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Defeating, put the Monks to shame, There where you see his Image stand Bare to the sky, with threatening brand Which lingering Nip is proud to show Reflected in the pool below.

Doth yet frequent the hill of storms,
The Stars dim-twinkling through their forms!
What! Ossian here--a painted Thrall,
Mute fixture on a stuccoed wall;
To serve, an unsuspected screen
For show that must not yet be seen;
And, when the moment comes, to part
And vanishi by mysterious art;
l'lead, Harp, and Body, split asunder,
For ingress to a world of wonder;
A gay Saloon, with waters dancing
Upon the sight wherever glancing;
One loud Cascade in front, and lo!
A thousand like it, white as snow-
Streams on the walls, and torrents foam
As active round the hollow dome,
Illusive cataracts! of their terrors
Not stript, nor voiceless in the Mirrors,
That catch the pageant from the Flood
Thundering adown a rocky wood!
Strange scene, fantastic and uneasy
As ever made a Maniac dizzy,
When disenchanted from the niood
That loves on sullen thoughts to brood !

Thus, like the Men of earliest days, Our Sires set forth their grateful praise; Uncouth the workmanship, and rude! But, nursed in mountain solitude, Might some aspiring Artist dare To seize whate'er, through misty air, A Ghost, by glimpses, may present of imitable lineament, And give the Phantom such array As less sliould scorn the abandon'd clay; Then let him hew, with patient stroke, An Ossian out of mural rock, And leave the figurative Man Upon thy Margin, roaring Bran! Fixed, like the Templar of the steep, An everlasting watch to keep; With local sanctities in trust, More precious than a hermit's dust; And virtues through the mass infused, Which old idolatry abused.

O Nature, in thy changeful visions, Through all thy most abrupt transitions, Smooth, graceful, tender, or sublime, Ever averse to Pantomime, Thee neither do they know nor us Thy Servants, who can trille thus; Else surely had the sober powers Of rock that frowns, and stream that roars, Exalted by congenial sway Of Spirits, and the undying Lay, And names that moulder not away, Awakeu'd some redeeming thought More worthy of this favour'd Spor; Recalld some feeling-to set free The Bard from such indignity!

What though the granite would deny All fervour to the sightless eye; And touch from rising Suns in vain Solicit a Memnonian strain; Yet, in some fit of anger sharp, The Wind might force the deep-grooved barp To utter melancholy moans Not unconuected with the tones Of soul-sick tiesh and weary bones; Whilc

trove and river notes would lend, Less deeply sad, with these to blead!

Vain Pleasures of luxurious life, For ever with yourselves at strife; Through town and country both deranged By affectations interchanged, And all the perishable gauds That heaven-deserted man applauds; When will your hapless Patrons learn To watch and ponder--to discern The fresliness, the eternal youth, Of admiration sprang from truth; From beauty infinitely growing Upon a mind with love o’erllowing; To sound the depths of every That secks its wisdom through the heart?

The Effigies of a valiant Wight I once belield, a Templar Knight; Not prostrate, not like those that rest On Tombs, with palms together press'd, Dut sculptured out of living stone, Aud standing upright and alone, Both hands with rival energy Employ'd in setting his sword free From its dull sheath--stern Sentinel Intent to guard St Robert's Cell; As if with memory of the affray Far distant, when, as legends say, The Monks of Fountain's throng'd to force From its dear home the Hermit's corse, That in their keeping it might lie, To crown their Abbey's sanctity. So had they rush'd into the Grot Of sense despised, a world forgot, And torn him from his loved Retreat, Where Altar-stone and rock-hewn seat Sul hint that quiet best is found, Even by the Living, under ground; But a bold Knight, the selfish aim

Art

Thus (where the intrusive Pile, ill-graced With baubles of Theatric taste, O'erlooks the Torrent breathing showers Ou motley bands of alien flowers, In stiff confusion set or sown, Till Nature cannot find her own, Or keep a remnant of the sod Which Caledonian Heroes trod) I mused; and, thirsting for redress, Recoiled into the wilderness.

On the banks of the River Nid, near Knaresborough,

Dost rival in the light of day
Her delicate creation :
Meck loveliness is round thee spread,
A softness still and holy;
The grace of forest charms decay'd,
And pastoral melancholy.

