung With impious thanksgiving, the Almighty's scorn! How oft above their altars have been hung

England! the time is come when thou should'st wean Thy heart from its emasculating food; The truth should now be better understood;

O friend! I know not which way I must look For comfort, being, as I am, opprest, To think that now our life is only drest

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,

Great men have been among us; hands that penn'd And tongues that utter'd wisdom'better none: The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington,

It is not to be thought of that the flood Of British freedom, which, to the open sea Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity

When I have borne in memory what has tamed Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart When men change swords for ledgers, and desert

Far from our home by Grasmere's quiet Lake, From the Vale's peace which all her fields partake, Here on the bleakest point of Cumbria's shore

By playful smiles, (alas! too oft A sad heart's sunshine, by a soft And gentle nature, and a free

Weep not, beloved Friends! nor let the air For me with sighs be troubled. Not from life Have I been taken; this is genuine life

O thou who movest onward with a mind Intent upon thy way, pause, though in haste! 'Twill be no fruitless moment. I was born

There never breathed a man who, when his life Was closing, might not of that life relate Toils long and hard. The warrior will report

Pause, courteous Spirit! Balbi supplicates That Thou, with no reluctant voice, for him Here laid in mortal darkness, wouldst prefer

Perhaps some needful service of the State Drew TITUS from the depth of studious bowers, And doomed him to contend in faithless courts,

I Weep not, beloved Friends! nor let the air For me with sighs be troubled. Not from life

True is it that Ambrosio Salinero With an untoward fate was long involved In odious litigation; and full long,

Destined to war from very infancy Was I, Roberto Dati, and I took In Malta the white symbol of the Cross:

O flower of all that springs from gentle blood, And all that generous nurture breeds to make Youth amiable; O friend so true of soul

Not without heavy grief of heart did He On whom the duty fell (for at that time The father sojourned in a distant land)

Ere with cold beads of midnight dew Had mingled tears of thine, I grieved, fond Youth! that thou shouldst sue

Even as a dragon's eye that feels the stress Of a bedimming sleep, or as a lamp Suddenly glaring through sepulchral damp,

Giordano, verily thy Pencil's skill Hath here portrayed with Nature's happiest grace The fair Endymion couched on Latmos-hill;

Why, William, on that old gray stone, Thus for the length of half a day, Why, William, sit you thus alone,

When first, descending from the moorlands, I saw the Stream of Yarrow glide Along a bare and open valley,

When first, descending from the moorlands, I saw the Stream of Yarrow glide Along a bare and open valley,

Dear native regions, I foretell, From what I feel at this farewell, That, wheresoe'er my steps may tend,

Fair Prime of life! were it enough to gild With ready sunbeams every straggling shower; And, if an unexpected cloud should lower,

The Lovers took within this ancient grove Their last embrace; beside those crystal springs The Hermit saw the Angel spread his wings

"Hign bliss is only for a higher state," But, surely, if severe afflictions borne With patience merit the reward of peace,

Dear Reliques! from a pit of vilest mould Uprisen to lodge among ancestral kings; And to inflict shame's salutary stings

Yet, yet, Biscayans! we must meet our Foes With firmer soul, yet labour to regain Our ancient freedom; else 'twere worse than vain

The Land we from our fathers had in trust, And to our children will transmit, or die: This is our maxim, this our piety;

A barking sound the Shepherd hears, A cry as of a dog or fox; He halts and searches with his eyes

Untouched through all severity of cold; Inviolate, whate'er the cottage hearth Might need for comfort, or for festal mirth;

Harmonious Powers with Nature work On sky, earth, river, lake and sea; Sunshine and cloud, whirlwind and breeze,

Hope smiled when your nativity was cast, Children of Summer! Ye fresh Flowers that brave What Summer here escapes not, the fierce wave,

That is work of waste and ruin Do as Charles and I are doing! Strawberry-blossoms, one and all,

Forth from a jutting ridge, around whose base Winds our deep Vale, two heath-clad Rocks ascend In fellowship, the loftiest of the pair

As It Appeared To Enthusiasts At Its Commencement. Reprinted From "The Friend" Oh! pleasant exercise of hope and joy! For mighty were the auxiliars which then stood

I The God of Love "ah, benedicite!" How mighty and how great a Lord is he!

From the dark chambers of dejection freed, Spurning the unprofitable yoke of care, Rise, Gillies, rise; the gales of youth shall bear

Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep pace, And I be undeluded, unbetrayed; For if of our affections none finds grace

No mortal object did these eyes behold When first they met the placid light of thine, And my Soul felt her destiny divine,

Who weeps for strangers? Many wept For George and Sarah Green; Wept for that pair's unhappy fate,

Yet are they here the same unbroken knot Of human Beings, in the self-same spot! Men, women, children, yea the frame

Glad sight wherever new with old Is joined through some dear homeborn tie; The life of all that we behold

Go back to antique ages, if thine eyes The genuine mien and character would trace Of the rash Spirit that still holds her place,

The soaring lark is blest as proud When at heaven's gate she sings; The roving bee proclaims aloud

A True Story Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter? What is't that ails young Harry Gill?

At early dawn, or rather when the air Glimmers with fading light, and shadowy Eve Is busiest to confer and to bereave;

Among the dwellers in the silent fields The natural heart is touched, and public way And crowded street resound with ballad strains,

Great men have been among us; hands that penned And tongues that uttered wisdom, better none: The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington,

'We' have not passed into a doleful City, We who were led to-day down a grim dell, By some too boldly named "the Jaws of Hell:"

Grief, thou hast lost an ever-ready friend Now that the cottage Spinning-wheel is mute; And Care, a comforter that best could suit

I A Traveler on the skirt of Sarum's Plain Pursued his vagrant way, with feet half bare;

Hail Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour! Not dull art Thou as undiscerning Night; But studious only to remove from sight

Hail, Zaragoza! If with unwet eye We can approach, thy sorrow to behold, Yet is the heart not pitiless nor cold;

Hark! 'tis the Thrush, undaunted, undeprest, By twilight premature of cloud and rain; Nor does that roaring wind deaden his strain

Here stood an Oak, that long had borne affixed To his huge trunk, or, with more subtle art, Among its withering topmost branches mixed,

The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor With the slow motion of a summer's cloud, And now, as he approached a vassal's door,

I Her eyes are wild, her head is bare, The sun has burnt her coal-black hair;

Her only pilot the soft breeze, the boat Lingers, but Fancy is well satisfied; With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory, at her side,

Here pause: the poet claims at least this praise, That virtuous Liberty hath been the scope Of his pure song, which did not shrink from hope

See what gay wild flowers deck this earth-built Cot, Whose smoke, forth-issuing whence and how it may, Shines in the greeting of the sun's first ray

"Who but hails the sight with pleasure When the wings of genius rise, Their ability to measure

Of mortal parents is the Hero born By whom the undaunted Tyrolese are led? Or is it Tell's great Spirit, from the dead

Homeward we turn. Isle of Columba's Cell, Where Christian piety's soul-cheering spark (Kindled from Heaven between the light and dark

How beautiful the Queen of Night, on high Her way pursuing among scattered clouds, Where, ever and anon, her head she shrouds

How rich that forehead's calm expanse! How bright that heaven-directed glance! Waft her to glory, winged Powers,

How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood! An old place, full of many a lovely brood,

What though the Accused, upon his own appeal To righteous Gods when man has ceased to feel, Or at a doubting Judge's stern command,

I grieved for Buonaparte, with a vain And an unthinking grief! The tenderest mood Of that Man's mind, what can it be? what food

I Grieved for Buonaparte, with a vain And an unthinking grief! The tenderest mood Of that Man's mind, what can it be? what food

I heard (alas! 'twas only in a dream) Strains, which, as sage Antiquity believed, By waking ears have sometimes been received

I know an aged Man constrained to dwell In a large house of public charity, Where he abides, as in a Prisoner's cell,

I know an aged Man constrained to dwell In a large house of public charity, Where he abides, as in a Prisoner's cell,

I travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea; Nor, England! did I know till then

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd,

I watch, and long have watched, with calm regret Yon slowly-sinking star, immortal Sire (So might he seem) of all the glittering quire!

