Imágenes de páginas

Heed not such onset! nay, if praise of men
To thee appear not an unmeaning voice,
Lift up that grey-haired forehead, and rejoice
In the just tribute of thy Poet's pen!

Might smile, O Lady! on a task once dear
To household virtues. Venerable Art,
Torn from the Poor! yet will kind Heaven protect
Its own, not left without a guiding chart,
If Rulers, trusting with undue respect
To proud discoveries of the Intellect,
Sanction the pillage of man's ancient heart.

TO THE RIVER DERWENT. Among the mountains were we nursed, loved Stream! Thou, near the eagle's nest-within brief sail, I, of his bold wing floating on the gale, Where thy deep voice could lull me!-Faint the beam Of human life when first allowed to gleam Oa mortal notice.-Glory of the Vale, Such thy meek outset, with a crown though frail Kept in perpetual verdure by the steam Of thy soft breath!-Less vivid wreath entwined Nemæan Victor's brow: less bright was worn, Meed of some Roman Chief-in triumph borne With captives chained; and shedding from his car The sunset splendours of a finished war Upon the proud enslavers of mankind !

DECAY OF PIETY. Oft have I scen, ere Time had ploughed my cheek, Matrons and Sires-who, punctual to the call Of their loved Church, on Fast or Festival Through the long year the House of Prayer would seek. By Christmas snows, by visitation bleak Of Easter winds, unscared, from Hut or Hall They came to lowly bench or sculptured Stall, But with one fervour of devotion mcek. I see the places where they once were known, And ask, surrounded even by kneeling crowds, Is ancient Piety for ever flown? Alas! even then they seemed like fleecy clouds That, struggling through the western sky, have you Their pensive light from a departed sun!


WESTMORLAND ON EASTER SUNDAY. Wita each recurrence of this glorious morn That saw the Saviour in his human frame Rise from the dead, erewhile the Cottage-dame Put on fresh raiment-till that hour unworn : Domestic hands the home-bred wool had shorn, And she who span it culled the daintiest fleece, la thoughtful reverence to the Prince of Peace, Whose temples bled beneath the platted thorn. A blest estate when piety sublime These humble props disdained not! O green dales ! Sad may I be who heard your sabbath chime When Art's abused inventions were unknown; Kind Nature's various wealth was all your own; And benefits were weighed in Reason's scales!


OF A FRIEND, IN THE VALE OF GRASMERE. What need of clamorous bells, or ribands gay, These humble Nuptials to proclaim or grace? Angels of Love, look down upon the place, Shed on the chosen Vale a sun-bright day! Yet no proud gladness would the Bride display Even for such promise:-serious is her face, Modest her mien; and she, whose thoughts keep pace With gentleness, in that becoming way Will thank you. Faultless does the Maid appear, No disproportion in her soul, no strife: But, when the closer view of wedded life Hath shewn that nothing human can be clear From frailty, for that insight may the Wife To her indulgent Lord become more dear.



Grief, thou hast lost an ever-ready Friend
Now that the cottage spioning-wheel is mute;
And Care-a Comforter that best could suit
Her froward mood, and softliest reprehend;
And Love—a Charmer's voice, that used to lend,
More efficaciously than aught that flow's
From harp or lute, kind intiuence to compose
The throbbing pulse, -else troubled without end :
Ev'n Joy could tell, Joy craving truce and rest
From her own overflow, what power sedate
On those revolving motions did await
Assiduously, 10 soothe her aching breast-
And—to a point of just relief-abate
The manting triumphs of a day too blest.

Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep pace,
And I be undeluded, uubetrayed ;
For if of our affections pone find grace
To sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God made
The world which we inhabit? Better plea
Love cannot have, than that in loving thee
Glory to that elernal Peace is paid,
Who such Divinity to thee imparts
As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.
His hope is treacherous only whose love dies
With beauty, which is varying every hour;
But, in chaste hearls upintluenced by the power
Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower,
That breathes on earth the air of paradise.

