The May is come again:—how sweetTo sit upon my Orchard-seat!And Birds and Flowers once more to greet,My last year's Friends together:My thoughts they all by turns employ;A whispering Leaf is now my joy,And then a Bird will be the toyThat doth my fancy tether.
One have I mark'd, the happiest GuestIn all this covert of the blest: 10Hail to Thee, far above the restIn joy of voice and pinion,Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,Presiding Spirit here to-day,Dost lead the revels of the May,And this is thy dominion.
While Birds, and Butterflies, and FlowersMake all one Band of Paramours,Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,Art sole in thy employment; 20A Life, a Presence like the Air,Scattering thy gladness without care,Too bless'd with any one to pair,Thyself thy own enjoyment.
Upon yon tuft of hazel trees,That twinkle to the gusty breeze,Behold him perch'd in ecstasies,Yet seeming still to hover;There! where the flutter of his wingsUpon his back and body flings 30Shadows and sunny glimmerings,That cover him all over.
While thus before my eyes he gleams,A Brother of the Leaves he seems;When in a moment forth he teemsHis little song in gushes:As if it pleas'd him to disdainAnd mock the Form which he did feign,While he was dancing with the trainOf Leaves among the bushes. 40
TO A YOUNG LADY,Who had been reproached for taking longWalks in the Country.
Dear Child of Nature, let them rail!—There is a nest in a green dale,A harbour and a hold,Where thou a Wife and Friend, shalt seeThy own delightful days, and beA light to young and old.
There, healthy as a Shepherd-boy,As if thy heritage were joy,And pleasure were thy trade,Thou, while thy Babes around thee cling,Shalt shew us how divine a thingA Woman may be made.
Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die,Nor leave thee, when grey hairs are nigh,A melancholy slaveBut an old age, alive and bright,And lovely as a Lapland night,Shall lead thee to thy grave."—Pleasure is spread through the earthIn stray gifts to be claim'd by whoever shall find."
* * * * *
By their floating Mill,Which lies dead and still,Behold yon Prisoners three!The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the Thames;The Platform is small, but there's room for them all;And they're dancing merrily.
From the shore come the notesTo their Mill where it floats,To their House and their Mill tether'd fast;To the small wooden isle where their work to beguile 10They from morning to even take whatever is given;—And many a blithe day they have past.
In sight of the SpiresAll alive with the firesOf the Sun going down to his rest,In the broad open eye of the solitary sky,They dance,—there are three, as jocund as free,While they dance on the calm river's breast.
Man and Maidens wheel,They themselves make the Reel, 20And their Music's a prey which they seize;It plays not for them,—what matter! 'tis their's;And if they had care it has scattered their cares,While they dance, crying, "Long as ye please!"
They dance not for me,Yet mine is their glee!Thus pleasure is spread through the earthIn stray gifts to be claim'd by whoever shall find;Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind,Moves all nature to gladness and mirth. 30
The Showers of the SpringRouze the Birds and they sing;If the Wind do but stir for his proper delight,Each Leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss,Each Wave, one and t'other, speeds after his Brother;They are happy, for that is their right!
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 Poll, or Mast of little Boat,Some little Pleasure-Skiff, that doth on Thames's waters float.
The Show-man chuses well his place, 'tis Leicester's busy Square;And he's as happy in his night, for the heavens are blue and fair;Calm, though impatient is the Crowd; Each is ready with the fee,And envies him that's looking—what an insight must it be!
Yet, Show-man, where can lie the cause? Shall thy Implement haveblame,A Boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is put to shame? 10Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes in fault?Their eyes, or minds? or, finally, is this resplendent Vault?
Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as we have here?Or gives a thing but small delight that never can be dear?The silver Moon with all her Vales, and Hills of mightiest fame,Do they betray us when they're seen? and are they but a name?
Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is and strong,And bounty never yields so much but it seems to do her wrong?Or is it, that when human Souls a journey long have had,And are returned into themselves, they cannot but be sad? 20
Or must we be constrain'd to think that these Spectators rude,Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude,Have souls which never yet have ris'n, and therefore prostrate lie?No, no, this cannot be—Men thirst for power and majesty!
Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful mind employOf him who gazes, or has gazed? a grave and steady joy,That doth reject all shew of pride, admits no outward sign,Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine!
Whatever be the cause, 'tis sure that they who pry & poreSeem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than before: 30One after One they take their turns, nor have I one espiedThat doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied.