If this great world of joy and pain Revolve in one sure track; If freedom, set, will rise again,

If thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven, Then, to the measure of that heaven-born light, Shine, Poet! in thy place, and be content:

Discourse was deemed Man's noblest attribute, And written words the glory of his hand; Then followed Printing with enlarged command

In due observance of an ancient rite, The rude Biscayans, when their children lie Dead in the sinless time of infancy,

In my mind's eye a Temple, like a cloud Slowly surmounting some invidious hill, Rose out of darkness: the bright Work stood still:

A point of life between my Parent's dust, And yours, my buried Little-ones! am I; And to those graves looking habitually

Ranging the heights of Scawfell or Blackcomb, In his lone course the Shepherd oft will pause, And strive to fathom the mysterious laws

Since risen from ocean, ocean to defy, Appeared the crag of Ailsa, ne'er did morn With gleaming lights more gracefully adorn

Six thousand veterans practised in war's game, Tried men, at Killicranky were arrayed Against an equal host that wore the plaid,

Tradition, be thou mute! Oblivion, throw Thy veil in mercy o'er the records, hung Round strath and mountain, stamped by the ancient tongue

Wild Redbreast! hadst thou at Jemima's lip Pecked, as at mine, thus boldly, Love might say, A half-blown rose had tempted thee to sip

In these fair vales hath many a Tree At Wordsworth's suit been spared; And from the builder's hand this Stone,

In Bruges town is many a street Whence busy life hath fled; Where, without hurry, noiseless feet

On his morning rounds the Master Goes to learn how all things fare; Searches pasture after pasture,

I A Traveler on the skirt of Sarum's Plain Pursued his vagrant way, with feet half bare;

We can endure that He should waste our lands, Despoil our temples, and by sword and flame Return us to the dust from which we came;

In Calling Forth and Strengthening the Imagination in Boyhood and Early Youth Wisdom and Spirit of the Universe!

Ye vales and hills whose beauty hither drew The poet's steps, and fixed him here, on you His eyes have closed! And ye, loved books, no more

Oft is the medal faithful to its trust When temples, columns, towers, are laid in dust; And 'tis a common ordinance of fate

Hopes what are they? Beads of morning Strung on slender blades of grass; Or a spider's web adorning

Pause, Traveller! whosoe'er thou be Whom chance may lead to this retreat, Where silence yields reluctantly

Hast thou seen, with flash incessant, Bubbles gliding under ice, Bodied forth and evanescent,

Troubled long with warring notions Long impatient of thy rod, I resign my soul's emotions

Not seldom, clad in radiant vest, Deceitfully goes forth the Morn; Not seldom Evening in the west

Ye Lime-trees, ranged before this hallowed Urn, Shoot forth with lively power at Spring's return; And be not slow a stately growth to rear

Beneath yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound, Rugged and high, of Charnwood's forest ground Stand yet, but, Stranger! hidden from thy view,

If thou in the dear love of some one Friend Hast been so happy that thou know'st what thoughts Will sometimes in the happiness of love

The embowering rose, the acacia, and the pine, Will not unwillingly their place resign; If but the Cedar thrive that near them stands,

Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained Proportions more harmonious, and approached

Stranger! this hillock of mis-shapen stones Is not a Ruin spared or made by time, Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the Cairn

Stranger! this hillock of mis-shapen stones Is not a Ruin spared or made by time, Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the Cairn

Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned Albeit labouring for a scanty band

Intent on gathering wool from hedge and brake Yon busy Little-ones rejoice that soon A poor old Dame will bless them for the boon:

I "Rest, rest, perturbed Earth! O rest, thou doleful Mother of Mankind!"

On to Iona! What can she afford To 'us' save matter for a thoughtful sigh, Heaved over ruin with stability

How sad a welcome! To each voyager Some ragged child holds up for sale a store Of wave-worn pebbles, pleading on the shore

Is there a power that can sustain and cheer The captive chieftain, by a tyrant's doom, Forced to descend into his destined tomb

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

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

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun

It is no Spirit who from heaven hath flown, And is descending on his embassy; Nor Traveller gone from earth the heavens to espy!

It is not to be thought of that the Flood Of British freedom, which, to the open sea Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity

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

Fame tells of groves, from England far away, Groves that inspire the Nightingale to trill And modulate, with subtle reach of skill

Smile of the Moon! for I so name That silent greeting from above; A gentle flash of light that came

"With sacrifice before the rising morn Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired; And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlorn

Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands Far from all human dwelling: what if here No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb?

Those breathing Tokens of your kind regard, (Suspect not, Anna, that their fate is hard; Not soon does aught to which mild fancies cling

Loud is the Vale! the Voice is up With which she speaks when storms are gone, A mighty unison of streams!

Five years have past; five summers, with the length Of five long winters! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs

Come ye who, if (which Heaven avert!) the Land Were with herself at strife, would take your stand, Like gallant Falkland, by the Monarch's side,

Beguiled into forgetfulness of care Due to the day's unfinished task; of pen Or book regardless, and of that fair scene

"And has the Sun his flaming chariot driven Two hundred times around the ring of heaven, Since Science first, with all her sacred train,

I heard a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts

Lady! a Pen (perhaps with thy regard, Among the Favoured, favoured not the least) Left, 'mid the Records of this Book inscribed,

Upon Hearing Of The Death Of The Late Vicar Of Kendal To public notice, with reluctance strong, Did I deliver this unfinished Song;

How richly glows the water's breast Before us, tinged with evening hues, While, facing thus the crimson west,

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,

Look now on that Adventurer who hath paid His vows to Fortune; who, in cruel slight Of virtuous hope, of liberty, and right,

I met Louisa in the shade, And, having seen that lovely Maid, Why should I fear to say

You call it, "Love lies bleeding," so you may, Though the red Flower, not prostrate, only droops, As we have seen it here from day to day,

There's more in words than I can teach: Yet listen, Child! I would not preach; But only give some plain directions

Lowther! in thy majestic Pile are seen Cathedral pomp and grace, in apt accord With the baronial castle's sterner mien;

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray, And when I cross'd the Wild, I chanc'd to see at break of day

Strange fits of passion have I known: And I will dare to tell, But in the lover's ear alone,

She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise

I travell'd among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea; Nor, England! did I know till then

Three years she grew in sun and shower; Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flower On earth was never sown;

A slumber did my spirit seal; I had no human fears: She seem'd a thing that could not feel

Lyre! though such power do in thy magic live As might from India's farthest plain Recall the not unwilling Maid,

Was the aim frustrated by force or guile, When giants scooped from out the rocky ground, Tier under tier, this semicirque profound?

Mark the concentred hazels that enclose Yon old grey Stone, protected from the ray Of noontide suns: and even the beams that play

Dear to the Loves, and to the Graces vowed, The Queen drew back the wimple that she wore; And to the throng, that on the Cumbrian shore

Departed Child! I could forget thee once Though at my bosom nursed; this woeful gain Thy dissolution brings, that in my soul

If Nature, for a favourite child, In thee hath tempered so her clay, That every hour thy heart runs wild,

Ye Apennines! with all your fertile vales Deeply embosomed, and your winding shores Of either sea an Islander by birth,

I saw far off the dark top of a Pine Look like a cloud, a slender stem the tie That bound it to its native earth, poised high

Is this, ye Gods, the Capitolian Hill? Yon petty Steep in truth the fearful Rock, Tarpeian named of yore, and keeping still

Those old credulities, to nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of History, stript naked as a rock

Days passed and Monte Calvo would not clear His head from mist; and, as the wind sobbed through Albano's dripping Ilex avenue,

Companion! by whose buoyant Spirit cheered, In whose experience trusting, day by day Treasures I gained with zeal that neither feared

Complacent Fictions were they, yet the same Involved a history of no doubtful sense, History that proves by inward evidence

Forbear to deem the Chronicler unwise, Ungentle, or untouched by seemly ruth, Who, gathering up all that Time's envious tooth

They who have seen the noble Roman's scorn Break forth at thought of laying down his head, When the blank day is over, garroted

Long has the dew been dried on tree and lawn: O'er man and beast a not unwelcome boon Is shed, the languor of approaching noon;

Near Anio's stream, I spied a gentle Dove Perched on an olive branch, and heard her cooing 'Mid new-born blossoms that soft airs were wooing,

Forgive, illustrious Country! these deep sighs, Heaved less for thy bright plains and hills bestrown With monuments decayed or overthrown,

When here with Carthage Rome to conflict came, An earthquake, mingling with the battle's shock, Checked not its rage; unfelt the ground did rock,

For action born, existing to be tried, Powers manifold we have that intervene To stir the heart that would too closely screen

List 'twas the Cuckoo. O with what delight Heard I that voice! and catch it now, though faint, Far off and faint, and melting into air,

Under the shadow of a stately Pile, The dome of Florence, pensive and alone, Nor giving heed to aught that passed the while,

Grieve for the Man who hither came bereft, And seeking consolation from above; Nor grieve the less that skill to him was left

The world forsaken, all its busy cares And stirring interests shunned with desperate flight, All trust abandoned in the healing might

What aim had they, the Pair of Monks, in size Enormous, dragged, while side by side they sate, By panting steers up to this convent gate?

"Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks In Vallombrosa where Etrurian shades High over-arch'd embower."