TO S. H. Excuse is needless when with love sincere Of occupation, not by fashion led, Thou turn'st the Wheel that slept with dust o'erspread; My nerves from no such murmur shrink,-tho' near, Soft as the Dorhawk's to a distant car, When twilight shades bedim the mountain's head. She who was feigned to spin our vital thread

FROM THE SAME. No mortal object did these eyes behold When first they met the placid light of thine,

And my Soul felt her destiny divine,

Heavy is woe;-and joy, for human-kind, And hope of endless peace in me grew bold:

A mournful thing, so transient is the blaze !» Heaven-born, the Soul a beaven-ward course must hold; Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days Beyond the visible world She soars to seck

Who wants the glorious faculty assigned (For what delights the sense is false and weak) To elevate the more-than-reasoning Mind, Ideal Form, the universal mould.

And colour life's dark cloud with orient rays. The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest

Imagination is that sacred power,
In that which perishes: nor will he lend

Imagination lofty and refined ;
Bis beart to aught which doth on time depeod. *T is hers to pluck the amaranthine Flower
Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love,

Of Faith, and round the Sufferer's temples bind That kills the soul: love betters what is best,

Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, Even bere below, but more in heaven above.

And do not shrink from sorrow's keepest wind.


The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed
If Thou the spirit give by which I pray:
My unassisted heart is barren clay,
That of its native self can nothing feed :
Of good and pious works thou art the sced,
That quickens only where thou say'st it may:
Unless thou shew to us thine own true way
No man can find it: Father! thou must lead.
Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind
By which such virtue may in me be bred
That in thy holy footsteps I may tread;
The fetters of my longue do Thou unbind,
That I may have the power to sing of thee,
And sound ihy praises everlastingly.

It is a beauteous Evening, calm and free ;
The holy time is quiet as a Nun
Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquility;
The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea :
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
An] doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder-everlastingly.
Dear Child ! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appearst untouched by solemn thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine :
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year;
And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.

SCRPBISED by joy-impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport-Oh: with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent Tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find ?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind-
But how could I forget thee? — Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss?—That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one ooly, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years upboro
Could to my sight that licavenly face restore.

Where lies the Land to whiclı yon Ship must go?
Festively she puts forth in trim array;
As vigorous as a Lark at break of day:
Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?
What boots the inquiry? ---Neither friend nor foe
She cares for ; let her travel where she may,
She finds familiar names, a beaten way
Ever before her, and a wind to blow.
Yet still I ask, what Haven is her mark?
And, almost as it was when ships were rare,
(From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there
Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark,
Of the old Sea some reverential fear,
Is with me a: thy farewell, joyous Bark!

Margotonr I saw the footsteps of a throne
Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud
Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed;
But all the steps and ground about were strown
With sights the rucfullest that tlesh and bone
Ever put on; a miserable crowd,
Sick, hale, old, young, wbo cried before that cloud,

Thou art our king, o Death! to thee we groan.»
I seemed to mount those steps; the vapours gave
Smooth way; and I beheld the face of one
Sleeping alone within a mossy cave,
With her face up to beaven; ibat seemed to have
Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone;
A lovely Beauty in a summer grave !

Wiru Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh,
Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed ;
Some lying fast at anchor in the road,
Some veering up and down, one knew not why.
A goodly Vessel did I then espy
Come like a Giant from a haven broad;
And lustily along the Bay she strode,
« ller tackling rich, and of apparel higb.»
This Ship was nought to me, nor I to her,
Yet I pursued her with a Lover's look;
This Ship to all the rest did I prefer :
When will she turn, and whither? She will brook
No tarrying; where she comes the winds must stir:
On went She,-and due north her journey took.


The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers :
Lillle we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

Wear is the will of Man, his judgment blind; Remembrance persecutes, and Hope betrays;

This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The Winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.-Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

Sound sense, and love, itself, and mirth and glee
Are fostered by the comment and the gibe.a
Even be it so : yet still among your tribe,
Our daily world's true Worldlings, raok not me!
Children are blest, and powerful; their world lies
More justly balanced; partly at their feet,
And part far from them :-sweetest melodies
Are those that are by distance made more sweet ;
Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes,
He is a Slave; the meanest we can meet !