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 the street that from Oxford hath borrowed its name.
His station is there;—and he works on the crowd,He sways them with harmony merry and loud;He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim—Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and him!
What an eager assembly! what an empire is this!The weary have life and the hungry have bliss; 10The mourner is cheared, and the anxious have rest;And the guilt-burthened Soul is no longer opprest.
As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night,So he where he stands is a center of light;It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-faced Jack,And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket on back.
That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in haste—What matter! he's caught—and his time runs to waste—The News-man is stopped, though he stops on the fret,And the half-breathless Lamp-lighter he's in the net! 20
The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore;The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her store;—If a Thief could be here he might pilfer at ease;She sees the Musician, 'tis all that she sees!
He stands, back'd by the Wall;—he abates not his din;His hat gives him vigour, with boons dropping in,From the Old and the Young, from the Poorest; and there!The one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare.
O blest are the Hearers and proud be the HandOf the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a Band; 30I am glad for him, blind as he is!—all the whileIf they speak 'tis to praise, and they praise with a smile.
That tall Man, a Giant in bulk and in height,Not an inch of his body is free from delight;Can he keep himself still, if he would? oh, not he!The music stirs in him like wind through a tree.
There's a Cripple who leans on his Crutch; like a TowerThat long has lean'd forward, leans hour after hour!—Mother, whose Spirit in fetters is bound,While she dandles the babe in her arms to the sound. 40
Now, Coaches and Chariots, roar on like a stream;Here are twenty souls happy as Souls in a dream:They are deaf to your murmurs—they care not for you,Nor what ye are flying, or what ye pursue!
TO THE DAISY.The two following Poems were overflowings of the mind incomposing the one which stands first in the first Volume.
With little here to do or seeOf things that in the great world be,Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee,For thou art worthy,Thou unassuming Common-placeOf Nature, with that homely face,And yet with something of a grace,Which Love makes for thee!
Oft do I sit by thee at ease,And weave a web of similies, 10Loose types of Things through all degrees,Thoughts of thy raising:And many a fond and idle nameI give to thee, for praise or blame,As is the humour of the game,While I am gazing.
A Nun demure of lowly port,Or sprightly Maiden of Love's Court,In thy simplicity the sportOf all temptations; 20A Queen in crown of rubies drest,A Starveling in a scanty vest,Are all, as seem to suit thee best,Thy appellations.
A little Cyclops, with one eyeStaring to threaten and defy,That thought comes next—and instantlyThe freak is over,The shape will vanish, and behold!A silver Shield with boss of gold, 30That spreads itself, some Faery boldIn fight to cover.
I see thee glittering from afar;—And then thou art a pretty Star,Not quite so fair as many areIn heaven above thee!Yet, like a star, with glittering crest,Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;—May peace come never to his nest,Who shall reprove thee! 40
Sweet Flower! for by that name at last,When all my reveries are past,I call thee, and to that cleave fast,Sweet silent Creature!That breath'st with me in sun and air,Do thou, as thou art wont, repairMy heart with gladness, and a shareOf thy meek nature!
Bright Flower, whose home is every where!A Pilgrim bold in Nature's care,And all the long year through the heirOf joy or sorrow,Methinks that there abides in theeSome concord with humanity,Given to no other Flower I seeThe forest thorough!
Is it that Man is soon deprest?A thoughtless Thing! who, once unblest, 10Does little on his memory rest,Or on his reason,And Thou would'st teach him how to findA shelter under every wind.A hope for times that are unkindAnd every season?
Thou wander'st the wide world about,Uncheck'd by pride or scrupulous doubt,With friends to greet thee, or without,Yet pleased and willing; 20Meek, yielding to the occasion's call,And all things suffering from all,Thy function apostolicalIn peace fulfilling.
INCIDENT,Characteristic of a favourite Dog, which belongedto a Friend of the Author.
On his morning rounds the MasterGoes to learn how all things fare;Searches pasture after pasture,Sheep and Cattle eyes with care;And, for silence or for talk,He hath Comrades in his walk;Four Dogs, each pair of different breed,Distinguished two for scent, and two for speed.
See, a Hare before him started!—Off they fly in earnest chace; 10Every Dog is eager-hearted,All the four are in the race!And the Hare whom they pursueHath an instinct what to do;Her hope is near: no turn she makes;But, like an arrow, to the River takes.