The Baptist might have been ordained to cry Forth from the towers of that huge Pile, wherein His Father served Jehovah; but how win

Rapt above earth by power of one fair face, Hers in whose sway alone my heart delights, I mingle with the blest on those pure heights

Eternal Lord! eased of a cumbrous load, And loosened from the world, I turn to Thee; Shun, like a shattered bark, the storm, and flee

Ye Trees! whose slender roots entwine Altars that piety neglects; Whose infant arms enclasp the shrine

See, where his difficult way that Old Man wins Bent by a load of Mulberry leaves! most hard Appears 'his' lot, to the small Worm's compared,

Fair Land! Thee all men greet with joy; how few, Whose souls take pride in freedom, virtue, fame, Part from thee without pity dyed in shame:

As indignation mastered grief, my tongue Spake bitter words; words that did ill agree With those rich stores of Nature's imagery,

Too frail to keep the lofty vow That must have followed when his brow Was wreathed "The Vision" tells us how

"How Wallace fought for Scotland, left the name Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower, All over his dear Country; left the deeds

What He who, 'mid the kindred throng Of Heroes that inspired his song, Doth yet frequent the hill of storms,

And is this, Yarrow? 'This' the Stream Of which my fancy cherished, So faithfully, a waking dream?

I To barren heath, bleak moor, and quaking fen, Or depth of labyrinthine glen;

Now we are tired of boisterous joy, Have romped enough, my little Boy! Jane hangs her head upon my breast,

The gentlest Shade that walked Elysian plains Might sometimes covet dissoluble chains; Even for the tenants of the zone that lies

SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold, At thought of what I now behold:

Too frail to keep the lofty vow That must have followed when his brow Was wreathed, "The Vision" tells us how

'Mid crowded obelisks and urns I sought the untimely grave of Burns; Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns

Child of loud-throated War! the mountain Stream Roars in thy hearing; but thy hour of rest Is come, and thou art silent in thy age;

Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower! Twice seven consenting years have shed

"What, you are stepping westward?" "Yea." 'Twould be a 'wildish' destiny, If we, who thus together roam

Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself;

A Famous man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer's joy! And Scotland has a thief as good,

Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy Lord! Whom mere despite of heart could so far please, And love of havoc, (for with such disease

From Stirling castle we had seen The mazy Forth unravelled; Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,

Age! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers, And call a train of laughing Hours; And bid them dance, and bid them sing;

Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale! Say that we come, and come by this day's light; Fly upon swiftest wing round field and height,

Now we are tired of boisterous joy, Have romped enough, my little Boy! Jane hangs her head upon my breast,

In this still place, remote from men, Sleeps Ossian, in the NARROW GLEN; In this still place, where murmurs on

Dear Fellow-travellers! think not that the Muse, To You presenting these memorial Lays, Can hope the general eye thereon would gaze,

'Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen; But, if the Nereid Sisters and their Queen,

Bruges I saw attired with golden light (Streamed from the west) as with a robe of power: The splendour fled; and now the sunless hour,

The Spirit of Antiquity, enshrined In sumptuous buildings, vocal in sweet song, In picture, speaking with heroic tongue,

A winged Goddess, clothed in vesture wrought Of rainbow colours; One whose port was bold, Whose overburthened hand could scarcely hold

Jesu! bless our slender Boat, By the current swept along; Loud its threatenings, let them not

What lovelier home could gentle Fancy choose? Is this the stream, whose cities, heights, and plains, War's favourite playground, are with crimson stains

Was it to disenchant, and to undo, That we approached the Seat of Charlemaine? To sweep from many an old romantic strain

O for the help of Angels to complete This Temple, Angels governed by a plan Thus far pursued (how gloriously!) by Man,

Amid this dance of objects sadness steals O'er the defrauded heart while sweeping by, As in a fit of Thespian jollity,

Not, like his great Compeers, indignantly Doth Danube spring to life! The wandering Stream (Who loves the Cross, yet to the Crescent's gleam

Uttered by whom, or how inspired designed For what strange service, does this concert reach Our ears, and near the dwellings of mankind!

From the fierce aspect of this River, throwing His giant body o'er the steep rock's brink, Back in astonishment and fear we shrink:

Near The Outlet Of The Lake Of Thun "Dem Andenken

Doomed as we are our native dust To wet with many a bitter shower, It ill befits us to disdain

In Presence Of The Painted Tower Of Tell, At Altorf. What though the Italian pencil wrought not here, Nor such fine skill as did the meed bestow

O life! without thy chequered scene Of right and wrong, of weal and woe, Success and failure, could a ground

"What know we of the Blest above But that they sing and that they love?" Yet, if they ever did inspire

For gentlest uses, oft-times Nature takes The work of Fancy from her willing hands; And such a beautiful creation makes

Meek Virgin Mother, more benign Than fairest Star, upon the height Of thy own mountain, set to keep

By antique Fancy trimmed, though lowly, bred To dignity in thee, O Schwytz! are seen The genuine features of the golden mean;

I listen, but no faculty of mine Avails those modulations to detect, Which, heard in foreign lands, the Swiss affect

Dread hour! when, upheaved by war's sulphurous blast, This sweet-visaged Cherub of Parian stone So far from the holy enclosure was cast,

Seen From The Lake Of Lugano Thou sacred Pile! whose turrets rise From yon steep mountain's loftiest stage,

I Now that the farewell tear is dried, Heaven prosper thee, be hope thy guide

I With nodding plumes, and lightly drest Like foresters in leaf-green vest,

Vallombrosa! I longed in thy shadiest wood To slumber, reclined on the moss-covered floor, To listen to Anio's precipitous flood,

By Leonardo Da Vinci, In The Refectory Of The Convent Of Maria Della Grazia - Milan. Tho' searching damps and many an envious flaw Have marred this Work; the calm ethereal grace,

High on her speculative tower Stood Science waiting for the hour When Sol was destined to endure

I How blest the Maid whose heart, yet free From Love's uneasy sovereignty

Ambition, following down this far-famed slope Her Pioneer, the snow-dissolving Sun, While clarions prate of kingdoms to be won

What beast of chase hath broken from the cover? Stern Gemmi listens to as full a cry, As multitudinous a harmony

To appease the Gods; or public thanks to yield; Or to solicit knowledge of events, Which in her breast Futurity concealed;

Lulled by the sound of pastoral bells, Rude Nature's Pilgrims did we go, From the dread summit of the Queen

Lo! in the burning west, the craggy nape Of a proud Ararat! and, thereupon, The Ark, her melancholy voyage done!

Why cast ye back upon the Gallic shore, Ye furious waves! a patriotic Son Of England, who in hope her coast had won,

Where be the noisy followers of the game Which faction breeds; the turmoil where? that passed Through Europe, echoing from the newsman's blast,

From the Pier's head, musing, and with increase Of wonder, I have watched this sea-side Town, Under the white cliff's battlemented crown,

Is then the final page before me spread, Nor further outlet left to mind or heart? Presumptuous Book! too forward to be read,

A pen, to register; a key That winds through secret wards Are well assigned to Memory

Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed;

If from the public way you turn your steps Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, You will suppose that with an upright path

'Night Speaks' Grateful is Sleep, my life in stone bound fast; More grateful still: while wrong and shame shall last,

The minstrels played their Christmas tune To-night beneath my cottage-eaves; While, smitten by a lofty moon,

'A poet'! He hath put his heart to school, Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff Which Art hath lodged within his hand must laugh

The most alluring clouds that mount the sky Owe to a troubled element their forms, Their hues to sunset. If with raptured eye

Feel for the wrongs to universal ken Daily exposed, woe that unshrouded lies; And seek the Sufferer in his darkest den,

Portentous change when History can appear As the cool Advocate of foul device; Reckless audacity extol, and jeer

Who ponders National events shall find An awful balancing of loss and gain, Joy based on sorrow, good with ill combined,

Long-favoured England! be not thou misled By monstrous theories of alien growth, Lest alien frenzy seize thee, waxing wroth,

Men of the Western World! in Fate's dark book Whence these opprobrious leaves of dire portent? Think ye your British Ancestors forsook

Lo! where she stands fixed in a saint-like trance, One upward hand, as if she needed rest From rapture, lying softly on her breast!

Stretched on the dying Mother's lap, lies dead Her new-born Babe; dire ending of bright hope! But Sculpture here, with the divinest scope

Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes To pace the ground, if path be there or none, While a fair region round the traveler lies

Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes To pace the ground, if path be there or none, While a fair region round the traveler lies

From low to high doth dissolution climb, And sink from high to low, along a scale Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail;

My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began;

Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood; And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear, The coast of France, the coast of France how near!

Not in the lucid intervals of life That come but as a curse to party-strife; Not in some hour when Pleasure with a sigh

Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell, Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change, Nor Duty struggling with afflictions strange

How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright The effluence from yon distant mountain's head, Which, strewn with snow smooth as the sky can shed,

Even so for me a Vision sanctified The sway of Death; long ere mine eyes had seen Thy countenance, the still rapture of thy mien

Another year! another deadly blow! Another mighty Empire overthrown! And We are left, or shall be left, alone;

Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright, Our aged Sovereign sits, to the ebb and flow Of states and kingdoms, to their joy or woe,

The cattle crowding round this beverage clear To slake their thirst, with reckless hoofs have trod The encircling turf into a barren clod;

The floods are roused, and will not soon be weary; Down from the Pennine Alps how fiercely sweeps Croglin, the stately Eden's tributary!