A volant Tribe of Bards on earth are found,

Who, while the flattering Zephyrs round them play,

Wings have we,-and as far as we cao go
On « coignes of vantage» hang their nests of clay;
How quickly from that aery hold unbound,

We may find pleasure: wilderness and wood,
Dust for oblivion! To the solid ground

Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for

Which with the lofty sanctifies the low,

aye; Convinced that there, there only, she can lay

Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Secure foundations. As the year runs round,

Are a substantial world, both pure

and good: Apart she toils within the chosen ring;

Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, While the stars shine, or while day's purple eye

Our pastime and our happiness will grow. Is gently closing with the flowers of spring;

There find I personal themes, a pleateous store; Where even the motion of an Angel's wing

Matter wherein right voluble I am: Would interrupt the intense tranquillity

To which I listen with a ready ear;
Of silent hills, and more than silent sky.

Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear, -
The gentle Lady married to the Moor;

And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lainb.
How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks
Thc wayward brain, to saunter through a wood!
An old place, full of many a lovely brood,

Tall trees, green arbours, and ground-flowers in flocks; Nor can I not believe but that hereby
And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks,

Great gains are mine; for thus I live remote Like a bold Girl, who plays her agile pranks

From evil-speaking; rancour, never sought, At Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks, Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie. When sbe stands cresting the Clown's bead, and mocks Hence have I genial seasons,

hence have I The crowd beneath her. Verily I think,

Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous though Such place to me is sometimes like a dream

And thus from day to day my little Boat Or map of the whole world : thoughts, link by link, Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably. Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam

Blessings be with them-and eternal praise, Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink,

Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares-
And leap at once from the delicious stream.

The Poets, who on earth have made us Heirs
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays!

Oh! might my name be numbered among theirs,

Then gladly would I end my mortal days.
I am not One who much or oft delight
To season my fireside with personal talk, --
Of Friends, who live within an easy walk,

Or Neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight:

High is our calling, Friend! - Creative Art
And, for my chance-acquaintance, Ladies bright,
Sons, Mothers, Maidens withering on the stalk,

(Whether the instrument of words she use, These all wear out of me, like forms, with chalk

Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues,) Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night.

Demands the service of a mind and heart, Better than such discourse doth silence long,

Though sensitive, yet, in their weakest part, Long, barren silence, square with my desire;

Heroically fashioned-to infuse To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,

Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse, Jo the loved presence of my cottage-fire,

While the whole world seems adverse to desert. And listen to the flapping of the thume,

And, oh! when Nature siuks, as oft she may,
Or kettle whisperiog its faint undersong.

Through long-lived pressure of obscure distress,
Still to be strenuous for the bright reward,

And in the soul admit of no decay,

Brook no continuance of weak-mindedness

Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!
« 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 bribe

From the dark chambers of dejection freed,
The languid mind into activity.

Spurning the unprofitable yoke of care,

Pise, Gillies, rise : the gales of youth shall bear Owed many years of early liberty.
Thy genius forward like a winged steed.

This care was thine when sickness did condemn Thougt: bold Bellerophon ( so Jove decreed

Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem : la wrath) fell headlong from the fields of air,

That I, if frugal and severe, might stray Yet a rich guerdon waits on minds that dare,

Where'er I liked; and finally array If aught be in them of immortal seed,

My temples with the Muse's diadem. And reason govern that audacious flight

Bence, if in freedom I have loved the truth, Which heav'o-ward they direct.—Theu droop not thou, If there be aught of pure, or good, or great, Erroneously renewing a sad vow

In my past verse; or shall be, in the lays Jo the low dell mid Roslin's faded grove :

Of higher mood, which now I medicate, A cbeerful life is what the Muses love,

It gladdens me, 0 worthy, short-lived Youth! A soaring spirit is their prime delight.

To think how much of this will be thy praise.

