—It seems a day,One of those heavenly days which cannot die,When forth I sallied from our cottage-door, [1]And with a wallet o'er my shoulder slung,A nutting crook in hand, I turn'd my stepsTowards the distant woods, a Figure quaint,Trick'd out in proud disguise of Beggar's weedsPut on for the occasion, by adviceAnd exhortation of my frugal Dame.
[Footnote 1: The house at which I was boarded during the timeI was at School.]
Motley accoutrements! of power to smileAt thorns, and brakes, and brambles, and, in truth,More ragged than need was. Among the woods,And o'er the pathless rocks, I forc'd my wayUntil, at length, I came to one dear nookUnvisited, where not a broken boughDroop'd with its wither'd leaves, ungracious signOf devastation, but the hazels roseTall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung,A virgin scene!—A little while I stood,Breathing with such suppression of the heartAs joy delights in; and with wise restraintVoluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyedThe banquet, or beneath the trees I sateAmong the flowers, and with the flowers I play'd;A temper known to those, who, after longAnd weary expectation, have been bless'dWith sudden happiness beyond all hope.——Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leavesThe violets of five seasons re-appearAnd fade, unseen by any human eye,Where fairy water-breaks do murmur onFor ever, and I saw the sparkling foam,And with my cheek on one of those green stonesThat, fleec'd with moss, beneath the shady trees,Lay round me scatter'd like a flock of sheep,I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound,In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to payTribute to ease, and, of its joy secureThe heart luxuriates with indifferent things,Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,And dragg'd to earth both branch and bough, with crashAnd merciless ravage; and the shady nookOf hazels, and the green and mossy bowerDeform'd and sullied, patiently gave upTheir quiet being: and unless I nowConfound my present feelings with the past,Even then, when, from the bower I turn'd away,Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kingsI felt a sense of pain when I beheldThe silent trees and the intruding sky.—
Then, dearest Maiden! move along these shadesIn gentleness of heart with gentle handTouch,—for there is a Spirit in the woods.
Three years she grew in sun and shower,Then Nature said, "A lovelier flowerOn earth was never sown;This Child I to myself will take,She shall be mine, and I will makeA Lady of my own."
Myself will to my darling beBoth law and impulse, and with meThe Girl in rock and plain,In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,Shall feel an overseeing powerTo kindle or restrain.
She shall be sportive as the fawnThat wild with glee across the lawnOr up the mountain springs,And hers shall be the breathing balm,And hers the silence and the calmOf mute insensate things.
The floating clouds their state shall lendTo her, for her the willow bend,Nor shall she fail to seeEven in the motions of the stormA beauty that shall mould her formBy silent sympathy.
The stars of midnight shall be dearTo her, and she shall lean her earIn many a secret placeWhere rivulets dance their wayward round,And beauty born of murmuring soundShall pass into her face.
And vital feelings of delightShall rear her form to stately height,Her virgin bosom swell,Such thoughts to Lucy I will giveWhile she and I together liveHere in this happy dell.
Thus Nature spake—The work was done—How soon my Lucy's race was run!She died and left to meThis heath, this calm and quiet scene,The memory of what has been,And never more will be.
The Pet-Lamb, A Pastoral.
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;A snow-white mountain Lamb with a Maiden at its side.
No other sheep were near, the Lamb was all alone,And by a slender cord was tether'd to a stone;With one knee on the grass did the little Maiden kneel,While to that Mountain Lamb she gave its evening meal.
The Lamb while from her hand he thus his supper tookSeem'd to feast with head and ears, and his tail with pleasure shook."Drink, pretty Creature, drink," she said in such a toneThat I almost receiv'd her heart into my own.
'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a Child of beauty rare;I watch'd them with delight, they were a lovely pair.And now with empty Can the Maiden turn'd away,But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay.
Towards the Lamb she look'd, and from that shady placeI unobserv'd could see the workings of her face:If Nature to her tongue could measur'd numbers bringThus, thought I, to her Lamb that little Maid would sing.
What ails thee, Young One? What? Why pull so at thy cord?Is it not well with thee? Well both for bed and board?Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be.Rest little Young One, rest; what is't that aileth thee?
What is it thou would'st seek? What is wanting to thy heart?Thy limbs are they not strong? And beautiful thou art:This grass is tender grass, these flowers they have no peer,And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears.