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells; And students with their pensive citadels;

It seems a day (I speak of one from many singled out) One of those heavenly days that cannot die;

O Nightingale! thou surely art A creature of a "fiery heart": These notes of thine, they pierce and pierce;

O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain, Dwells in the affections and the soul of man A Godhead, like the universal PAN;

O'erweening Statesmen have full long relied On fleets and armies, and external wealth: But from 'within' proceeds a Nation's health;

Intrepid sons of Albion! not by you Is life despised; ah no, the spacious earth Ne'er saw a race who held, by right of birth,

The Bard, whose soul is meek as dawning day, Yet trained to judgments righteously severe, Fervid, yet conversant with holy fear,

One might believe that natural miseries Had blasted France, and made of it a land Unfit for men; and that in one great band

These times strike monied worldlings with dismay: Even rich men, brave by nature, taint the air With words of apprehension and despair:

- Carmina possumus Donare, et pretium dicere muneri. Non incisa notis marmora publicis,

I Imagination, ne'er before content, But aye ascending, restless in her pride

I Hail, orient Conqueror of gloomy Night! Thou that canst shed the bliss of gratitude

From Recollections of Early Childhood The Child is father of the Man; And I could wish my days to be

INTRODUCTION AND CHORUS For thirst of power that Heaven disowns, For temples, towers, and thrones,

Jam non consilio bonus, sed more eo perductus, ut non tantum recte facere possim, sed nisi recte facere non possim (Seneca, Letters 130.10)

I An age hath been when Earth was proud Of lustre too intense

While from the purpling east departs The star that led the dawn, Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts,

The child is father of the man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.

Oh what a Wreck! how changed in mien and speech! Yet, though dread Powers, that work in mystery, spin Entanglings of the brain; though shadows stretch

A Roman Master stands on Grecian ground, And to the people at the Isthmian Games Assembled, He, by a herald's voice, proclaims

The Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire, Flung back from distant climes a streaming fire, Whose blaze is now subdued to tender gleams,

We gaze, nor grieve to think that we must die, But that the precious love this friend hath sown Within our hearts, the love whose flower hath blown

By Art's bold privilege Warrior and War-horse stand On ground yet strewn with their last battle's wreck; Let the Steed glory while his Master's hand

The feudal Keep, the bastions of Cohorn, Even when they rose to check or to repel Tides of aggressive war, oft served as well

The captive Bird was gone; to cliff or moor Perchance had flown, delivered by the storm; Or he had pined, and sunk to feed the worm:

Frowns are on every Muse's face, Reproaches from their lips are sent, That mimicry should thus disgrace

When haughty expectations prostrate lie, And grandeur crouches like a guilty thing, Oft shall the lowly weak, till nature bring

Behold an emblem of our human mind Crowded with thoughts that need a settled home, Yet, like to eddying balls of foam

Ward of the Law! dread Shadow of a King! Whose realm had dwindled to one stately room; Whose universe was gloom immersed in gloom,

A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain, Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height:

A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain, Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height:

A book came forth of late, called PETER BELL; Not negligent the style; the matter? good As aught that song records of Robin Hood;

Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee; And was the safeguard of the west: the worth Of Venice did not fall below her birth,

It was a 'moral' end for which they fought; Else how, when mighty Thrones were put to shame, Could they, poor Shepherds, have preserved an aim,

Arran! a single-crested Teneriffe, A St. Helena next in shape and hue, Varying her crowded peaks and ridges blue;

I Thy functions are ethereal, As if within thee dwelt a glancing mind,

Is then no nook of English ground secure From rash assault? Schemes of retirement sown In youth, and 'mid the busy world kept pure

(The Final Submission Of The Tyrolese) Ye Storms, resound the praises of your King! And ye mild Seasons, in a sunny clime,

Oh! gather whencesoe'er ye safely may The help which slackening Pity requires; Nor deem that he perforce must go astray

Though I beheld at first with blank surprise This Work, I now have gazed on it so long I see its truth with unreluctant eyes;

Say, ye far-traveled clouds, far-seeing hills Among the happiest-looking homes of men Scattered all Britain over, through deep glen,

"Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone Wi' the auld moone in hir arme." 'Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, Percy's Reliques.'

Shame on this faithless heart! that could allow Such transport, though but for a moment's space; Not while, to aid the spirit of the place

Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth! In whose collegiate shelter England's Flowers Expand, enjoying through their vernal hours

Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side, Together in immortal books enrolled: His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold;

I I am not One who much or oft delight To season my fireside with personal talk.

A TALE What's in a 'Name'? . . . . .

PART FIRST ALL by the moonlight river side Groaned the poor Beast alas! in vain;

PART SECOND We left our Hero in a trance, Beneath the alders, near the river;

PART THIRD I've heard of one, a gentle Soul, Though given to sadness and to gloom,

What's in a 'Name'? . . . . . Brutus will start a Spirit as soon as Caesar!

Amid a fertile region green with wood And fresh with rivers, well doth it become The Ducal Owner, in his Palace-home

Amid a fertile region green with wood And fresh with rivers, well did it become The ducal Owner, in his palace-home

Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, And lilies face the March-winds in full blow, And humbler growths as moved with one desire

An Orpheus! an Orpheus! yes, Faith may grow bold, And take to herself all the wonders of old; Near the stately Pantheon you'll meet with the same

In desultory walk through orchard grounds, Or some deep chestnut grove, oft have I paused The while a Thrush, urged rather than restrained

Presentiments! they judge not right Who deem that ye from open light Retire in fear of shame;

Forth rushed from Envy sprung and Self-conceit, A Power misnamed the spirit of reform, And through the astonished Island swept in storm,

Proud were ye, Mountains, when, in times of old, Your patriot sons, to stem invasive war, Intrenched your brows; ye gloried in each scar:

Pure element of waters! wheresoe'er Thou dost forsake thy subterranean haunts, Green herbs, bright flowers, and berry-bearing plants,

The imperial Stature, the colossal stride, Are yet before me; yet do I behold The broad full visage, chest of amplest mould,

Glide gently, thus for ever glide, O Thames! that other bards may see As lovely visions by thy side

Glide gently, thus for ever glide, O Thames! that other bards may see As lovely visions by thy side

The fields which with covetous spirit we sold, Those beautiful fields, the delight of the day, Would have brought us more good than a burthen of gold,

There was a roaring in the wind all night; The rain came heavily and fell in floods; But now the sun is rising calm and bright;

Doubling and doubling with laborious walk, Who, that has gained at length the wished-for Height, This brief this simple wayside Call can slight,

If the whole weight of what we think and feel, Save only far as thought and feeling blend With action, were as nothing, patriot Friend!

How profitless the relics that we cull, Troubling the last holds of ambitious Rome, Unless they chasten fancies that presume

There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore, Three rosy-cheeked school-boys, the highest not more Than the height of a counsellor's bag;

Sylph was it? or a Bird more bright Than those of fabulous stock? A second darted by; and lo!

When Ruth was left half desolate, Her Father took another Mate; And Ruth, not seven years old,

Say, what is Honour? 'Tis the finest sense Of 'justice' which the human mind can frame, Intent each lurking frailty to disclaim,

Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart; the melody

We had a female Passenger who came From Calais with us, spotless in array, A white-robed Negro, like a lady gay,

The sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields Are hung, as if with golden shields, Bright trophies of the sun!

While not a leaf seems faded; while the fields, With ripening harvest prodigally fair, In brightest sunshine bask; this nipping air,

Departing summer hath assumed An aspect tenderly illumed, The gentlest look of spring;

Where are they now, those wanton Boys? For whose free range the daedal earth Was filled with animated toys,

She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, Maid whom there were none to praise

She was a Phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely Apparition, sent

February 1816 Oh, for a kindling touch from that pure flame Which ministered, erewhile, to a sacrifice

With an incident in which he was concerned In the sweet shire of Cardigan, Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,

Six months to six years added he remained Upon this sinful earth, by sin unstained: O blessed Lord! whose mercy then removed

So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive, Would that the little Flowers were born to live, Conscious of half the pleasure which they give;

Soft as a cloud is yon blue Ridge, the Mere Seems firm as solid crystal, breathless, clear, And motionless; and, to the gazer's eye,

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: And, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day

High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate, And Emont's murmur mingled with the Song. The words of ancient time I thus translate,

Swiftly turn the murmuring wheel! Night has brought the welcome hour, When the weary fingers feel

Though the torrents from their fountains Roar down many a craggy steep, Yet they find among the mountains

Why should we weep or mourn, Angelic boy, For such thou wert ere from our sight removed, Holy, and ever dutiful beloved

Affections lose their object; Time brings forth No successors; and, lodged in memory, If love exist no longer, it must die,

It is not to be thought of that the Flood Of British freedom, which, to the open sea Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity

She wept. Life's purple tide began to flow In languid streams through every thrilling vein; Dim were my swimming eyes, my pulse beat slow,

Desponding Father! mark this altered bough, So beautiful of late, with sunshine warmed, Or moist with dews; what more unsightly now,

While poring Antiquarians search the ground Upturned with curious pains, the Bard, a Seer, Takes fire: The men that have been reappear;

When human touch (as monkish books attest) Nor was applied nor could be, Ledbury bells Broke forth in concert flung adown the dells,

Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plant Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air Of absence withers what was once so fair?

