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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,
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
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
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
Poems on the Naming of Places.
Jr was an April morning: fresh and clear
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,
Reviving obsolete Idolatry,
There was such deep contentment in the air,
naked ash, and tardy tree
you will gladly listen to discourse
While I was seated, now some ten days past,
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,
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
When thou hadst quitted Esthwaite's pleasant shore,
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.