If the Sun is shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain,This beech is standing by, its covert thou can'st gain,For rain and mountain storms the like thou need'st not fear,The rain and storm are things which scarcely can come here.
Rest, little Young One, rest; thou hast forgot the dayWhen my Father found thee first in places far away:Many flocks are on the hills, but thou wert own'd by none,And thy Mother from thy side for evermore was gone.
He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home,A blessed day for thee! then whither would'st thou roam?A faithful nurse thou hast, the dam that did thee yeanUpon the mountain tops no kinder could have been.
Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in this CanFresh water from the brook as clear as ever ran;And twice in the day when the ground is wet with dewI bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new.
Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now,Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough,My playmate thou shalt be, and when the wind is coldOur hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.
It will not, will not rest!—poor Creature can it beThat 'tis thy Mother's heart which is working so in thee?Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,And dreams of things which thou can'st neither see nor hear.
Alas, the mountain tops that look so green and fair!I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there,The little brooks, that seem all pastime and all play,When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.
Here thou needst not dread the raven in the sky,He will not come to thee, our Cottage is hard by,Night and day thou art safe as living thing can be,Be happy then and rest, what is't that aileth thee?
As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat,And it seem'd as I retrac'd the ballad line by lineThat but half of it was hers, and one half of it was mine.
Again, and once again did I repeat the song,"Nay" said I, "more than half to the Damsel must belong,For she look'd with such a look, and she spake with such a tone,That I almost receiv'd her heart into my own."
Written in GERMANY,On one of the coldest days of the Century.
I must apprize the Reader that the stoves in North Germany generally have the impression of a galloping Horse upon them, this being part of the Brunswick Arms.
A fig for your languages, German and Norse,Let me have the song of the Kettle,And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horseThat gallops away with such fury and forceOn this dreary dull plate of black metal.
Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff,But her pulses beat slower and slower.The weather in Forty was cutting and rough,And then, as Heaven knows, the glass stood low enough,Andnowit is four degrees lower.
Here's a Fly, a disconsolate creature, perhapsA child of the field, or the grove,And sorrow for him! this dull treacherous heatHas seduc'd the poor fool from his winter retreat,And he creeps to the edge of my stove.
Alas! how he fumbles about the domainsWhich this comfortless oven environ,He cannot find out in what track he must crawlNow back to the tiles, and now back to the hall,And now on the brink of the iron.
Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemaz'd,The best of his skill he has tried;His feelers methinks I can see him put forthTo the East and the West, and the South and the North,But he finds neither guide-post nor guide.
See! his spindles sink under him, foot, leg and thigh,His eyesight and hearing are lost,Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws,And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauzeAre glued to his sides by the frost.
No Brother, no Friend has he near him, while ICan draw warmth from the cheek of my Love,As blest and as glad in this desolate gloom,As if green summer grass were the floor of my room,And woodbines were hanging above.
Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless Thing,Thy life I would gladly sustainTill summer comes up from the South, and with crowdsOf thy brethren a march thou should'st sound through the clouds,And back to the forests again.
The CHILDLESS FATHER.
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,And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds.
—Of coats and of jackets both grey, scarlet, and green,On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen,With their comely blue aprons and caps white as snow,The girls on the hills made a holiday show.
The bason of box-wood, [9] just six months before,Had stood on the table at Timothy's door,A Coffin through Timothy's threshold had pass'd,One Child did it bear and that Child was his last.
[Footnote 9: In several parts of the North of England, when a funeral takes place, a bason full of Sprigs of Box-wood is placed at the door of the house from which the Coffin is taken up, and each person who attends the funeral ordinarily takes a Sprig of this Box-wood, and throws it into the grave of the deceased.]
Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray,The horse and the horn, and the hark! hark! away!Old Timothy took up his Staff, and he shutWith a leisurely motion the door of his hut.
Perhaps to himself at that moment he said,"The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead"But of this in my ears not a word did he speak,And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.
The OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR,A DESCRIPTION.
The class of Beggars to which the old man here described belongs, will probably soon be extinct. It consisted of poor, and, mostly, old and infirm persons, who confined themselves to a stated round in their neighbourhood, and had certain fixed days, on which, at different houses, they regularly received charity; sometimes in money, but mostly in provisions.