Four fiery steeds impatient of the rein Whirled us o'er sunless ground beneath a sky As void of sunshine, when, from that wide plain,

"Miss not the occasion: by the forelock take That subtile Power, the never-halting Time, Lest a mere moment's putting-off should make

Said Secrecy to Cowardice and Fraud, Falsehood and Treachery, in close council met, Deep under ground, in Pluto's cabinet,

Tenderly do we feel by Nature's law For worst offenders: though the heart will heave With indignation, deeply moved we grieve,

The Roman Consul doomed his sons to die Who had betrayed their country. The stern word Afforded (may it through all time afford)

Is 'Death', when evil against good has fought With such fell mastery that a man may dare By deeds the blackest purpose to lay bare?

Not to the object specially designed, Howe'er momentous in itself it be, Good to promote or curb depravity,

Ye brood of conscience Spectres! that frequent The bad Man's restless walk, and haunt his bed Fiends in your aspect, yet beneficent

Before the world had past her time of youth While polity and discipline were weak, The precept eye for eye, and tooth for tooth,

Fit retribution, by the moral code Determined, lies beyond the State's embrace, Yet, as she may, for each peculiar case

This Spot, at once unfolding sight so fair Of sea and land, with yon grey towers that still Rise up as if to lord it over air

Though to give timely warning and deter Is one great aim of penalty, extend Thy mental vision further and ascend

Our bodily life, some plead, that life the shrine Of an immortal spirit, is a gift So sacred, so informed with light divine,

Ah, think how one compelled for life to abide Locked in a dungeon needs must eat the heart Out of his own humanity, and part

See the Condemned alone within his cell And prostrate at some moment when remorse Stings to the quick, and, with resistless force,

Yes, though He well may tremble at the sound Of his own voice, who from the judgment-seat Sends the pale Convict to his last retreat

The formal World relaxes her cold chain For One who speaks in numbers; ampler scope His utterance finds; and, conscious of the gain,

They seek, are sought; to daily battle led, Shrink not, though far outnumbered by their Foes, For they have learnt to open and to close

Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plant Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air Of absence withers what was once so fair?

Once I could hail (howe'er serene the sky) The Moon re-entering her monthly round, No faculty yet given me to espy

If Life were slumber on a bed of down, Toil unimposed, vicissitude unknown, Sad were our lot: no hunter of the hare

Within our happy Castle there dwelt One Whom without blame I may not overlook; For never sun on living creature shone

What crowd is this? what have we here! we must not pass it by; A Telescope upon its frame, and pointed to the sky: Long is it as a barber's pole, or mast of little boat,

Motions and Means, on land and sea at war With old poetic feeling, not for this, Shall ye, by Poets even, be judged amiss!

"What, you are stepping westward?" "Yea." 'T would be a wildish destiny, If we, who thus together roam

Strange fits of passion have I known: And I will dare to tell, But in the lover's ear alone,

By their floating mill, That lies dead and still, Behold yon Prisoners three,

Enough of garlands, of the Arcadian crook, And all that Greece and Italy have sung Of Swains reposing myrtle groves among!

The gentlest Poet, with free thoughts endowed, And a true master of the glowing strain, Might scan the narrow province with disdain

The forest huge of ancient Caledon Is but a name, no more is Inglewood, That swept from hill to hill, from flood to flood:

Tranquility! the sovereign aim wert thou In heathen schools of philosophic lore; Heart-stricken by stern destiny of yore

Surprised by joy, impatient as the Wind I turned to share the transport, Oh! with whom But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,

Surprised by joy, impatient as the Wind I turned to share the transport, Oh! with whom But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,

The massy Ways, carried across these heights By Roman perseverance, are destroyed, Or hidden under ground, like sleeping worms.

I Where art thou, my beloved Son, Where art thou, worse to me than dead?

I You have heard "a Spanish Lady How she wooed an English man;"

Avon, a precious, an immortal name! Yet is it one that other rivulets bear Like this unheard-of, and their channels wear

When Love was born of heavenly line, What dire intrigues disturbed Cythera's joy! Till Venus cried, "A mother's heart is mine;

Here on their knees men swore: the stones were black, Black in the people's minds and words, yet they Were at that time, as now, in colour grey.

ACT I. SCENE Road in a Wood. WALLACE and LACY.

Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate Upon the braes of Kirtle, Was lovely as a Grecian maid

"These Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must live A profitable life: some glance along, Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air,

"How disappeared he?" Ask the newt and toad; Ask of his fellow-men, and they will tell How he was found, cold as an icicle,

"Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away! Not a soul in the village this morning will stay; The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds,

Before I see another day, Oh let my body die away! In sleep I heard the northern gleams;

I Within her gilded cage confined, I saw a dazzling Belle,

The days are cold, the nights are long, The north-wind sings a doleful song; Then hush again upon my breast;

The Crescent-moon, the Star of Love, Glories of evening, as ye there are seen With but a span of sky between

I The God of Love "ah, benedicite!" How mighty and how great a Lord is he!

Wouldst thou be taught, when sleep has taken flight, By a sure voice that can most sweetly tell, How far off yet a glimpse of morning light,

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd,

I Between two sister moorland rills There is a spot that seems to lie

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

Shade of Caractacus, if spirits love The cause they fought for in their earthly home To see the Eagle ruffled by the Dove

Well sang the Bard who called the grave, in strains Thoughtful and sad, the "narrow house." No style Of fond sepulchral flattery can beguile

While Merlin paced the Cornish sands, Forth-looking toward the rocks of Scilly, The pleased Enchanter was aware

Once in a lonely hamlet I sojourned In which a Lady driven from France did dwell; The big and lesser griefs with which she mourned,

The pensive Sceptic of the lonely vale To those acknowledgments subscribed his own, With a sedate compliance, which the Priest

"Farewell, deep Valley, with thy one rude House, And its small lot of life-supporting fields, And guardian rocks! Farewell, attractive seat!

'Twas summer, and the sun had mounted high: Southward the landscape indistinctly glared Through a pale steam; but all the northern downs,

Here closed the Tenant of that lonely vale His mournful narrative commenced in pain, In pain commenced, and ended without peace:

"To every Form of being is assigned," Thus calmly spake the venerable Sage, "An 'active' Principle: howe'er removed

In days of yore how fortunately fared The Minstrel! wandering on from hall to hall, Baronial court or royal; cheered with gifts

While thus from theme to theme the Historian passed, The words he uttered, and the scene that lay Before our eyes, awakened in my mind

Hail to the crown by Freedom shaped to gird An English Sovereign's brow! and to the throne Whereon he sits! Whose deep foundations lie

A humming bee a little tinkling rill A pair of falcons wheeling on the wing, In clamorous agitation, round the crest