Deep the River was, and crustedThinly by a one night's frost;But the nimble Hare hath trustedTo the ice, and safely crost; 20She hath crost, and without heedAll are following at full speed,When, lo! the ice, so thinly spread,Breaks—and the Greyhound, DART, is over head!
Better fate have PRINCE and SWALLOW—See them cleaving to the sport!Music has no heart to follow,Little Music, she stops short.She hath neither wish nor heart.Her's is now another part: 30A loving Creature she, and brave!And doth her best her struggling Friend to save.
From the brink her paws she stretches,Very hands as you would say!And afflicting moans she fetches,As he breaks the ice away.For herself she hath no fears,Him alone she sees and hears,Makes efforts and complainings; nor gives o'erUntil her Fellow sunk, and reappear'd no more. 40
Lie here sequester'd:—be this little moundFor ever thine, and be it holy ground!Lie here, without a record of thy worth,Beneath the covering of the common earth!It is not from unwillingness to praise,Or want of love, that here no Stone we raise;More thou deserv'st; butthisMan gives to Man,Brother to Brother,thisis all we can.Yet they to whom thy virtues made thee dearShall find thee through all changes of the year: 10This Oak points out thy grave; the silent TreeWill gladly stand a monument of thee.
I pray'd for thee, and that thy end were past;And willingly have laid thee here at last:For thou hadst liv'd, till every thing that chearsIn thee had yielded to the weight of years;Extreme old age had wasted thee away,And left thee but a glimmering of the day;Thy ears were deaf; and feeble were thy knees,—saw thee stagger in the summer breeze, 20Too weak to stand against its sportive breath,And ready for the gentlest stroke of death.It came, and we were glad; yet tears were shed;Both Man and Woman wept when Thou wert dead;Not only for a thousand thoughts that were,Old household thoughts, in which thou hadst thy share;But for some precious boons vouchsafed to thee,Found scarcely any where in like degree!
For love, that comes to all; the holy sense,Best gift of God, in thee was most intense; 30A chain of heart, a feeling of the mind,A tender sympathy, which did thee bindNot only to us Men, but to thy Kind:Yea, for thy Fellow-brutes in thee we sawThe soul of Love, Love's intellectual law:—Hence, if we wept, it was not done in shame;Our tears from passion and from reason came,And, therefore, shalt thou be an honoured name!
ADMONITION,(Intended more particularly for the Perusal of those who may havehappened to be enamoured of some beautiful Place of Retreat, inthe Country of the Lakes.)
Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!—The lovely Cottage in the guardian nookHath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook,Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!But covet not th' Abode—oh! do not sigh,As many do, repining while they look,Sighing a wish to tear from Nature's BookThis blissful leaf, with worst impiety.Think what the home would be if it were thine,Even thine, though few thy wants!—Roof, window, door,The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,The roses to the porch which they entwine:Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the dayOn which it should be touch'd, would melt, and melt away!
… "gives to airy nothingA local habitation and a name."
Though narrow be that Old Man's cares, and nearThe poor Old Man is greater than he seems:For he hath waking empire, wide as dreams;An ample sovereignty of eye and ear.Rich are his walks with supernatural chear;The region of his inner spirit teemsWith vital sounds, and monitory gleamsOf high astonishment and pleasing fear.He the seven birds hath seen that never part,Seen the SEVEN WHISTLERS in their nightly rounds,And counted them: and oftentimes will start—For overhead are sweeping GABRIEL'S HOUNDS,Doom'd, with their impious Lord, the flying HartTo chase for ever, on aerial grounds.
A PROPHECY.Feb. 1807.
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,ARMINIUS!—all the people quaked like dewStirr'd by the breeze—they rose, a Nation, true,True to itself—the mighty Germany,She of the Danube and the Northern sea,She rose,—and off at once the yoke she threw.All power was given her in the dreadful trance—Those new-born Kings she wither'd like a flame."—Woe to them all! but heaviest woe and shameTo that Bavarian, who did first advanceHis banner in accursed league with France,First open Traitor to her sacred name!
SONNET,TO THOMAS CLARKSON,On the final passing of the Bill for the Abolition of the SlaveTrade, March, 1807.
Clarkson! it was an obstinate Hill to climb;How toilsome, nay how dire it was, by TheeIs known,—by none, perhaps, so feelingly;But Thou, who, starting in thy fervent prime,Didst first lead forth this pilgrimage sublime,Hast heard the constant Voice its charge repeat,Which, out of thy young heart's oracular seat,First roused thee.—O true yoke-fellow of TimeWith unabating effort, see, the palmIs won, and by all Nations shall be worn!The bloody Writing is for ever torn,And Thou henceforth shalt have a good Man's calm,A great Man's happiness; thy zeal shall findRepose at length, firm Friend of human kind!
