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Ere thrice the Moon into her port had steered,
The Shepherd stopped, and that same story told
And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall
You see these lifeless stumps of aspen woodWith trailing plants and trees were intertwined,- Some say that they are beeches, others elmsWhich soon composed a little sylvan hall,
These were the bower; and here a mansion stood, A leafy shelter from the sun and wind.
The finest palace of a hundred realms !
The arbour does its own condition tell; And thither, when the summer days were long
You see the stones, the fountain, and the stream ; Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour ;
But as to the great Lodge ! you might as well And with the dancers and the minstrel's song
Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream. Made merriment within that pleasant bower.
There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep, The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time,
Will wet his lips within that cup of stone ; And his bones lie in his paternal vale.
And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep, But there is matter for a second rhyme,
This water doth send forth a dolorous groan. And I to this would add another tale.
Some say that here a murder has been done,
The trees were grey, with neither arms nor head; In April here beneath the flowering thorn lalf wasted the square mound of tawny green ; He heard the birds their morning carols sing ; o that you just might say, as then I said, And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born Here in old time the hand of man hath been.” Not half a furlong from that self-same spring.
looked upon the hill both far and near, Eore doleful place did never eye survey ;
seemed as if the spring-time came not here, nd Nature here were willing to decay.
Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade ;
tood in various thoughts and fancies lost,
“Grey-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well ;
The Being, that is in the clouds and air,
The pleasure-house is dust :-behind, before, This is no common waste, no common gloom; But Nature, in due course of time, once more Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom.
She leaves these objects to a slow decay,
Ono lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,
They came with banner, spear, and shield; And it was proved in Bosworth-field. Not long the Avenger was withstood Earth helped him with the cry of blood : St. George was for us, and the might Of blessed Angels crowned the right. Loud voice the Land has uttered forth, We loudest in the faithful north : Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring, Our streams proclaim a welcoming ; Our strong-abodes and castles see The glory of their loyalty.
How glad is Skipton at this hourThough lonely, a deserted Tower; Knight, squire, and yeoman, page and groom : We have them at the feast of Brough’m. How glad Pendragon-though the sleep Of years be on her !—She shall reap A taste of this great pleasure, viewing As in a dream her own renewing. Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem Beside her little humble stream; And she that keepeth watch and ward Her statelier Eden's course to guard; They both are happy at this hour, Though each is but a lonely Tower :But here is perfect joy and pride For one fair House by Emont's side, This day, distinguished without peer To see her Master and to cheerHim, and his Lady-mother dear!
SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM
UPON TIE RESTORATION OF LORD CLIFFORD, THE SHEPHERD, TO THE ESTATES AND HONOURS OF HIS ANCESTORS.
Hion in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate,
« From town to town, from tower to tower,
Oh! it was a time forlorn When the fatherless was bornGive her wings that she may fly, Or she sees her infant die! Swords that are with slaughter wild Hunt the Mother and the Child. Who will take them from the light ! -Yonder is a man in sightYonder 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 eyes Pray in ghostly agonies. Blissful Mary, Mother mild, Maid and Mother undefiled, Save a Mother and her Child !
Now Who is he that bounds with joy On Carrock's side, a Shepherd-boy? No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass Light as the wind along the grass.
Can this be He who hither came
Alas! when evil men are strong No life is good, no pleasure long. The Boy must part from Mosedale's groves, And leave Blencathara's rugged coves, And quit the flowers that summer brings To Glenderamakin's lofty springs ; Must vanish, and his careless cheer Be turned to heaviness and fear. -Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise ! Hear it, good man, old in days ! Thou tree of covert and of rest For this young Bird that is distrest; Among thy branches safe he lay, And he was free to sport and play, When falcons were abroad for prey.
He knew the rocks which Angels haunt
Alas! the impassioned minstrel did not know
Love had he found in huts where poor men lie ;
A recreant harp, that sings of fear And 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, That 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 seen Such garb with such a noble mien; Among the shepherd grooms no mate Hath he, a Child of strength and state ! Yet lacks not friends for simple glee, Nor yet for higher sympathy. To his side the fallow-deer Came, and rested without fear ; The eagle, lord of land and sea, Stooped down to pay him fealty ; And both the undying fish that swim Through Bowscale-tarn did wait on him ; The pair were servants of his eye In their immortality ; And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright, Moved to and fro, for his delight.
