And, quieted and soothed, a torrent small,
A little daring would-be waterfall,
One chimney smoking and its azure wreath,
Associate all in the calm Pool beneath,
With here and there a faint imperfect gleam
Of water-lilies veiled in misty steam-
What wonder at this hour of stillness deep,
A shadowy link 'tween wakefulness and sleep,
When Nature's self, amid such blending, seems
To render visible her own soft dreams,

If, mixed with what appeared of rock, lawn, wood,
Fondly embosomed in the tranquil flood,
A glimpse I caught of that Abode, by Thee
Designed to rise in humble privacy,
A lowly Dwelling, here to be outspread,
Like a small Hamlet, with its bashful head
Half hid in native trees. Alas 'tis not,
Nor ever was; I sighed, and left the spot
Unconscious of its own untoward lot,
And thought in silence, with regret too keen,
Of unexperienced joys that might have been ;
Of neighbourhood and intermingling arts,
And golden summer days uniting cheerful hearts.
But time, irrevocable time, is flown,
And let us utter thanks for blessings sown
And reaped-what hath been, and what is, our own.

Not far we travelled ere a shout of glee,
Startling us all, dispersed my reverie;
Such shout as many a sportive echo meeting
Oft-times from Alpine chalets sends a greeting.
Whence the blithe hail? behold a Peasant stand
On high, a kerchief waving in her hand!
Not unexpectant that by early day

Our little Band would thrid this mountain way,
Before her cottage on the bright hill side
She hath advanced with hope to be descried.
Right gladly answering signals we displayed,
Moving along a tract of morning shade,
And vocal wishes sent of like good will
To our kind Friend high on the sunny hill—
Luminous region, fair as if the prime
Were tempting all astir to look aloft or climb;
Only the centre of the shining cot

With door left open makes a gloomy spot,
Emblem of those dark corners sometimes found
Within the happiest breast on earthly ground.

Rich prospect left behind of stream and vale, And mountain-tops, a barren ridge we scale; Descend and reach, in Yewdale's depths, a plain With haycocks studded, striped with yellowing grain

An area level as a Lake and spread

Under a rock too steep for man to tread, Where sheltered from the north and bleak nint west

Aloft the Raven hangs a visible nest, Fearless of all assaults that would her brood maks Hot sunbeams fill the steaming vale; but bas, At our approach, a jealous watch-dog's bark, Noise that brings forth no liveried Page of stati, But the whole household, that our coming va With Young and old warm greetings we excha And jocund smiles, and toward the lowly Gany Press forward by the teasing dogs unsere Entering, we find the morning meal preparat: So down we sit, though not till each had cast Pleased looks around the delicate repast— Rich cream, and snow-white eggs fresh fr nest,

With amber honey from the mountain's bras", Strawberries from lane or woodland, offering Of children's industry, in hillocks piled; Cakes for the nonce, and butter fit to lie Upon a lordly dish; frank hospitality Where simple art with bounteous nature ne And cottage comfort shunned not seemly as

Nor chide the Muse that stooped to break a spell Which might have else been on me yet:

FAREWELL.

UPON PERUSING THE FOREGOING EPISTLE THIRTY YEARS AFTER ITS COMPOSITION.

Soon did the Almighty Giver of all rest

l'ake those dear young Ones to a fearless nest; And in Death's arms has long reposed the Friend For whom this simple Register was penned. Thanks to the moth that spared it for our eyes; And Strangers even the slighted Scroll may prize, loved by the touch of kindred sympathies. 'or-save the calm, repentance sheds o'er strife Laised by remembrances of misused life, he light from past endeavours purely willed nd by Heaven's favour happily fulfilled; ave hope that we, yet bound to Earth, may share he joys of the Departed-what so fair

s blameless pleasure, not without some tears, eviewed through Love's transparent veil of years?

Note.-LOUGHRIGG TARN, alluded to in the foregoing istle, resembles, though much smaller in compass, the ke Nemi, or Speculum Dianæ as it is often called, not y in its clear waters and circular form, and the beauty mediately surrounding it, but also as being overlooked the eminence of Langdale Pikes as Lake Nemi is by It of Monte Calvo. Since this Epistle was written aghrigg Tarn has lost much of its beauty by the felling many natural clumps of wood, relics of the old forest, ticularly upon the farm called "The Oaks," from the ndance of that tree which grew there.

is to be regretted, upon public grounds, that Sir George umont did not carry into effect his intention of conicting here a Summer Retreat in the style I have ribed; as his taste would have set an example how dings, with all the accommodations modern society ires, might be introduced even into the most secluded sof this country without injuring their native chaer. The design was not abandoned from failure of ination on his part, but in consequence of local untodnesses which need not be particularised.