* * * * *
Once in a lonely Hamlet I sojourn'dIn which a Lady driv'n from France did dwell;The big and lesser griefs, with which she mourn'd,In friendship she to me would often tell.
This Lady, dwelling upon English ground,Where she was childless, daily did repairTo a poor neighbouring Cottage; as I found,For sake of a young Child whose home was there.
Once did I see her clasp the Child about,And take it to herself; and I, next day, 10Wish'd in my native tongue to fashion outSuch things as she unto this Child might say:And thus, from what I knew, had heard, and guess'd,My song the workings of her heart express'd.
"Dear Babe, thou Daughter of another,One moment let me be thy Mother!An Infant's face and looks are thine;And sure a Mother's heart is mine:Thy own dear Mother's far away,At labour in the harvest-field: 20Thy little Sister is at play;—What warmth, what comfort would it yieldTo my poor heart, if Thou wouldst beOne little hour a child to me!"
"Across the waters I am come,And I have left a Babe at home:A long, long way of land and sea!Come to me—I'm no enemy:I am the same who at thy sideSate yesterday, and made a nest 30For thee, sweet Baby!—thou hast tried.Thou know'st, the pillow of my breast:Good, good art thou; alas! to meFar more than I can be to thee."
"Here little Darling dost thou lie;An Infant Thou, a Mother I!Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears;Mine art thou—spite of these my tears.Alas! before I left the spot,My Baby and its dwelling-place; 40The Nurse said to me, 'Tears should notBe shed upon an Infant's face,It was unlucky'—no, no, no;No truth is in them who say so!"
"My own dear Little-one will sigh,Sweet Babe! and they will let him die.'He pines,' they'll say, 'it is his doom,And you may see his hour is come.'Oh! had he but thy chearful smiles,Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay, 50Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles,And countenance like a summer's day,They would have hopes of him—and thenI should behold his face again!"
"'Tis gone—forgotten—let me doMy best—there was a smile or two,I can remember them, I seeThe smiles, worth all the world to me.Dear Baby! I must lay thee down;Thou troublest me with strange alarms; 60Smiles hast Thou, sweet ones of thy own;I cannot keep thee in my arms,For they confound me: as it is,I have forgot those smiles of his."
"Oh! how I love thee! we will stayTogether here this one half day.My Sister's Child, who bears my name,From France across the Ocean came;She with her Mother cross'd the sea;The Babe and Mother near me dwell: 70My Darling, she is not to meWhat thou art! though I love her well:Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here;Never was any Child more dear!"
"—I cannot help it—ill intentI've none, my pretty Innocent!I weep—I know they do thee wrong,These tears—and my poor idle tongue.Oh what a kiss was that! my cheekHow cold it is! but thou art good; 80Thine eyes are on me—they would speak,I think, to help me if they could.Blessings upon that quiet face,My heart again is in its place!"
"While thou art mine, my little Love,This cannot be a sorrowful grove;Contentment, hope, and Mother's glee.I seem to find them all in thee:Here's grass to play with, here are flowers;I'll call thee by my Darling's name; 90Thou hast, I think, a look of ours,Thy features seem to me the same;His little Sister thou shalt be;And, when once more my home I see,I'll tell him many tales of Thee."
FORESIGHT.Or the Charge of a Child to his younger Companion.
That is work which I am rueing—Do as Charles and I are doing!Strawberry-blossoms, one and all,We must spare them—here are many:Look at it—the Flower is small,Small and low, though fair as any:Do not touch it! summers twoI am older, Anne, than you.
Pull the Primrose, Sister Anne!Pull as many as you can. 10—Here are Daisies, take your fill;Pansies, and the Cuckow-flower:Of the lofty DaffodilMake your bed, and make your bower;Fill your lap, and fill your bosom;Only spare the Strawberry-blossom!
Primroses, the Spring may love them—Summer knows but little of them:Violets, do what they will,Wither'd on the ground must lie; 20Daisies will be daisies still;Daisies they must live and die:Fill your lap, and fill your bosom,Only spare the Strawberry-blossom!