In him the savage virtue of the Race,
Glad were the vales, and every cottage-hearth ;
COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON
DURING A TOUR.
In which the affections gently lead us 00,-
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.
In darkness and amid the many shapes
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heartThoughts of more deep seclusion ; and connect
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods, The day is come when I again repose
How often has my spirit turned to thee ! Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, And now, with gleams of half-extinguished Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
thought, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
With many recognitions dim and faint, 'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
And somewhat of a sad perplexity, These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines The picture of the mind revives again: Of sportive wood run wild : these pastoral farms,
While here I stand, not only with the sense Green to the very door ; and wreaths of smoke
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts Sent up, in silence, from among the trees ! That in this moment there is life and food With some uncertain notice, as might seem
For future years. And so I dare to hope, Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was the Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire
first The Hermit sits alone.
I came among these hills; when like a me
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides These beauteous forms,
of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Through a long absence, have not been to me
Wherever nature led : more like a man As is a landscape to a blind man's eye :
Flying from something that he dreads, than est But oft, in lonely rooms, and ʼmid the din
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature de Of towns and cities, I have owed to them
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
And their glad animal movements all gone by) Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ;
To me was all in all.—I cannot paint And passing even into my purer mind,
What then I was. The sounding cataract With tranquil restoration :feelings too
Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock, Of unremembered pleasure : such, perhaps,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy ward As have no slight or trivial influence
Their colours and their forms, were then to me On that best portion of a good man's life,
An appetite ; a feeling and a love, His little, nameless, unremembered, acts
That had no need of a remoter charm, Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
By thought supplied, nor any interest To them I may have owed another gift,
Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is pase Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood,
And all its aching joys are now no more, In which the burthen of the mystery,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this In which the heavy and the weary weight
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifs Of all this unintelligible world,
Have followed; for such loss, I would believe Is lightened :—that serene and blessed mood,
Abundant recompence. For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour * The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimet
The still, sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then, To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Oí elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, Of something far more deeply interfused,
And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchanceWhose dwelling is the light of setting suns, If I should be where I no more can hear And the round ocean and the living air,
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
That on the banks of this delightful stream
Unwearied in that service: rather say
With warmer love-oh! with far deeper zeal From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
Of ere, and ear,—both what they half create, That after many wanderings, many years | And what perceive; well pleased to recognise Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, In nature and the language of the sense,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake! The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
1798. Of all my moral being.
It is no Spirit who from heaven hath flown, For thou art with me here upon the banks And is descending on his embassy ; | Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend, Nor Traveller gone from earth the heavens to espy !
My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch 1
'Tis Hesperus—there he stands with glittering The language of my former heart, and read
crown, My former pleasures in the shooting lights
First admonition that the sun is down! Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
For yet it is broad day-light: clouds pass by ; May I behold in thee what I was once,
A few are near him still—and now the sky, My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make, He hath it to himself—'tis all his own. knowing that Nature never did betray
O most ambitious Star! an inquest wrought The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, Within me when I recognised thy light; Through all the years of this our life, to lead
A moment I was startled at the sight: Fromn joy to joy: for she can so inform
And, while I gazed, there came to me a thought The mind that is within us, so impress
That I might step beyond my natural race With quietness and beauty, and so feed
As thou seem'st now to do; might one day trace With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Some ground not mine; and, strong her strength Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
above, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
My Soul, an Apparition in the place, The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Tread there with steps that no one shall reprove !
Oh! pleasant exercise of hope and joy!
For mighty were the auxiliars which then stood
AS IT APPEARED TO ENTHUSIASTS AT ITS COMMENCEMENT".
REPRINTED FROM "THE FRIEND."
* This line has a close resemblance to an admirable line of Young's the exact expression of which I do not recollect.
* This and the Extract, page 62, and the first Piece of this Class are from the unpublished Poem of which some account is given in the Preface to the EXCURSION.