Far Prime of life! were it enough to gild
With ready sunbeams every straggling shower;
And, if so unexpected cloud should lower,
Swiftly Ibercon a rainbow arch to build
For Fancy's errands,-then, from fields half-tilled
Gathering green weeds to mix with poppy flower,

Thee might thy Minions crown, and chant thy power, i l'opuied by the wise, all censure stilled.

Ah! show that worthier honours are thy due ;
Fair Prime of Life! arouse the deeper heart;
Confirun the Spirit glorying to pursue
Some path of steep ascent and lofty aim;
And, if there be a joy that slights the claim
Of grateful memory, bid that joy depart.

Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,
Mindless of its just honours;- with this Key
Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the melody
Of this small Lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound;
A thousand times this Pipe did Tasso sound;
Camoens soothed with it an Exile's grief;
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle Leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned
His visionary brow: a glow-worm Lamp,
It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land
To struggle through dark ways; and when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The Thing became a Trumpet, whence he blew
Soul-animating strains-alas, too few!

I DEARD (alas!'t was only in a dream) 1 Strains—which, as sage Antiquity believed,

Nor Love, por War, nor the tumultuous swell By waking ears have sometimes been received

Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change, Wafted adown the wind from lake or stream;

Nor Duty struggling with aftlictions strange, A most melodious requiem, – ,-a supreme

Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell; And perfect harmony of votes, achieved

But where untroubled peace and concord dwell,

There also is the Muse not loth to range, 1

Ly a fair Swan ou drowsy billows heaved,
O'er which her pinions shed a silver gleam

Watching the blue smoke of the elmy grange, For is she not the votary of Apollo?

Skyward ascending from the twilight dell. | Aod kuows she not, singing as he inspires,

Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavour, That bliss awaits her which the ungenial hollow"

And sage content, and placid melancholy; Of the dull earih partakes pot, nor desires ?

She loves to gaze upon a crystal river, Mount, tuneful Bird, and join the immortal quires! Diaphanous, because it travels slowly; She soared-and I awoke,-struguling in vain to follow. Soft is the music that would charm for ever ;

The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly. 1 RETIREMENT.

Ir the whole weight of what we think and feel,
Save only far as thought and feeling blend

While not a leaf seems faded,—while the fields, With action, were as nothing, patriot Friend!

With ripening harvest prodigally fair, From thy remonstrance would be no appeal!

In brightest sunshine bask,--this nipping air, But to promote and fortify the weal

Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields Of our own Being, is her paramount end;

llis icy scimitar, a foretaste yields " A truth which they alone shall comprehend

Of bitter change-and bids the Flowers beware; Who shun the mischief which they cannot heal.

And whispers to the silent Birds, « Prepare · Peace in these feverish times is sovereign bliss; Against the threatening Foe your trustiest shields.»

For liere, with no thirst but what the stream can slake,

me, who under kindlier Jaws belong And started only by the rustling brake,

To Nature's tuneful quire, this rustling dry Cool air I breathe ; while the unincumbered Mind, Through leaves yet green, and you crystalline sky, By some weak aims at services assigned

Announce a season potent to renew,
To genue Natures, thanks not Heaven amiss.

Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of
And nobler cares than listless summer knew.

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CULVENT! it must not be unheard by them
Who may respect my naine, that I to thee

See the Pbedo of Plato, by which this Sonnet was suggested.

How clear, how keen, how marvellously brighie
The eftluence from yon distant mountain's head,

Which, strewn with snow as smooth as heaven can shed, The Stars are mansions built by Nature's hand;
Shines like another Sun-on mortal sight

The sun is peopled; and with Spirits blest,
Uprisen, as if to check approaching night,

Say, can the gentle Moon be unpossest? And all her twinkling stars. Who now would tread,

Huge Ocean shows, within his yellow strand, If so he might, yon mountain's glittering head

A habitation marvellously planned, Terrestrial-bui a surface, by the tlight

For life to occupy in love and rest; Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wing,

All that we cee-is dome, or vault, or nest, Unswept, unstained! Nor shall the aerial Powers

Or fort, erected at her sage command. Dissolve that beauty-destined to endure,

Is this a vernal thought? Even so, the Spring White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure,

Gave it while cares were weighing on my heart, Through all vicissitudes-till genial spring

Mid song of birds, and insects murmuring; Have filled the laughing vales with welcome flowers.