There is a change—and I am poor;Your Love hath been, nor long ago,A Fountain at my fond Heart's door,Whose only business was to flow;And flow it did; not taking heedOf its own bounty, or my need.
What happy moments did I count!Bless'd was I then all bliss above!Now, for this consecrated FountOf murmuring, sparkling, living love,What have I? shall I dare to tell?A comfortless, and hidden WELL.
A Well of love—it may be deep—I trust it is, and never dry:What matter? if the Waters sleepIn silence and obscurity.—Such change, and at the very doorOf my fond Heart, hath made me poor.
* * * * *
I am not One who much or oft delightTo season my fireside with personal talk,About Friends, who live within an easy walk,Or Neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight:And, for my chance-acquaintance, Ladies bright,Sons, Mothers, Maidens withering on the stalk,These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalkPainted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night.Better than such discourse doth silence long,Long, barren silence, square with my desire; 10To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,By my half-kitchen my half-parlour fire,And listen to the flapping of the flame,Or kettle, whispering its faint undersong.
"Yet life," you say, "is life; we have seen and see,And with a living pleasure we describe;And fits of sprightly malice do but bribeThe languid mind into activity.Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee,Are foster'd by the comment and the gibe." 20Even be it so: yet still among your tribe,Our daily world's true Worldlings, rank not me!Children are blest, and powerful; their world liesMore justly balanced; partly at their feet,And part far from them:—sweetest melodiesAre those that are by distance made more sweet;Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyesHe is a Slave; the meanest we can meet!
Wings have we, and as far as we can goWe may find pleasure: wilderness and wood, 30Blank ocean and mere sky, support that moodWhich with the lofty sanctifies the low:Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know,Are a substantial world, both pure and good:Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,Our pastime and our happiness will grow.There do I find a never-failing storeOf personal themes, and such as I love best;Matter wherein right voluble I am:Two will I mention, dearer than the rest; 40The gentle Lady, married to the Moor;And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb.
Nor can I not believe but that herebyGreat gains are mine: for thus I live remoteFrom evil-speaking; rancour, never sought,Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie.Hence have I genial seasons, hence have ISmooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought:And thus from day to day my little BoatRocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably. 50Blessings be with them, and eternal praise,Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares,The Poets, who on earth have made us HeirsOf truth and pure delight by heavenly lays!Oh! might my name be numbered among theirs,Then gladly would I end my mortal days.
* * * * *
Yes! full surely 'twas the Echo,Solitary, clear, profound,Answering to Thee, shouting Cuckoo!Giving to thee Sound for Sound.
Whence the Voice? from air or earth?This the Cuckoo cannot tell;But a startling sound had birth,As the Bird must know full well;
Like the voice through earth and skyBy the restless Cuckoo sent; 10Like her ordinary cry,Like—but oh how different!
Hears not also mortal Life?Hear not we, unthinking Creatures!Slaves of Folly, Love, or Strife,Voices of two different Natures?
Have not We too? Yes we haveAnswers, and we know not whence;Echoes from beyond the grave,Recogniz'd intelligence? 20
Such within ourselves we hearOft-times, ours though sent from far;Listen, ponder, hold them dear;For of God, of God they are!
TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND, (AN AGRICULTURIST.)Composed while we were labouring together in his Pleasure-Ground.
Spade! with which Wilkinson hath till'd his Lands,And shap'd these pleasant walks by Emont's side,Thou art a tool of honour in my hands;I press thee through the yielding soil with pride.
Rare Master has it been thy lot to know;Long hast Thou serv'd a Man to reason true;Whose life combines the best of high and low,The toiling many and the resting few;
Health, quiet, meekness, ardour, hope secure,And industry of body and of mind; 10And elegant enjoyments, that are pureAs Nature is; too pure to be refined.
Here often hast Thou heard the Poet singIn concord with his River murmuring by;Or in some silent field, while timid SpringIs yet uncheer'd by other minstrelsy.
Who shall inherit Thee when Death hath laidLow in the darksome Cell thine own dear Lord?That Man will have a trophy, humble, Spade!More noble than the noblest Warrior's sword. 20
If he be One that feels, with skill to partFalse praise from true, or greater from the less,Thee will he welcome to his hand and heart,Thou monument of peaceful happiness!
With Thee he will not dread a toilsome day,His powerful Servant, his inspiring Mate!And, when thou art past service, worn away,Thee a surviving soul shall consecrate.