I saw an aged Beggar in my walk,And he was seated by the highway sideOn a low structure of rude masonryBuilt at the foot of a huge hill, that theyWho lead their horses down the steep rough roadMay thence remount at ease. The aged manHad placed his staff across the broad smooth stoneThat overlays the pile, and from a bagAll white with flour the dole of village dames,He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one,And scann'd them with a fix'd and serious lookOf idle computation. In the sun,Upon the second step of that small pile,Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills,He sate, and eat his food in solitude;And ever, scatter'd from his palsied hand,That still attempting to prevent the waste,Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showersFell on the ground, and the small mountain birds,Not venturing yet to peck their destin'd meal,Approached within the length of half his staff.
Him from my childhood have I known, and thenHe was so old, he seems not older now;He travels on, a solitary man,So helpless in appearance, that for himThe sauntering horseman-traveller does not throwWith careless hand his alms upon the ground,But stops, that he may safely lodge the coinWithin the old Man's hat; nor quits him so,But still when he has given his horse the reinTowards the aged Beggar turns a look,Sidelong and half-reverted. She who tendsThe toll-gate, when in summer at her doorShe turns her wheel, if on the road she seesThe aged Beggar coming, quits her work,And lifts the latch for him that he may pass.The Post-boy when his rattling wheels o'ertakeThe aged Beggar, in the woody lane,Shouts to him from behind, and, if perchanceThe old Man does not change his course, the BoyTurns with less noisy wheels to the road-side,And passes gently by, without a curseUpon his lips, or anger at his heart.
He travels on, a solitary Man,His age has no companion. On the groundHis eyes are turn'd, and, as he moves along,Theymove along the ground; and evermore;Instead of common and habitual sightOf fields with rural works, of hill and dale,And the blue sky, one little span of earthIs all his prospect. Thus, from day to day,Bowbent, his eyes for ever on the ground,He plies his weary journey, seeing still,And never knowing that he sees, some straw,Some scatter'd leaf, or marks which, in one track,The nails of cart or chariot wheel have leftImpress'd on the white road, in the same line,At distance still the same. Poor Traveller!His staff trails with him, scarcely do his feetDisturb the summer dust, he is so stillIn look and motion that the cottage curs,Ere he have pass'd the door, will turn awayWeary of barking at him. Boys and girls,The vacant and the busy, maids and youths,And urchins newly breech'd all pass him by:Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind.
But deem not this man useless.—Statesmen! yeWho are so restless in your wisdom, yeWho have a broom still ready in your handsTo rid the world of nuisances; ye proud,Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplateYour talents, power, and wisdom, deem him notA burthen of the earth. Tis Nature's lawThat none, the meanest of created things,Of forms created the most vile and brute,The dullest or most noxious, should existDivorced from good, a spirit and pulse of good,A life and soul to every mode of beingInseparably link'd. While thus he creepsFrom door to door, the Villagers in himBehold a record which together bindsPast deeds and offices of charityElse unremember'd, and so keeps aliveThe kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years,And that half-wisdom, half-experience givesMake slow to feel, and by sure steps resignTo selfishness and cold oblivious cares.
Among the farms and solitary hutsHamlets, and thinly-scattered villages,Where'er the aged Beggar takes his rounds,The mild necessity of use compelsTo acts of love; and habit does the workOf reason, yet prepares that after joyWhich reason cherishes. And thus the soul,By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursu'dDoth find itself insensibly dispos'dTo virtue and true goodness. Some there are,By their good works exalted, lofty mindsAnd meditative, authors of delightAnd happiness, which to the end of timeWill live, and spread, and kindle; minds like these,In childhood, from this solitary being,This helpless wanderer, have perchance receiv'd,(A thing more precious far than all that booksOr the solicitudes of love can do!)That first mild touch of sympathy and thought,In which they found their kindred with a worldWhere want and sorrow were. The easy manWho sits at his own door, and like the pearWhich overhangs his head from the green wall,Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and young,The prosperous and unthinking, they who liveShelter'd, and flourish in a little groveOf their own kindred, all behold in himA silent monitor, which on their mindsMust needs impress a transitory thoughtOf self-congratulation, to the heartOf each recalling his peculiar boons,His charters and exemptions; and perchance,Though he to no one give the fortitudeAnd circumspection needful to preserveHis present blessings, and to husband upThe respite of the season, he, at least,And 'tis no vulgar service, makes them felt.