YARROW VISITED,

SEPTEMBER, 1814. And is this-Yarrow?- This the Stream Of which my fancy cherished, So faithfully, a waking dream? An image that hath perished ! O that some Minstrel's harp were near, To utter notes of gladness, And chase this silence from the air, That fills my heart with sadness! Yet why?—a silvery current flows With uncontrolld meanderiogs; Nor have these eyes by greener hills Been soothed, in all my wanderings. And, through her depilas, Saint Mary's Lake Is visibly delighted; For not a feature of those hills Is in the mirror slighted. A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, Save where that pearly whiteness Is round the rising sun diffused, A tender hazy brightness ; Mild dawn of promise! that excludes All prohtless dejection ; Though not unwilling here to admit A pensive recollection, Where was it that the famous Flower of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding ? His bed percbance was yon smooth mound On which the herd is feeding: And haply from this crystal pool, Now peaceful as the morning, The Water-wraith ascended thriceAnd gave his doleful warning. Delicious is the Lay that sings The haunts of happy Lovers, The path that leads them to the grove, The leafy grove that covers : And Pity sanctifies the verse That paints, by strength of sorrow, The unconquerable strength of love; Bear witness, rueful Yarrow! Bat thou, that didst appear so fair To fond imagination,

That region left, the Vale unfolds
Rich groyes of lofty stature,
With Yarrow winding through the pomp
Of cultivated nature;
And, rising from those lofty groves,
Belold a Ruin hoary!
The shattered front of Newark's Towers,
Renowa'd in Border story.
Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom,
For sportive youth to stray in;
For manhood to enjoy his strength;
And age to wear away in!
Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,
A covert for protection
Of tender thoughts that nestle there,
The brood of chaste affection.
How sweet, on this autumnal day,
The wild-wood fruits to gather,
And on my True-love's forehead plant
A crest of blooming heather!
And what if I enwreath'd my own!
"T were no offence to reason;
The sober fills thus deck their brows
To meet the wintry season.
I see—but not by sight alone,
Loved Yarrow, have I won thee!
A ray of Fancy still survives,
Her sunshine plays upon thee!
Thy ever youthful waters keep
A course of lively pleasure;
And gladsome notes my lips can breathe,
Accordant to the measure.
The vapours linger round the Heights,
They melt-and soon must vanish;
One hour is theirs, nor more is mine-
Sad thought, which I would banish,
But that I know, where'er I go,
Thy genuine image, Yarrow!
Will dwell with me-lo heighten joy,
And cheer my mind in sorrow.

Poems on the Naming of Places.

ADVERTISEMENT.

Jr was an April morning: fresh and clear
The Rivulet, delighting in its strength,

Ran with a young mau's speed; and yet the voice Br persons resident in the country and attached to rural of waters which the winter had supplied objects, many places will be found unnamed or of un- Was soften d down into a'veroal tone. knowo names, where little Incidents must have occur- The spirit of enjoyment and desire, red, or feelings been experienced, which will have given to And hopes and wishes, from all living things such places a private and peculiar interest. From a Went circling, like a multitude of sounds. wish to give some sort of record 10 such Jocidents, or The budding groves appear'd as if in haste renew the cratification of such Feelings, Names have to spur the steps of June; as if their shades been given to places by the Author and some of his of various green were bivdrances that stood Friends, and the following l'ocms written in consequence. Between them and their object: yet, meanwhile,