His thrift thy uselessness will never scorn;AnHeir-loomin his cottage wilt thou be:— 30High will he hang thee up, and will adornHis rustic chimney with the last of Thee!
SONG, AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE,Upon the RESTORATION OF LORD CLIFFORD, the SHEPHERD,to the Estates and Honours of his Ancestors.
High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate.And Emont's murmur mingled with the Song.—The words of ancient time I thus translate,A festal Strain that hath been silent long.
From Town to Town, from Tower to Tower,The Red Rose is a gladsome Flower.Her thirty years of Winter past;The Red Rose is revived at last;
She lifts her head for endless spring,For everlasting blossoming! 10Both Roses flourish, Red and White.In love and sisterly delightThe two that were at strife are blended,And all old sorrows now are ended.—Joy! joy to both! but most to herWho is the Flower of Lancaster!Behold her how She smiles to dayOn this great throng, this bright array!Fair greeting doth she send to allFrom every corner of the Hall; 20But, chiefly, from above the BoardWhere sits in state our rightful Lord,A Clifford to his own restored.
They came with banner, spear, and shield;And it was proved in Bosworth-field.Not long the Avenger was withstood,Earth help'd him with the cry of blood:St. George was for us, and the mightOf blessed Angels crown'd the right.Loud voice the Land hath utter'd forth, 30We loudest in the faithful North:Our Fields rejoice, our Mountains ring,Our Streams proclaim a welcoming;Our Strong-abodes and Castles seeThe glory of their loyalty.How glad is Skipton at this hourThough she is but a lonely Tower!Silent, deserted of her best,Without an Inmate or a Guest,Knight, Squire, or Yeoman, Page, or Groom; 40We have them at the Feast of Brough'm.How glad Pendragon though the sleepOf years be on her!—She shall reapA taste of this great pleasure, viewingAs in a dream her own renewing.Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deemBeside her little humble Stream;And she that keepeth watch and wardHer statelier Eden's course to guard;They both are happy at this hour, 50Though each is but a lonely Tower:—But here is perfect joy and prideFor one fair House by Emont's side,This day distinguished without peerTo see her Master and to cheer;Him, and his Lady Mother dear.
Oh! it was a time forlornWhen the Fatherless was born—Give her wings that she may fly,Or she sees her Infant die! 60Swords that are with slaughter wildHunt the Mother and the Child.Who will take them from the light?—Yonder is a Man in sight—Yonder is a House—but where?No, they must not enter there.To the Caves, and to the Brooks,To the Clouds of Heaven she looks;She is speechless, but her eyesPray in ghostly agonies. 70Blissful Mary, Mother mild,Maid and Mother undefiled,Save a Mother and her Child!
Now Who is he that bounds with joyOn Carrock's side, a Shepherd Boy?No thoughts hath he but thoughts that passLight as the wind along the grass.Can this be He who hither cameIn secret, like a smothered flame?O'er whom such thankful tears were shed 80For shelter, and a poor Man's bread?God loves the Child; and God hath will'dThat those dear words should be fulfill'd,The Lady's words, when forc'd away,The last she to her Babe did say,"My own, my own, thy Fellow-guestI may not be; but rest thee, rest,For lowly Shepherd's life is best!"
Alas! when evil men are strongNo life is good, no pleasure long. 90The Boy must part from Mosedale's Groves,And leave Blencathara's rugged Coves,And quit the Flowers that Summer bringsTo Glenderamakin's lofty springs;Must vanish, and his careless cheerBe turned to heaviness and fear.—Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise!Hear it, good Man, old in days!Thou Tree of covert and of restFor this young Bird that is distrest, 100Among thy branches safe he lay,And he was free to sport and play,When Falcons were abroad for prey.