Yet further.—Many, I believe, there areWho live a life of virtuous decency,Men who can hear the Decalogue and feelNo self-reproach, who of the moral lawEstablish'd in the land where they abideAre strict observers, and not negligent,Meanwhile, in any tenderness of heartOr act of love to those with whom they dwell,Their kindred, and the children of their blood.
Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace!—But of the poor man ask, the abject poor,Go and demand of him, if there be here,In this cold abstinence from evil deeds,And these inevitable charities,Wherewith to satisfy the human soul.No—man is dear to man: the poorest poorLong for some moments in a weary lifeWhen they can know and feel that they have beenThemselves the fathers and the dealers outOf some small blessings, have been kind to suchAs needed kindness, for this single cause,That we have all of us one human heart.
—Such pleasure is to one kind Being knownMy Neighbour, when with punctual care, each weekDuly as Friday comes, though press'd herselfBy her own wants, she from her chest of mealTakes one unsparing handful for the scripOf this old Mendicant, and, from her doorReturning with exhilarated heart,Sits by her tire and builds her hope in heav'n.
Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!And while, in that vast solitude to whichThe tide of things has led him, he appearsTo breathe and live but for himself alone,Unblam'd, uninjur'd, let him bear aboutThe good which the benignant law of heavenHas hung around him, and, while life is his,Still let him prompt the unletter'd VillagersTo tender offices and pensive thoughts.
Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!And, long as he can wander, let him breatheThe freshness of the vallies, let his bloodStruggle with frosty air and winter snows,And let the charter'd wind that sweeps the heathBeat his grey locks against his wither'd face.Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousnessGives the last human interest to his heart.May never House, misnamed of industry,Make him a captive; for that pent-up din,Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air,Be his the natural silence of old age.
Let him be free of mountain solitudes,And have around him, whether heard or nor,The pleasant melody of woodland birds.Few are his pleasures; if his eyes, which nowHave been so long familiar with the earth,No more behold the horizontal sunRising or setting, let the light at leastFind a free entrance to their languid orbs.
And let him,whereandwhenhe will, sit downBeneath the trees, or by the grassy bankOf high-way side, and with the little birdsShare his chance-gather'd meal, and, finally,As in the eye of Nature he has liv'd,So in the eye of Nature let him die.
There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore,Three rosy-cheek'd School-boys, the highest not moreThan the height of a Counsellor's bag;To the top of Great How did it please them to climb,and there they built up without mortar or limeA Man on the peak of the crag.
They built him of stones gather'd up as they lay,They built him and christen'd him all in one day,An Urchin both vigorous and hale;And so without scruple they call'd him Ralph Jones.Now Ralph is renown'd for the length of his bones;The Magog of Legberthwaite dale.
Just half a week after the Wind sallied forth,And, in anger or merriment, out of the NorthComing on with a terrible pother,From the peak of the crag blew the Giant away.And what did these School-boys?—The very next dayThey went and they built up another.
—Some little I've seen of blind boisterous worksIn Paris and London, 'mong Christians or Turks,Spirits busy to do and undo:At remembrance whereof my blood sometimes will flag.—Then, light-hearted Boys, to the top of the Crag!And I'll build up a Giant with you.
Great How is a single and conspicuous hill, which rises towards the foot of Thirl-mere, on the western side of the beautiful dale of Legberthwaite, along the 'high road between Keswick' and Ambleside.
Art thou a Statesman, in the vanOf public business train'd and bred,—First learn to love one living man;Thenmay'st thou think upon the dead.
A Lawyer art thou?—draw not nigh;Go, carry to some other placeThe hardness of thy coward eye,The falshood of thy sallow face.
Art thou a man of purple cheer?A rosy man, right plump to see?Approach; yet Doctor, not too near:This grave no cushion is for thee.
Art thou a man of gallant pride,A Soldier, and no mail of chaff?Welcome!—but lay thy sword aside,And lean upon a Peasant's staff.
Physician art thou? One, all eyes,Philosopher! a fingering slave,One that would peep and botanizeUpon his mother's grave?
Wrapp'd closely in thy sensual fleeceO turn aside, and take, I pray,That he below may rest in peace,Thy pin-point of a soul away!
—A Moralist perchance appears;Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod:And He has neither eyes nor ears;Himself his world, and his own God;
One to whose smooth-rubb'd soul can clingNor form nor feeling great nor small,A reasoning, self-sufficing thing,An intellectual All in All!