18

Reviving obsolete Idolatry,
1, like a Runic Priest, in characters
Of formidable size had chisseled out
Some uncouth name upon the native rock,
Above the Rotha, by the forest side.
-Now, by those dear immunities of heart
Engendered betwixt malice and true love,
I was not loth to be so catechised,
And this was my reply:–« As it befel,
One summer morning we had walked abroad
At break of day, Joanna and myself.
-'T was that delightful season when the broom,
Full-flowered, and visible on every sleep,
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 rock
Which looks toward the East, I there stopped short,
And traced the lofty barrier with my eye
From base to summit: such delight I found
To 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 force
Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart.
- When I had gazed perhaps iwo minutes' space,
Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld
That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud.
The Rock, like something starting from a sleep,
Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed again:
That ancient Woman seated on Helm-Crag
Was ready with her cavern: Hammer-Scar,
And the tall Steep of Silver-How, sent forth
A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard,
And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone:
Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky
Carried the Lady's voice,-old Skiddaw blew
His speaking trumpet;-back out of the clouds
Of Glaramara southward came the voice;
And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head.
-Now whether (said I to our cordial Friend,
Who in the hey-day of astonishment
Smiled in my face) this were in simple truth
A work accomplished by the brotherhood
Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched
With dreams and visionary impulses
To me alone imparted, sure I am
That there was a loud uproar in the hills:
And, while we both were listening, to my side
The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished
To shelter from some object of her fear.
-And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen mocas
Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone
Beneath this rock, at suprise, on a calm
And silent morning, I sat down, and there,
In memory of affections old and true,
I chisseled out in those rude characters
Joanna's name upon the living stone.
And I, and all who dwell by my fire-side,
Have called the lovely rock, Joanna's Rock,

There was such deep contentment in the air,
That
every

naked ash, and tardy tree
Yet leafless, seem'd as though the countenance
With which it look'd on this delightful day
Were native to the summer.—Up the brook
I roam'd in the confusion of my heart,
Alive to all things and forgetting all.
At length I to a sudden turning came
In this continuous glen, where down a rock
The Stream, so ardent in its course before,
Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all
Which I till then had heard, appeard the voice
Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the Lamb,
The Shepherd's Dog, the Linnet and the Thrush
Vied with this Waterfall, and made a song
Which, while I listened, secm'd like the wild growth
Or like some natural produce of the air,
That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here;
But 't was the foliage of the rocks, the birch,
The yew, the holly, and the bright green tliorn,
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 gazed and gazed, 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 talk
Have 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 pass
The time of early youth; and there you learned,
From years of quiet industry, to love
The living Beings by your own fire-side,
With such a strong devotion, that your heart
Is slow toward the sympathies of them
Who look upon the hills with tenderness,
And make dear friendships with the streams and groves.
Yet we, wlio are transgressors in this kind,
Dwelling retired in our simplicity
Among the woods and fields, we love you well,
Joanna! and I guess, since you have been
So distant from us now for two long years,
That

you will gladly listen to discourse
However trivial, if you thencc are taught
That they, with whom you once were happy, talk
Familiarly of you and of old times.

While I was seated, now some ten days past,
Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop
Their ancient neighbour, the old Steeple tower,
The Vicar from bis gloomy house hard by
Came forth to greet me; and when lie had asked,
« Ilow fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid !
And when will she return to us?» le paused;
And, after short exchange of village news,
He with grave looks demanded, for what cause,

In Cumberland and Westmoreland are several Inscriptions, apa the native rock, which, from the wasting of Time, and the rudeness of the Workmanship, have boon mistaken for Runic. They are, with out doubt, Roman,

The Roiha, mentioned in this poem, is the River which, foxing through the lakes of Grasmere and Rydsle, falls into Wynander. On lelm-trag, that impressive single Mountain at the head of the

THERE is an Eminence, -of these our hills

Delighted much to listen to those sounds, The last that parleys with the setting sun.

And feeding thus our fancies, we advanced We can behold it from our Orchard-seat;

Along the indented shore; when suddenly, And when at evening we pursue our walk

Through a thin veil of glittering haze was seen

l'efore us, on a pojot of jutting band, Along the public way, this Cliff, so high

The tall and upright figure of a Min Above us, and so distant in its height,

Attired in peasant's garb, who stood alone, Is visible; and often seems to send its own deep quiet to restore our hearts,

Ingling beside the margin of the lake.

Improvident and reckless, we exclaimed, The meteors make of it a favourite haunt:

The Man must be, who thus can lose a day The star of Jove, so beautiful and large

Of the mid-harvest, when the labourer's hire in the mid heavens, is never half so fair

Is ample, and some little might be stored As when lie shines above it. 'T is in truth

Wherewith to checr bim in the winter time. The loneliest place we have among the clouds.