And while the youthful year's prolific art

Of bud, leaf, blade, and flower-was fashioning

Abodes, where self-disturbance hath no part.
One who was suffering tumult in his soul
Yet failed to seek the sure relief of


TO THE LADY BEAUMONT. Went forth--liis course surrendering to the care

LADY! the songs of Spring were in the grove Of the fierce wind, while mid-day lightnings prowl

While I was shaping beds for winter flowers; Insidiously, untimely thunders growl;

While I was planting grcen unfading bowers, While trees, dim-scen, in frenzied numbers tear

And shrubs lo hang upon the warm alcove, The lingering remnant of their yellow hair,

And sheltering wall; and still, as fancy wove Aud shivering wolves, surprised with darkness, howl

The dream, to time and nature's blended powers As if the sun were not. He raised his eye

I gave this paradise for winter hours, Soul-smitten-for, that instant, did appear]

A labyrinth, Lady! which your feet shall rove. Large space, mid dreadful clouds, of purest sky,

Yes! when the sun of life more feebly shines, An azure orb-shield of Tranquillity,

Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn gloom Jovisible, unlooked-for minister

Or of high gladness you shall hither bring;
Of providential goodness ever nigh!

And these perennial bowers and murmuring pines
Be gracious as the music and the bloom

And all the mighty ravishment of spring.
Lone Flower, hemmed in with snows and white as they,
But hardier far, once more I see thee bend

Thy forehead, as if fearful 10 offend,

WITH A SELECTION FROM THE POEMS OF ANNE, CoryLike an unbidden guest. Though day by day,

TESS OF WINCHELSEA; AND EXTRACTS OF SIMILAR Storms, sallying from the mountain-tops, way-lay

CHARACTER FROM OTHER WRITERS; TRANSCRIBED The rising sun, and on the plains descend; Yet art thou welcome, welcome as a friend Whose zeal outruns his promise! Blue-eyed May

LADY! I rifled a Parnassian Cave Shall soon behold this border thickly set

(But seldom trod) of mildly-gleaming ore; With bright jonquils, their odours lavishing

And culled, from sundry beds, a lucid store On the soft west-wind and his frolic peers;

Of genuine crystals, pure as those that pave Nor will I theo thy modest grace forget,

The azure brooks where Dian joys to lave
Chaste Snow-drop, vent'rous harbinger of Spring, Her spotless limbs; and ventured to explore
And pensive monitor of fleeting years !

Dim shades-for reliques, upon Lethe's shore,
Cast up at random by the sullen wave.

To female bands the treasures were resigned;

And lo this Work!-a grotto bright and clear

From stain or taint; in which thy blameless mind

May feed on thoughts though pensive not austere; When haughty expectations prostrate lie,

Or, if thy deeper spirit be inclined
And grandeur crouches like a guilty thing,

To holy musing, it may enter here.
Oft shall the lowly weak, till nature bring
Mature release, in fair society
Survive, and fortune's utmost anger try;

There is a pleasure in poetic pains
Like these frail snow-drops that together cling, Which only Poets know ;- 'was rightly said;
And nod their helmets smitten by the wing

Whom could the Muses else allure to tread
Of many a furious whirl-blast sweeping by.

Their smootbest paths, to wear their lightest chaios! Observe the faithful flowers! if small to great

When happiest Fancy has inspired the Strains,
May lead the thoughts, thus struggling used to stand How oft the malice of one luckless word
The Emathian phalanx, nobly obstipate;

Pursues the Enthusiast to the social board,
And so the bright immortal Theban band,

Haupts him belated on the silent plains ! Whom onset, tiercely urged at Jove's command, Yet he repincs not, if his thought stand clear Might overwhelm, but could not separate!

At last of hindrance and obscurity,


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