Shut close the door! press down the latch:Sleep in thy intellectual crust,Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch,Near this unprofitable dust.
But who is He with modest looks,And clad in homely russet brown?He murmurs near the running brooksA music sweeter than their own.
He is retired as noontide dew,Or fountain in a noonday grove;And you must love him, ere to youHe will seem worthy of your love.
The outward shews of sky and earth.Of hill and valley he has view'd;And impulses of deeper birthHave come to him in solitude.
In common things that round us lieSome random truths he can impartThe harvest of a quiet eyeThat broods and sleeps on his own heart.
But he is weak, both man and boy,Hath been an idler in the land;Contented if he might enjoyThe things which others understand.
—Come hither in thy hour of strength,Come, weak as is a breaking wave!Here stretch thy body at full lengthOr build thy house upon this grave.—
A CHARACTER,In the antithetical Manner.
I marvel how Nature could ever find spaceFor the weight and the levity seen in his face:There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloom,And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.
There's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain;Such strength, as if ever affliction and painCould pierce through a temper that's soft to disease,Would be rational peace—a philosopher's ease.
There's indifference, alike when he fails and succeeds,And attention full ten times as much as there needs,Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy;And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy.
There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stareOf shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there.There's virtue, the title it surely may claim,Yet wants, heaven knows what, to be worthy the name.
What a picture! 'tis drawn without nature or art,—Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart,And I for five centuries right gladly would beSuch an odd, such a kind happy creature as he.
Between two sister moorland rillsThere is a spot that seems to lieSacred to flowrets of the hills,And sacred to the sky.
And in this smooth and open dellThere is a tempest-stricken tree;A corner stone by lightning cut,The last stone of a cottage hut;And in this dell you seeA thing no storm can e'er destroy,The shadow of a Danish Boy.
In clouds above, the lark is heard,He sings his blithest and his beet;But in this lonesome nook the birdDid never build his nest.
No beast, no bird hath here his home;The bees borne on the breezy airPass high above those fragrant bellsTo other flowers, to other dells.Nor ever linger there.The Danish Boy walks here alone:The lovely dell is all his own.
A spirit of noon day is he,He seems a Form of flesh and blood;A piping Shepherd he might be,A Herd-boy of the wood.
A regal vest of fur he wears,In colour like a raven's wing;It fears nor rain, nor wind, nor dew,But in the storm 'tis fresh and blueAs budding pines in Spring;His helmet has a vernal grace,Fresh as the bloom upon his face.
A harp is from his shoulder slung;He rests the harp upon his knee,And there in a forgotten tongueHe warbles melody.
Of flocks and herds both far and nearHe is the darling and the joy,And often, when no cause appears,The mountain ponies prick their ears,They hear the Danish Boy,While in the dell he sits aloneBeside the tree and corner-stone.
When near this blasted tree you pass,Two sods are plainly to be seenClose at its root, and each with grassIs cover'd fresh and green.
Like turf upon a new-made graveThese two green sods together lie,Nor heat, nor cold, nor rain, nor windCan these two sods together bind,Nor sun, nor earth, nor sky,But side by side the two are laid,As if just sever'd by the spade.
There sits he: in his face you spyNo trace of a ferocious air,Nor ever was a cloudless skySo steady or so fair.
The lovely Danish Boy is blestAnd happy in his flowery cove;From bloody deeds his thoughts are far;And yet he warbles songs of war;They seem like songs of love,For calm and gentle is his mien;Like a dead Boy he is serene.
By Persons resident in the country and attached to rural objects, many places will be found unnamed or of unknown names, where little Incidents will have occurred, or feelings been experienced, which will have given to such places a private and peculiar interest. From a wish to give some sort of record to such Incidents or renew the gratification of such Feelings, Names have been given to Places by the Author and some of his Friends, and the following Poems written in consequence.
POEMS on the NAMING of PLACES.
1.
It was an April Morning: fresh and clearThe Rivulet, delighting in its strength,Ran with a young man's speed, and yet the voiceOf waters which the winter had suppliedWas soften'd down into a vernal tone.
The spirit of enjoyment and desire,And hopes and wishes, from all living thingsWent circling, like a multitude of sounds.The budding groves appear'd as if in hasteTo spur the steps of June; as if their shadesOf various green were hindrances that stoodBetween them and their object: yet, meanwhile,There was such deep contentment in the airThat every naked ash, and tardy treeYet leafless, seem'd as though the countenanceWith which it look'd on this delightful dayWere native to the summer.—Up the brookI roam'd in the confusion of my heart,Alive to all things and forgetting all.