Thus talking of that Peasant, we approached And She who dwells with me, whom I have loved

Close to the spot where with bis rod and line With such communion, that no place on earth

He stood alone; whereat he turned his head Can ever be a solilude to me,

To greet us—and we saw a Man woru down Hath to this lonely Summit given my Name.

By sickness, gaunt and lean, with supken cheeks

And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean A NAXROW Girdle of rough stones and crags,

That for my single self I looked at them, A rude and natural causeway, inter posed

Forgetful of the body they sustained.l'etween the water and a winding slope

Too weak co labour in the harvest field, Of copse and thicket, Icaves the eastern shore

The Man was using his best skill to gain Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy.

A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake And there, myself and two beloved Friends,

That knew not of his wants.

I will not say One calm September morning, cre the mist

What thoughts immerliately were ours, nor how llad altogether yielded to the sun,

The happy idleness of that sweet morn, Sauptered on this retired and difficult way.

With all its lovely images, was changed --Ill suits the road with one in haste, but we To serious musing and to self-reproach. Played with our time; and, as we strolled along, Nor did we fail to see within ourselves It was our occupation to observe

What need there is to be reserved in speech, Sucb objects as the waves had tossed ashore,

And temper all our thoughts with charity. Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough,

- Therefore, unwilling to forget that day, Each on the other heaped, along the line

My Friend, Myself, and she who then received Of the dry wreck. And, in our vacant mood,

The same admonislımcnt, have called the place Vot seldoın did we stop to watch some luft

by a memorial name, uncouth indeed Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard,

As e'er by Mariner was given to Bay That skimmed the surface of the dead calm lake, Or Foreland, on a new-discovered coast; Suddenly halting now-a lifeless stand!

And Point RASE JUDGMENT is the Name it bears. And starting off again with freak as sudden; In all its sportive wanderings, all the while, Making report of an invisible breeze

То м. н. That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse,

Our walk was far among the ancient trees; Its playmate, rather say its moving soul.

There was no road, nor any woodman's path; ---And often, trilling with a privilege

But the thick umbrage, checking the wild growth Alike indulged to all, we paused, one now,

Of weed and sapling, along soft green turf And now the other, 10 point out, perchance

Beneath the branches, of itself had made To pluck, somc tlower or water-weed, too fair

A track, that brought us to a slip of lawn, tither to be divided from the place

dod a small bed of water in the woods. On which it giew, or to be left alonc

All round this pool both tlocks and iserds might drink To its own beauty. Many such there are,

On its firm margin, even as from a Well, Fair Ferns and Flowers, and chiefly that tall Fern, Or some Stone-basin which the Herdsman's band So staicly, of the Queen Osmunda named;

Dad shaped for their refreshment; nor did sun, Plant lovelier in its own resired abode

Or wind from any quarter, ever come, Ou Grastnere's beach, thao Naiad by the side

But as a blessing, to this calm recess, Of Greciao brook, or Lady of the Mere,

This glade of water and this one green field. | Solezitling by the shores of old Romance.

The spot was made by Nature for herself, -So fared we that bright morning: from the fields, The travellers know it not, and I will remain Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth

Unknown to them: but it is beautiful; Of Reapers, Men and Women, Boys and Girls.

And if a man should plant bis cottage near, Vale of Prospere, is a rock wbich from most points of view bears should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees, #striking rouerblance to an Old Woman cnwering. Close by this

And blend its waters with his daily meal, facile in one of those fissares or Caverns, which in the language of He would so love it, that in his death hour ibor (ountry are called Dungeons. Most of it. Mountain here men

Its image would survive among his thoughts: e inmediately surround the Vale of Grasmere; of the others,

And therefore, my swect Mary, this still Nook, sese are at a cousiderable distance, but they belong to the same cluster.

With all its beeches, we have named from You.