A recreant Harp, that sings of fearAnd heaviness in Clifford's ear!I said, when evil Men are strong,No life is good, no pleasure long,A weak and cowardly untruth!Our Clifford was a happy Youth,And thankful through a weary time, 110That brought him up to manhood's prime.—Again he wanders forth at will,And tends a Flock from hill to hill:His garb is humble; ne'er was seenSuch garb with such a noble mien;Among the Shepherd-grooms no MateHath he, a Child of strength and state!Yet lacks not friends for solemn glee,And a chearful company,That learn'd of him submissive ways; 120And comforted his private days.To his side the Fallow-deerCame, and rested without fear;The Eagle, Lord of land and sea,Stoop'd down to pay him fealty;And both the undying Fish that swimThrough Bowscale-Tarn did wait on him,The pair were Servants of his eyeIn their immortality,They moved about in open sight, 130To and fro, for his delight.He knew the Rocks which Angels hauntOn the Mountains visitant;He hath kenn'd them taking wing:And the Caves where Faeries singHe hath entered; and been toldBy Voices how Men liv'd of old.Among the Heavens his eye can seeFace of thing that is to be;And, if Men report him right, 140He can whisper words of might.—Now another day is come,Fitter hope, and nobler doom:He hath thrown aside his Crook,And hath buried deep his Book;Armour rusting in his HallsOn the blood of Clifford calls;—
"Quell the Scot," exclaims the Lance,"Bear me to the heart of France,Is the longing of the Shield— 150Tell thy name, thou trembling Field;Field of death, where'er thou be,Groan thou with our victory!Happy day, and mighty hour,When our Shepherd, in his power,Mail'd and hors'd, with lance and sword,To his Ancestors restored,Like a reappearing Star,Like a glory from afar,First shall head the Flock of War!" 160
Alas! the fervent Harper did not knowThat for a tranquil Soul the Lay was framed,Who, long compell'd in humble walks to go,Was softened into feeling, sooth'd, and tamed.Love had he found in huts where poor Men lie,His daily Teachers had been Woods and Rills,The silence that is in the starry sky,The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
In him the savage Virtue of the Race,Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead: 170Nor did he change; but kept in lofty placeThe wisdom which adversity had bred.
Glad were the Vales, and every cottage hearth;The Shepherd Lord was honour'd more and more:And, ages after he was laid in earth,"The Good Lord Clifford" was the name he bore.
LINES,Composed at GRASMERE, during a walk, one Evening, aftera stormy day, the Author having just read in a Newspaperthat the dissolution of MR. FOX was hourly expected.
Loud is the Vale! the Voice is upWith which she speaks when storms are gone,A mighty Unison of streams!Of all her Voices, One!
Loud is the Vale;—this inland DepthIn peace is roaring like the Sea;Yon Star upon the mountain-topIs listening quietly.
Sad was I, ev'n to pain depress'd,Importunate and heavy load! 10The Comforter hath found me here,Upon this lonely road;
And many thousands now are sad,Wait the fulfilment of their fear;For He must die who is their Stay,Their Glory disappear.
A Power is passing from the earthTo breathless Nature's dark abyss;But when the Mighty pass awayWhat is it more than this, 20
That Man, who is from God sent forth,Doth yet again to God return?—Such ebb and flow must ever be,Then wherefore should we mourn?
ELEGIAC STANZAS,Suggested by a Picture of PEELE CASTLE, in a Storm,paintedBY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT.
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 whileThy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea.
So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!So like, so very like, was day to day!Whene'er I look'd, thy Image still was there;It trembled, but it never pass'd away.
How perfect was the calm! it seem'd no sleep;No mood, which season takes away, or brings: 10I could have fancied that the mighty DeepWas even the gentlest of all gentle Things.
Ah! THEN, if mine had been the Painter's hand,To express what then I saw; and add the gleam,The light that never was, on sea or land,The consecration, and the Poet's dream;
I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile!Amid a world how different from this!Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss: 20
Thou shouldst have seem'd a treasure-house, a mineOf peaceful years; a chronicle of heaven:—Of all the sunbeams that did ever shineThe very sweetest had to thee been given.
A Picture had it been of lasting ease,Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;No motion but the moving tide, a breeze,Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.
Such, in the fond delusion of my heart,Such Picture would I at that time have made: 30And seen the soul of truth in every part;A faith, a trust, that could not be betray'd.
So once it would have been,—'tis so no more;I have submitted to a new controul:A power is gone, which nothing can restore;A deep distress hath humaniz'd my Soul.
Not for a moment could I now beholdA smiling sea and be what I have been:The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old;This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. 40
Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the Friend,If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore,This Work of thine I blame not, but commend;This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.
Oh 'tis a passionate Work!—yet wise and well;Well chosen is the spirit that is here;That Hulk which labours in the deadly swell,This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!
And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,I love to see the look with which it braves, 50Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time,The light'ning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.
Farewell, farewell the Heart that lives alone,Hous'd in a dream, at distance from the Kind!Such happiness, wherever it be known,Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind.
But welcome fortitude, and patient chear,And frequent sights of what is to be born!Such sights, or worse, as are before me here.—Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 60