Something must now be said of this poem, but chiefly, as has been done through the whole of these notes, with reference to my personal friends, and especially to her who has perseveringly taken them down from my dictation. Towards the close of the first book stand the lines that were first written, beginning, "Nine tedious years," and ending, "Last human tenant of these ruined walls." These were composed in '95 at Racedown; and for several passages describing the employment and demeanour of Margaret during her affliction, I was indebted to observations made in Dorsetshire, and afterwards at Alfoxden in Somersetshire, where I resided in '97 and '98. The lines towards the conclusion of the fourth book beginning, "For, the man, who, in this spirit," to the words "intellectual soul" were in order of time composed the next, either at Racedown or Alfoxden, I do not remember which. The rest of the poem was written in the vale of Grasmere, chiefly during our residence at Allan Bank. The long poem on my own education was, together with many minor poems, composed while we lived at the cottage at Town-end. Perhaps my purpose of giving an additional interest to these my poems in the eyes of my nearest and dearest friends may be promoted by saying a few words upon the character of the Wanderer, the Solitary, and the Pastor, and some other of the persons introduced. And first, of the principal one, the Wanderer. My lamented friend Southey (for this is written a month after his decease) used to say that had he been born a papist, the course of life which would in all probability have been his was the one for which he was most fitted and most to his mind, that of a Benedictine monk in a convent, furnished, as many once were and some still are, with an inexhaustible library. 'Books', as appears from many passages in his writings, and as was evident to those who had opportunities of observing his daily life, were in fact 'his passion'; and 'wandering', I can with truth affirm, was 'mine'; but this propensity in me was happily counteracted by inability from want of fortune to fulfil my wishes. But, had I been born in a class which would have deprived me of what is called a liberal education, it is not unlikely that, being strong in body, I should have taken to a way of life such as that in which my Pedlar passed the greater part of his days. At all events, I am here called upon freely to acknowledge that the character I have represented in his person is chiefly an idea of what I fancied my own character might have become in his circumstances. Nevertheless, much of what he says and does had an external existence that fell under my own youthful and subsequent observation. An individual named Patrick, by birth and education a Scotchman, followed this humble occupation for many years, and afterwards settled in the town of Kendal. He married a kinswoman of my wife's, and her sister Sarah was brought up from her ninth year under this good man's roof. My own imaginations I was happy to find clothed in reality, and fresh ones suggested, by what she reported of this man's tenderness of heart, his strong and pure imagination, and his solid attainments in literature, chiefly religious whether in prose or verse. At Hawkshead also, while I was a schoolboy, there occasionally resided a Packman (the name then generally given to persons of this calling) with whom I had frequent conversations upon what had befallen him, and what he had observed, during his wandering life; and, as was natural, we took much to each other: and, upon the subject of "Pedlarism" in general, as 'then' followed, and its favourableness to an intimate knowledge of human concerns, not merely among the humbler classes of society, I need say nothing here in addition to what is to be found in the "Excursion," and a note attached to it. Now for the Solitary. Of him I have much less to say. Not long after we took up our abode at Grasmere, came to reside there, from what motive I either never knew or have forgotten, a Scotchman a little past the middle of life, who had for many years been chaplain to a Highland regiment. He was in no respect as far as I know, an interesting character, though in his appearance there was a good deal that attracted attention, as if he had been shattered in fortune and not happy in mind. Of his quondam position I availed myself, to connect with the Wanderer, also a Scotchman, a character suitable to my purpose, the elements of which I drew from several persons with whom I had been connected, and who fell under my observation during frequent residences in London at the beginning of the French Revolution. The chief of these was, one may 'now' say, a Mr. Fawcett, a preacher at a dissenting meeting-house at the Old Jewry. It happened to me several times to be one of his congregation through my connection with Mr. Nicholson of Cateaton Street, who at that time, when I had not many acquaintances in London, used often to invite me to dine with him on Sundays; and I took that opportunity (Mr. N. being a dissenter) of going to hear Fawcett, who was an able and eloquent man. He published a poem on war, which had a good deal of merit, and made me think more about him than I should otherwise have done. But his Christianity was probably never very deeply rooted; and, like many others in those times of like showy talents, he had not strength of character to withstand the effects of the French Revolution, and of the wild and lax opinions which had done so much towards producing it, and far more in carrying it forward in its extremes. Poor Fawcett, I have been told, became pretty much such a person as I have described; and early disappeared from the stage, having fallen into habits of intemperance, which I have heard (though I will not answer for the fact) hastened his death. Of him I need say no more: there were many like him at that time, which the world will never be without, but which were more numerous then for reasons too obvious to be dwelt upon. To what is said of the Pastor in the poem I have little to add, but what may be deemed superfluous. It has ever appeared to me highly favourable to the beneficial influence of the Church of England upon all gradations and classes of society, that the patronage of its benefices is in numerous instances attached to the estates of noble families of ancient gentry; and accordingly I am gratified by the opportunity afforded me in the "Excursion," to pourtray the character of a country clergyman of more than ordinary talents, born and bred in the upper ranks of society so as to partake of their refinements, and at the same time brought by his pastoral office and his love of rural life into intimate connection with the peasantry of his native district. To illustrate the relation which in my mind this Pastor bore to the Wanderer, and the resemblance between them, or rather the points of community in their nature, I likened one to an oak and the other to a sycamore; and, having here referred to this comparison, I need only add, I had no one individual in my mind, wishing rather to embody this idea than to break in upon the simplicity of it, by traits of individual character or of any peculiarity of opinion. And now for a few words upon the scene where these interviews and conversations are supposed to occur. The scene of the first book of the poem is, I must own, laid in a tract of country not sufficiently near to that which soon comes into view in the second book, to agree with the fact. All that relates to Margaret and the ruined cottage, etc., was taken from observations made in the south-west of England, and certainly it would require more than seven-league boots to stretch in one morning from a common in Somersetshire or Dorsetshire to the heights of Furness Fells and the deep valleys they embosom. For thus dealing with space I need make, I trust, no apology, but my friends may be amused by the truth. In the poem, I suppose that the Pedlar and I ascended from a plain country up the vale of Langdale, and struck off a good way above the chapel to the western side of the vale. We ascended the hill and thence looked down upon the circular recess in which lies Blea-Tarn, chosen by the Solitary for his retreat. After we quit his cottage, passing over a low ridge we descend into another vale, that of Little Langdale, towards the head of which stands, embowered or partly shaded by yews and other trees, something between a cottage and a mansion or gentleman's house such as they once were in this country. This I convert into the Parsonage, and at the same time, and as by the waving of a magic wand, I turn the comparatively confined vale of Langdale, its Tarn, and the rude chapel which once adorned the valley, into the stately and comparatively spacious vale of Grasmere, its Lake, and its ancient Parish Church; and upon the side of Loughrigg Fell, at the foot of the Lake, and looking down upon it and the whole vale and its encompassing mountains, the Pastor is supposed by me to stand, when at sunset he addresses his companions in words which I hope my readers will remember, or I should not have taken the trouble of giving so much in detail the materials on which my mind actually worked. Now for a few particulars of 'fact' respecting the persons whose stories are told or characters are described by the different speakers. To Margaret I have already alluded. I will add here, that the lines beginning, "She was a woman of a steady mind," faithfully delineate, as far as they go, the character possessed in common by many women whom it has been my happiness to know in humble life; and that several of the most touching things which she is represented as saying and doing are taken from actual observation of the distresses and trials under which different persons were suffering, some of them strangers to me, and others daily under my notice. I was born too late to have a distinct remembrance of the origin of the American war, but the state in which I represent Robert's mind to be I had frequent opportunities of observing at the commencement of our rupture with France in '93, opportunities of which I availed myself in the story of the Female Vagrant as told in the poem on "Guilt and Sorrow." The account given by the Solitary towards the close of the second book, in all that belongs to the character of the Old Man, was taken from a Grasmere pauper, who was boarded in the last house quitting the vale on the road to Ambleside: the character of his hostess, and all that befell the poor man upon the mountain, belong to Paterdale: the woman I knew well; her name was J- -, and she was exactly such a person as I describe. The ruins of the old chapel, among which the man was found lying, may yet be traced, and stood upon the ridge that divides Paterdale from Boardale and Martindale, having been placed there for the convenience of both districts. The glorious appearance disclosed above and among the mountains was described partly from what my friend Mr. Luff, who then lived in Paterdale, witnessed upon that melancholy occasion, and partly from what Mrs. Wordsworth and I had seen in company with Sir George and Lady Beaumont above Hartshope Hall on our way from Paterdale to Ambleside.

The fairest, brightest, hues of ether fade; The sweetest notes must terminate and die; O Friend! thy flute has breathed a harmony

'Tis not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined, The squeamish in taste, and the narrow of mind, And the small critic wielding his delicate pen,

"What is good for a bootless bene?" With these dark words begins my Tale; And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring

Among a grave fraternity of Monks, For One, but surely not for One alone, Triumphs, in that great work, the Painter's skill,

The peace which others seek they find; The heaviest storms not longest last; Heaven grants even to the guiltiest mind

A Conversation We talked with open heart, and tongue Affectionate and true,

Hunger, and sultry heat, and nipping blast From bleak hill-top, and length of march by night Through heavy swamp, or over snow-clad height,

Humanity, delighting to behold A fond reflection of her own decay, Hath painted Winter like a traveller old,

Oh! pleasant exercise of hope and joy! For mighty were the auxiliars which then stood Upon our side, we who were strong in love!