11.

OLD AND SILVER FISHES IN A VASE.

HE soaring lark is blest as proud
When at heaven's gate she sings;
The roving bee proclaims aloud
Her flight by vocal wings;
hile Ye, in lasting durance pent,
Your silent lives employ

›r something more than dull content,
Though haply less than joy.

Sighed for, in heart and genius, overcome

By noise and strife, and questions wearisome,
And the vain splendours of Imperial Rome?—
Let easy mirth his social hours inspire,
And fiction animate his sportive lyre,
Attuned to verse that, crowning light Distress
With garlands, cheats her into happiness ;
Give me the humblest note of those sad strains
Drawn forth by pressure of his gilded chains,
As a chance-sunbeam from his memory fell
Upon the Sabine farm he loved so well;
Or when the prattle of Blandusia's spring
Haunted his ear-he only listening-
He proud to please, above all rivals, fit
To win the palm of gaiety and wit;
He, doubt not, with involuntary dread,
Shrinking from each new favour to be shed,
By the world's Ruler, on his honoured head!

In a deep vision's intellectual scene,
Such earnest longings and regrets as keen
Depressed the melancholy Cowley, laid
Under a fancied yew-tree's luckless shade;
A doleful bower for penitential song,
Where Man and Muse complained of mutual wrong;
While Cam's ideal current glided by,

And antique towers nodded their foreheads high,
Citadels dear to studious privacy.

But Fortune, who had long been used to sport
With this tried Servant of a thankless Court,
Relenting met his wishes; and to you
The remnant of his days at least was true;
You, whom, though long deserted, he loved best;
You, Muses, books, fields, liberty, and rest!

Far happier they who, fixing hope and aim On the humanities of peaceful fame, Enter betimes with more than martial fire The generous course, aspire, and still aspire; Upheld by warnings heeded not too late Stifle the contradictions of their fate,

IV.

POOR ROBIN.*

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
Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire,
Poor Robin is yet flowerless; but how gay
With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
And, as his tufts of leaves he spreads, content
With a hard bed and scanty nourishment,
Mixed with the green, some shine not lacking power
To rival summer's brightest scarlet flower;
And flowers they well might seem to passers-by
If looked at only with a careless eye;
Flowers-or a richer produce (did it suit
The season) sprinklings of ripe strawberry fruit.

But while a thousand pleasures come unsought,
Why fix upon his wealth or want a thought?
Is the string touched in prelude to a lay
Of pretty fancies that would round him play
When all the world acknowledged elfin sway?
Or does it suit our humour to commend
Poor Robin as a sure and crafty friend,
Whose practice teaches, spite of names to show
Bright colours whether they deceive or no?—
Nay, we would simply praise the free good-will'
With which, though slighted, he, on naked hill
Or in warm valley, seeks his part to fill;
Cheerful alike if bare of flowers as now,
Or when his tiny gems shall deck his brow:
Yet more, we wish that men by men despised,
And such as lift their foreheads overprized,
Should sometimes think, where'er they chance to spy
This child of Nature's own humility,

nor were the verses ever seen by the Individual for whom

mate!

Thus, gifted Friend, but with the placid brow That woman ne'er should forfeit, keep thy vow; With modest scorn reject whate'er would blind The ethereal eyesight, cramp the winged mind! Then, with a blessing granted from above To every act, word, thought, and look of love, Life's book for Thee may lie unclosed, till age Shall with a thankful tear bedrop its latest page

1829.

*There is now, alas! no possibility of the anticipation, with which the above Epistle concludes, being realised:

Rev. Wm. Fletcher, to India, and died of cholera, at the age of thirty-two or thirty-three years, on her way from Shalapore to Bombay, deeply lamented by all who

knew her.

Her enthusiasm was ardent, her piety steadfast; and her great talents would have enabled her to be eminently useful in the difficult path of life to which she had been called. The opinion she entertained of her own performances, given to the world under her maiden name, Jewsbury, was modest and humble, and, indeed, far below their merits; as is often the case with those who are making trial of their powers, with a hope to discover what they are best fitted for. In one quality, viz., quickness in the motions of her mind, she had, within the range of the Author's acquaintance, no equal.

*The small wild Geranium known by that name.