At length I to a sudden turning cameIn this continuous glen, where down a rockThe stream, so ardent in its course before,Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that allWhich I till then had heard, appear'd the voiceOf common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb,The Shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrushVied with this waterfall, and made a songWhich, while I listen'd, seem'd like the wild growthOr like some natural produce of the airThat could not cease to be. Green leaves were here,But 'twas the foliage of the rocks, the birch,The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn,With hanging islands of resplendent furze:And on a summit, distant a short space,By any who should look beyond the dell,A single mountain Cottage might be seen.I gaz'd and gaz'd, and to myself I said,"Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook,My EMMA, I will dedicate to thee."
—Soon did the spot become my other home,My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode.And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there,To whom I sometimes in our idle talkHave told this fancy, two or three, perhaps,Years after we are gone and in our graves,When they have cause to speak of this wild place,May call it by the name of EMMA'S DELL.
To JOANNA.
Amid the smoke of cities did you passYour time of early youth, and there you learn'd,From years of quiet industry, to loveThe living Beings by your own fire-side,With such a strong devotion, that your heartIs slow towards the sympathies of themWho look upon the hills with tenderness,And make dear friendships with the streams and groves.Yet we who are transgressors in this kind,Dwelling retired in our simplicityAmong the woods and fields, we love you well,Joanna! and I guess, since you have beenSo distant from us now for two long years,That you will gladly listen to discourseHowever trivial, if you thence are taughtThat they, with whom you once were happy, talkFamiliarly of you and of old times.
While I was seated, now some ten days past,Beneath those lofty firs, that overtopTheir ancient neighbour, the old Steeple tower,The Vicar from his gloomy house hard byCame forth to greet me, and when he had ask'd,"How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid!And when will she return to us?" he paus'd,And after short exchange of village news,He with grave looks demanded, for what cause,Reviving obsolete Idolatry,I like a Runic Priest, in charactersOf formidable size, had chisel'd outSome uncouth name upon the native rock,Above the Rotha, by the forest side.—Now, by those dear immunities of heartEngender'd betwixt malice and true love,I was not both to be so catechiz'd,And this was my reply.—"As it befel,One summer morning we had walk'd abroadAt break of day, Joanna and myself.—'Twas that delightful season, when the broom,Full flower'd, and visible on every steep,Along the copses runs in veins of gold."
Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks,And when we came in front of that tall rockWhich looks towards the East, I there stopp'd short,And trac'd the lofty barrier with my eyeFrom base to summit; such delight I foundTo note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower,That intermixture of delicious hues,Along so vast a surface, all at once,In one impression, by connecting forceOf their own beauty, imag'd in the heart.
—When I had gaz'd perhaps two minutes' space,Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheldThat ravishment of mine, and laugh'd aloud.The rock, like something starting from a sleep,Took up the Lady's voice, and laugh'd again:That ancient Woman seated on Helm-cragWas ready with her cavern; Hammar-Scar,And the tall Steep of Silver-How sent forthA noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard,And Fairfield answer'd with a mountain tone:Helvellyn far into the clear blue skyCarried the Lady's voice,—old Skiddaw blewHis speaking trumpet;—back out of the cloudsOf Glaramara southward came the voice;And Kirkstone toss'd it from his misty head.Now whether, (said I to our cordial FriendWho in the hey-day of astonishmentSmil'd in my face) this were in simple truthA work accomplish'd by the brotherhoodOf ancient mountains, or my ear was touch'dWith dreams and visionary impulses,Is not for me to tell; but sure I amThat there was a loud uproar in the hills.And, while we both were listening, to my sideThe fair Joanna drew, is if she wish'dTo shelter from some object of her fear.
—And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moonsWere wasted, as I chanc'd to walk aloneBeneath this rock, at sun-rise, on a calmAnd silent morning, I sate down, and there,In memory of affections old and true,I chissel'd out in those rude charactersJoanna's name upon the living stone.And I, and all who dwell by my fire-sideHave call'd the lovely rock, Joanna's Rock.
In Cumberland and Westmoreland are several Inscriptions upon the native rock which from the wasting of Time and the rudeness of the Workmanship had been mistaken for Runic. They are without doubt Roman.