Abruptly paused the strife; the field throughout Resting upon his arms each warrior stood, Checked in the very act and deed of blood,

That happy gleam of vernal eyes, Those locks from summer's golden skies, That o'er thy brow are shed;

Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread

Those silver clouds collected round the sun His mid-day warmth abate not, seeming less To overshade than multiply his beams

If to Tradition faith be due, And echoes from old verse speak true, Ere the meek Saint, Columba, bore

If to Tradition faith be due, And echoes from old verse speak true, Ere the meek Saint, Columba, bore

Ere the Brothers through the gateway Issued forth with old and young, To the Horn Sir Eustace pointed

'Tis eight o'clock, a clear March night, The moon is up, the sky is blue, The owlet, in the moonlight air,

The valley rings with mirth and joy; Among the hills the echoes play A never never ending song,

Unquiet Childhood here by special grace Forgets her nature, opening like a flower That neither feeds nor wastes its vital power

The Voice of song from distant lands shall call To that great King; shall hail the crowned Youth Who, taking counsel of unbending Truth,

That way look, my Infant, lo! What a pretty baby-show! See the kitten on the wall,

Up to the throne of God is borne The voice of praise at early morn, And he accepts the punctual hymn

I In distant countries have I been, And yet I have not often seen

The leaves that rustled on this oak-crowned hill, And sky that danced among those leaves, are still; Rest smooths the way for sleep; in field and bower

Let us quit the leafy arbor, And the torrent murmuring by; For the sun is in his harbor,

The martial courage of a day is vain, An empty noise of death the battle's roar, If vital hope be wanting to restore,

A weight of awe, not easy to be borne, Fell suddenly upon my Spirit cast From the dread bosom of the unknown past,

I Hail, orient Conqueror of gloomy Night! Thou that canst shed the bliss of gratitude

A month, sweet Little-ones, is past Since your dear Mother went away,, And she tomorrow will return;

High on a broad unfertile tract of forest-skirted Down, Nor kept by Nature for herself, nor made by man his own, From home and company remote and every playful joy,

I His simple truths did Andrew glean Beside the babbling rills;

Oak of Guernica! Tree of holier power Than that which in Dodona did enshrine (So faith too fondly deemed) a voice divine

I saw an aged Beggar in my walk; And he was seated, by the highway side, On a low structure of rude masonry

I Within the mind strong fancies work. A deep delight the bosom thrills

The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink; I heard a voice; it said, "Drink, pretty creature, drink!" And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied

The pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute; The Roman kilt, degraded to a toy Of quaint apparel for a half-spoilt boy;

A Pilgrim, when the summer day Had closed upon his weary way, A lodging begged beneath a castle's roof;

Where towers are crushed, and unforbidden weeds O'er mutilated arches shed their seeds; And temples, doomed to milder change, unfold

As often as I murmur here My half-formed melodies, Straight from her osier mansion near,

Just as those final words were penned, the sun broke out in power, And gladdened all things; but, as chanced, within that very hour, Air blackened, thunder growled, fire flashed from clouds that hid the sky,

The power of Armies is a visible thing, Formal and circumscribed in time and space; But who the limits of that power shall trace

RETROSPECT LOVE OF NATURE LEADING TO LOVE OF MAN What sounds are those, Helvellyn, that are heard Up to thy summit, through the depth of air

FRANCE (concluded) From that time forth, Authority in France Put on a milder face; Terror had ceased,

BOOKS When Contemplation, like the night-calm felt Through earth and sky, spreads widely, and sends deep

INTRODUCTION CHILDHOOD AND SCHOOL-TIME Oh there is blessing in this gentle breeze, A visitant that while it fans my cheek

CONCLUSION In one of those excursions (may they ne'er Fade from remembrance!) through the Northern tracts

SUMMER VACATION Bright was the summer's noon when quickening steps Followed each other till a dreary moor

RESIDENCE IN FRANCE Even as a river, partly (it might seem) Yielding to old remembrances, and swayed

SCHOOL-TIME (continued) Thus far, O Friend! have we, though leaving much Unvisited, endeavoured to retrace

RESIDENCE IN LONDON Six changeful years have vanished since I first Poured out (saluted by that quickening breeze

CAMBRIDGE AND THE ALPS The leaves were fading when to Esthwaite's banks And the simplicities of cottage life

RESIDENCE IN FRANCE (continued) It was a beautiful and silent day That overspread the countenance of earth,

RESIDENCE AT CAMBRIDGE It was a dreary morning when the wheels Rolled over a wide plain o'erhung with clouds,

IMAGINATION AND TASTE, HOW IMPAIRED AND RESTORED (concluded) From Nature doth emotion come, and moods Of calmness equally are Nature's gift:

IMAGINATION AND TASTE, HOW IMPAIRED AND RESTORED Long time have human ignorance and guilt Detained us, on what spectacles of woe

The following Poem was commenced in the beginning of the year 1799, and completed in the summer of 1805. The design and occasion of the work are described by the Author in his Preface to the EXCURSION, first published in 1814, where he thus speaks: "Several years ago, when the Author retired to his native mountains with the hope of being enabled to construct a literary work that might live, it was a reasonable thing that he should take a review of his own mind, and examine how far Nature and Education had qualified him for such an employment.

A Rock there is whose homely front The passing traveller slights; Yet there the glow-worms hang their lamps,

FROM CHAUCER "Call up him who left half told The story of Cambuscan bold."

My heart leaps up when I behold A Rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began;

HOME AT GRASMERE Once to the verge of yon steep barrier came A roving school-boy; what the adventurer's age

Driven in by Autumn's sharpening air From half-stripped woods and pastures bare, Brisk Robin seeks a kindlier home:

Art thou the bird whom Man loves best, The pious bird with the scarlet breast, Our little English Robin;

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard

Not envying Latian shades, if yet they throw A grateful coolness round that crystal Spring, Blandusia, prattling as when long ago

Child of the clouds! remote from every taint Of sordid industry thy lot is cast; Thine are the honours of the lofty waste

How shall I paint thee? Be this naked stone My seat, while I give way to such intent; Pleased could my verse, a speaking monument,

Take, cradled Nursling of the mountain, take This parting glance, no negligent adieu! A Protean change seems wrought while I pursue

The Minstrels played their Christmas tune To-night beneath my cottage-eaves; While, smitten by a lofty moon,

Sole listener, Duddon! to the breeze that played With thy clear voice, I caught the fitful sound Wafted o'er sullen moss and craggy mound,

Ere yet our course was graced with social trees It lacked not old remains of hawthorn bowers, Where small birds warbled to their paramours;

"Change me, some God, into that breathing rose!" The love-sick Stripling fancifully sighs, The envied flower beholding, as it lies

What aspect bore the Man who roved or fled, First of his tribe, to this dark dell who first In this pellucid Current slaked his thirst?

Not so that Pair whose youthful spirits dance With prompt emotion, urging them to pass; A sweet confusion checks the Shepherd-lass;

No fiction was it of the antique age: A sky-blue stone, within this sunless cleft, Is of the very footmarks unbereft

On, loitering Muse, the swift Stream chides us on! Albeit his deep-worn channel doth immure Objects immense portrayed in miniature,

Hail to the fields, with Dwellings sprinkled o'er, And one small hamlet, under a green hill Clustering, with barn and byre, and spouting mill!

O Mountain Stream! the Shepherd and his Cot Are privileged Inmates of deep solitude; Nor would the nicest Anchorite exclude

The struggling Rill insensibly is grown Into a Brook of loud and stately march, Crossed ever and anon by plank or arch;

My frame hath often trembled with delight When hope presented some far-distant good, That seemed from heaven descending, like the flood

From this deep chasm, where quivering sunbeams play Upon its loftiest crags, mine eyes behold A gloomy Niche, capacious, blank, and cold;

Such fruitless questions may not long beguile Or plague the fancy 'mid the sculptured shows Conspicuous yet where Oroonoko flows;

A dark plume fetch me from yon blasted yew, Perched on whose top the Danish Raven croaks; Aloft, the imperial Bird of Rome invokes

Sacred Religion! "mother of form and fear," Dread arbitress of mutable respect, New rites ordaining when the old are wrecked,

The old inventive Poets, had they seen, Or rather felt, the entrancement that detains Thy waters, Duddon! 'mid these flowery plains

Whence that low voice? A whisper from the heart, That told of days long past, when here I roved With friends and kindred tenderly beloved;

A love-lorn Maid, at some far-distant time, Came to this hidden pool, whose depths surpass In crystal clearness Dian's looking-glass;

Sad thoughts, avaunt! partake we their blithe cheer Who gathered in betimes the unshorn flock To wash the fleece, where haply bands of rock,

Mid-noon is past; upon the sultry mead No zephyr breathes, no cloud its shadow throws: If we advance unstrengthened by repose,

No record tells of lance opposed to lance, Horse charging horse, 'mid these retired domains; Tells that their turf drank purple from the veins

Methinks 'twere no unprecedented feat Should some benignant Minister of air Lift, and encircle with a cloudy chair,

Return, Content! for fondly I pursued, Even when a child, the Streams, unheard, unseen; Through tangled woods, impending rocks between;

Fallen, and diffused into a shapeless heap, Or quietly self-buried in earth's mould, Is that embattled House, whose massy Keep,

I rose while yet the cattle, heat-opprest, Crowded together under rustling trees Brushed by the current of the water-breeze;

Who swerves from innocence, who makes divorce Of that serene companion, a good name, Recovers not his loss; but walks with shame,

The Kirk of Ulpha to the pilgrim's eye Is welcome as a star, that doth present Its shining forehead through the peaceful rent

Not hurled precipitous from steep to steep; Lingering no more 'mid flower-enameled lands And blooming thickets; nor by rocky bands

But here no cannon thunders to the gale; Upon the wave no haughty pendants cast A crimson splendour: lowly is the mast

I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide, As being past away. Vain sympathies! For, backward, Duddon, as I cast my eyes,