Waer, to the attractions of the busy World,
Preferring studious leisure, I had chosen
A habitation in this peaceful Vale,
Sharp season followed of continual storm
lo deepest winter; and, from week to week,
Pathway, and lane, and public road, were clogged
With frequent showers of snow. Upon a hill
At a short distance from my Cottage, stands
A stately Fir-grove, whither I was wont
To hasten, for I found, beneath the roof
Of that perennial shade, a cloistral place
Of refuge, with an unincumbered floor.
Here, in safe covert, on the shallow snow,
And, sometimes, on a speck of visible earth,
The redbreast near me hopped; nor was I loth
To sympathise with vulgar coppice Birds
That, for protection from the pipping blast,
Hither repaired. A single beech-tree grew
Within this grove of firs; and, on the fork
Of that one beech, appeared a thrusb's nest ;
A last year's nest, conspicuously built
At such small elcvation from the ground
As gave sure sign that they, who in that house
Of nature and of love had made their home
Amid the fir-trees, all the summer long
Dwelt in a tranquil spot. And oftentimes,
A few sheep, stragglers from some mountain-flock,
Would watch my motions with suspicious stare,
From the remotest outskirts of the grove, -
Some nook where they had made their final stand,
Huddling together from two fears-the fear
Of me and of the storm. Full many an hour
Here did I lose. But in this grove the trees
Had been so thickly planted, and had thriven
In such perplexed and intricate array,
That vainly did I seek, between their stems,
A length of open space, where to and fro
My feet might move without concern or care
And, baffled thus, before the storm relaxed,
I ceased the shelter to frequent,-and prized,
Less than I wished to prize, that calm recess.

The snows dissolved, and genial Spring returned To clothe the fields with verdure. Other haunts Meanwhile were mine; till, one bright April day, By chance retiring from the glare of noon To this forsaken covert, there I found A hoary path-way traced between the trees, And winding on with such an easy line Along a natural opening, that I stood Much wondering how I could have sought in vain For what was now so obvious. To abide, For an allotted interval of ease, Beneath my cottage roof, had newly come From the wild sea a cherished Visitant; And with the sight of this same path-begun, Begun and ended, in the shady grove,

Pleasant conviction flashed upon my mind
That, to this opportune recess allured,
He had surveyed it with a finer eye,
A heart more wakeful; and had wora the track
By pacing here, unwearied and alone,
In that habitual restlessness of foot
With which the Sailor measures o'er and o'er
His short domain upon the vessel's deck,
While she is travelling through the dreary sea.

When thou hadst quitted Esthwaite's pleasant shore,
And taken thy first leave of those green hills
And rocks that were the play-ground of thy Youth,
Year followed year, my Brother! and we two,
Conversing not, knew little in what mould
Each other's minds were fashioned; and at length,
When once again we met in Grasmere Vale,
Between us there was little other bond
Than common feelings of fraternal love.
But thou, a School-boy, to the sea badst carried
Undying recollections; Nature there
Was with thee; she, who loved us both, she still
Was with thee; and even so didst thou become
A silent Poet; from the solitude
Of the vast sea didst bring a watchful heart
Still couchant, an inevitable ear,
And an eye practised like a blind man's touch.
-Back to the joyless Ocean thou art gone;
Nor from this vestige of thy musing hours
Could I with hold thy honoured name, and now
I love the fir-grove with a perfect love.
Thither do I withdraw when cloudless suns
Shine hot, or wind blows troublesome and strong:
And there I sit at evening, when the steep
Of Silver-how, and Grasmere's peaceful Lake,
And one green Island, gleam becween the stems
Of the dark firs, a visionary scene!
And, while I gaze upon the spectacle
Of clouded splendour, on this dream-like sight
Of solemn loveliness, I think on thee,
My brother, and on all which thou hast lost.
Nor seldom, if I rightly guess, while Thou,
Muttering the Verses which I muttered first
Among the mountains, through the midnight watch
Art pacing thoughtfully the Vessel's deck
In some far region, here, while o'er my head,
At every impulse of the moving breeze,
The fir-grove murmurs with a sea-like sound,
Alone I tread this path;—for aught I know,
Timing my steps to thine; and, with a store
Of undistinguishable sympathics,
Mingling most carnest wishes for the day
When we, and others whom we love, shall meet
A second time, in Grasmcre's happy Vale.

Note. – This wish was not granted; the lamented Person, por leng after, perished by shipwreck, in discharge of bis duty as Commander of the Honourable East India Company's Vessel, the Earl of AderGarendy.

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