The Roths, mentioned in this poem, is the River which flowing through the Lakes of Grasmere and Rydole fells into Wyndermere. On Helm-Crag, that impressive single Mountain at the head of the Vale of Grasmere, is a Rock which from most points of view bears a striking resemblance to an Old Woman cowering. Close by this rock is one of those Fissures or Caverns, which in the language of the Country are called Dungeons. The other Mountains either immediately surround the Vale of Grasmere, or belong to the same Cluster.
There is an Eminence,—of these our hillsThe last that parleys with the setting sun.We can behold it from our Orchard seat.And, when at evening we pursue our walkAlong the public way, this Cliff, so highAbove us, and so distant in its height,Is visible, and often seems to sendIts own deep quiet to restore our hearts.The meteors make of it a favorite haunt:The star of Jove, so beautiful and largeIn the mid heav'ns, is never half so fairAs when he shines above it. 'Tis in truthThe loneliest place we have among the clouds.
And She who dwells with me, whom I have lov'dWith such communion, that no place on earthCan ever be a solitude to me,Hath said, this lonesome Peak shall bear my Name.
A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags,A rude and natural causeway, interpos'dBetween the water and a winding slopeOf copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shoreOf Grasmere safe in its own privacy.And there, myself and two beloved Friends,One calm September morning, ere the mistHad altogether yielded to the sun,Saunter'd on this retir'd and difficult way.—Ill suits the road with one in haste, but wePlay'd with our time; and, as we stroll'd along,
It was our occupation to observeSuch objects as the waves had toss'd ashore,Feather, or leaf, or weed, or wither'd bough,Each on the other heap'd along the lineOf the dry wreck. And in our vacant mood,Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuftOf dandelion seed or thistle's beard,Which, seeming lifeless half, and half impell'dBy some internal feeling, skimm'd alongClose to the surface of the lake that layAsleep in a dead calm, ran closely onAlong the dead calm lake, now here, now there,In all its sportive wanderings all the whileMaking report of an invisible breezeThat was its wings, its chariot, and its horse,Its very playmate, and its moving soul.
—And often, trifling with a privilegeAlike indulg'd to all, we paus'd, one now,And now the other, to point out, perchanceTo pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fairEither to be divided from the placeOn which it grew, or to be left aloneTo its own beauty. Many such there are,Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall plantSo stately, of the Queen Osmunda nam'd,Plant lovelier in its own retir'd abodeOn Grasmere's beach, than Naid by the sideOf Grecian brook, or Lady of the MereSole-sitting by the shores of old Romance.—So fared we that sweet morning: from the fieldsMeanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirthOf Reapers, Men and Women, Boys and Girls.
Delighted much to listen to those sounds,And in the fashion which I have describ'd,Feeding unthinking fancies, we advanc'dAlong the indented shore; when suddenly,Through a thin veil of glittering haze, we sawBefore us on a point of jutting landThe tall and upright figure of a ManAttir'd in peasant's garb, who stood aloneAngling beside the margin of the lake.That way we turn'd our steps: nor was it long,Ere making ready comments on the sightWhich then we saw, with one and the same voiceWe all cried out, that he must be indeedAn idle man, who thus could lose a dayOf the mid harvest, when the labourer's hireIs ample, and some little might be stor'dWherewith to chear him in the winter time.
Thus talking of that Peasant we approach'dClose to the spot where with his rod and lineHe stood alone; whereat he turn'd his headTo greet us—and we saw a man worn downBy sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeksAnd wasted limbs, his legs so long and leanThat for my single self I look'd at them,Forgetful of the body they sustain'd.—Too weak to labour in the harvest field,The man was using his best skill to gainA pittance from the dead unfeeling lakeThat knew not of his wants. I will not sayWhat thoughts immediately were ours, nor howThe happy idleness of that sweet morn,With all its lovely images, was chang'dTo serious musing and to self-reproach.
Nor did we fail to see within ourselvesWhat need there is to be reserv'd in speech,And temper all our thoughts with charity.—Therefore, unwilling to forget that day,My Friend, Myself, and She who then receiv'dThe same admonishment, have call'd the plateBy a memorial name, uncouth indeedAs e'er by Mariner was giv'n to BayOr Foreland on a new-discover'd coast,And, POINT RASH-JUDGMENT is the Name it bears.