Eden! till now thy beauty had I viewed By glimpses only, and confess with shame That verse of mine, whate'er its varying mood,

While Merlin paced the Cornish sands, Forth-looking toward the rocks of Scilly, The pleased Enchanter was aware

I Enough of rose-bud lips, and eyes Like harebells bathed in dew,

One morning (raw it was and wet A foggy day in winter time) A Woman on the road I met,

Or, The Solitude Of Binnorie Seven Daughter had Lord Archibald, All children of one mother:

The Shepherd, looking eastward, softly said "Bright is thy veil, O Moon, as thou art bright!" Forthwith, that little cloud, in ether spread

Brook and road Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass, And with them did we journey several hours

Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself;

List, ye who pass by Lyulph's Tower At eve; how softly then Doth Aira-force, that torrent hoarse,

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room, And hermits are contented with their cells, And students with their pensive citadels;

Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frown'd, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlock'd his heart; the melody

Behold, within the leafy shade, Those bright blue eggs together laid! On me the chance-discovered sight

The stars are mansions built by Nature's hand, And, haply, there the spirits of the blest Dwell, clothed in radiance, their immortal vest;

The sun has long been set, The stars are out by twos and threes, The little birds are piping yet

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; Or surely you'll grow double: Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;

I "There is a Thorn, it looks so old, In truth, you'd find it hard to say

Show me the noblest Youth of present time, Whose trembling fancy would to love give birth; Some God or Hero, from the Olympian clime

There's not a nook within this solemn Pass, But were an apt confessional for one Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,

We walked along, while bright and red Uprose the morning sun; And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said

O now that the genius of Bewick were mine, And the skill which he learned on the banks of the Tyne. Then the Muses might deal with me just as they chose,

The unremitting voice of nightly streams That wastes so oft, we think, its tuneful powers, If neither soothing to the worm that gleams

Mother! whose virgin bosom was uncrost With the least shade of thought to sin allied. Woman! above all women glorified,

'Tis spent this burning day of June! Soft darkness o'er its latest gleams is stealing; The buzzing dor-hawk, round and round, is wheeling,

Thus they, with freaks of proud delight, Beguile the remnant of the night; And many a snatch of jovial song

IF Wytheburn's modest House of prayer, As lowly as the lowliest dwelling, Had, with its belfry's humble stock,

Right gladly had the horses stirred, When they the wished-for greeting heard, The whip's loud notice from the door,

I "Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf," Exclaimed an angry Voice,

I Seek who will delight in fable I shall tell you truth. A Lamb

DEDICATION In trellised shed with clustering roses gay, And, MARY! oft beside our blazing fire,

High on a point of rugged ground Among the wastes of Rylstone Fell Above the loftiest ridge or mound

From Bolton's old monastic tower The bells ring loud with gladsome power; The sun shines bright; the fields are gay

'Tis night: in silence looking down, The Moon, from cloudless ether, sees A Camp, and a beleaguered Town,

The Harp in lowliness obeyed; And first we sang of the greenwood shade And a solitary Maid;

"Powers there are That touch each other to the quick in modes Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive,

Why comes not Francis? From the doleful City He fled, and, in his flight, could hear The death-sounds of the Minster-bell:

Now joy for you who from the towers Of Brancepeth look in doubt and fear, Telling melancholy hours!

In trellised shed with clustering roses gay, And, MARY! oft beside our blazing fire, When yeas of wedded life were as a day

I How beautiful when up a lofty height Honour ascends among the humblest poor,

The imperial Consort of the Fairy-king Owns not a sylvan bower; or gorgeous cell With emerald floored, and with purpureal shell

[In the vale of Grasmere, by the side of an old highway leading to Ambleside, is a gate, which, from time out of mind, has been called the Wishing-gate, from a belief that

'Tis gone, with old belief and dream That round it clung, and tempting scheme Released from fear and doubt;

The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours;

There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear Than his who breathes, by roof, and floor, and wall, Pent in, a Tyrant's solitary Thrall:

There is a little unpretending Rill Of limpid water, humbler far than aught That ever among Men or Naiads sought

'There is a pleasure in poetic pains Which only Poets know'; 'twas rightly said; Whom could the Muses else allure to tread

There is an Eminence, of these our hills The last that parleys with the setting sun; We can behold it from our orchard-seat;

There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs And islands of Winander! many a time, At evening, when the earliest stars began

They called Thee Merry England, in old time; A happy people won for thee that name With envy heard in many a distant clime;

This Lawn, a carpet all alive With shadows flung from leaves, to strive In dance, amid a press

Those words were uttered as in pensive mood We turned, departing from that solemn sight: A contrast and reproach to gross delight,

Through narrow be that old Man's cares, and near, The poor old Man is greater than he seems: For he hath waking empire, wide as dreams;

Though the bold wings of Poesy affect The clouds, and wheel around the mountain tops Rejoicing, from her loftiest height she drops

Two Voices are there; one is of the sea, One of the mountains; each a mighty Voice: In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,

Flattered with promise of escape From every hurtful blast, Spring takes, O sprightly May! thy shape,

Three years she grew in sun and shower, Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flower On earth was never sown;

'Tis He whose yester-evening's high disdain Beat back the roaring storm, but how subdued His day-break note, a sad vicissitude!

"Tum porro puer, ut saevis projectus ab undis Navita, nudus humi jacet, etc." Lucretius. Like a shipwrecked Sailor tost

Such age how beautiful! O Lady bright, Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined By favouring Nature and a saintly Mind

Let other bards of angels sing, Bright suns without a spot; But thou art no such perfect thing:

Happy the feeling from the bosom thrown In perfect shape (whose beauty Time shall spare Though a breath made it) like a bubble blown

Stay near me, do not take thy flight! A little longer stay in sight! Much converse do I find I thee,

I've watched you now a full half-hour; Self-poised upon that yellow flower And, little Butterfly! indeed

Small service is true service while it lasts: Of humblest Friends, bright Creature! scorn not one: The Daisy, by the shadow that it casts,

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,

Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower! Twice seven consenting years have shed

Fair Lady! can I sing of flowers That in Madeira bloom and fade, I who ne'er sate within their bowers,

All praise the Likeness by thy skill portrayed; But 'tis a fruitless task to paint for me, Who, yielding not to changes Time has made,

Stay, little cheerful Robin! stay, And at my casement sing, Though it should prove a farewell lay

Let thy wheel-barrow alone Wherefore, Sexton, piling still In thy bone-house bone on bone?

Up with me! up with me into the clouds! For thy song, Lark, is strong; Up with me, up with me into the clouds!

Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye

Lone Flower, hemmed in with snows and white as they But hardier far, once more I see thee bend Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend,

Dear Child of Nature, let them rail! There is a nest in a green dale, A harbour and a hold;

High is our calling, Friend! Creative Art (Whether the instrument of words she use, Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues,)

Not in the mines beyond the western main, You say, Cordelia, was the metal sought, Which a fine skill, of Indian growth, has wrought

"'A little onward lend thy guiding hand To these dark steps, a little further on!'" What trick of memory to 'my' voice hath brought

Keep for the Young the impassioned smile Shed from thy countenance, as I see thee stand High on that chalky cliff of Britain's Isle,

SIX YEARS OLD O thou! whose fancies from afar are brought; Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel,

The star which comes at close of day to shine More heavenly bright than when it leads the morn, Is friendship's emblem, whether the forlorn

Amid the smoke of cities did you pass The time of early youth; and there you learned, From years of quiet industry, to love

Lady! the songs of Spring were in the grove While I was shaping beds for winter flowers; While I was planting green unfading bowers,

A stream to mingle with your favorite Dee Along the Vale of Meditation flows; So styled by those fierce Britons, pleased to see

Though many suns have risen and set Since thou, blithe May, wert born, And Bards, who hailed thee, may forget

It is the first mild day of March: Each minute sweeter than before The redbreast sings from the tall larch

Rotha, my Spiritual Child! this head was grey When at the sacred font for thee I stood; Pledged till thou reach the verge of womanhood,

Excuse is needless when with love sincere Of occupation, not by fashion led, Thou turn'st the Wheel that slept with dust o'erspread;

Far from our home by Grasmere's quiet Lake, From the Vale's peace which all her fields partake, Here on the bleakest point of Cumbria's shore

Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep! And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names; The very sweetest, Fancy culls or frames,

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by, One after one; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,

Go, faithful Portrait! and where long hath knelt Margaret, the Saintly Foundress, take thy place; And, if Time spare the colours for the grace

Army of Clouds! ye winged Hosts in troops Ascending from behind the motionless brow Of that tall rock, as from a hidden world,

O blithe New-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice. O Cuckoo! Shall I call thee Bird,

Bright Flower! whose home is everywhere, Bold in maternal Nature's care, And all the long year through the heir

In youth from rock to rock I went From hill to hill in discontent Of pleasure high and turbulent,

"Her divine skill taught me this, That from every thing I saw I could some instruction draw,