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Intended more particularly for the perusgl of those who may have
happened to be enamoured of some beautiful Place of Retreat, in
the Country of the Lakes.
WELL may’st thou halt—and gaze with brightening Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room;
eye! And hermits are contented with their cells ; The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook And students with their pensive citadels ;
Hath stirred thee deeply; with its own dear brook, Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, Its own small pasture, almost its own sky! Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom, But covet not the Abode ;-forbear to sigh, High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells, As many do, repining while they look ; Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells : Intruders—who would tear from Nature's book In truth the prison, unto which we doom
This precious leaf, with harsh impiety. Jurselves, no prison is: and hence to me, Think what the Home must be if it were thine, n sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound Even thine, though few thy wants !-Roof, window, Vithin the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground;
door, leased if some Souls (for such there needs must | The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, be)
The roses to the porch which they entwine : ho have felt the weight of too much liberty, Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day nould find brief solace there, as I have found. On which it should be touched, would melt away.
“ BELOVED Vale !” I said, “when I shall con THERE is a little unpretending Rill
year; So narrow seemed the brooks, the fields so small ! But, faithful Emma! thou with me canst say A Juggler's balls old Time about him tossed ; That, while ten thousand pleasures disappear, I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed; and all And flies their memory fast almost as they; The weight of sadness was in wonder lost. The immortal Spirit of one happy day
Lingers beside that Rill, in vision clear.
AT APPLETHWAITE, NEAR KESWICK.
1804. BEAUMONT! it was thy wish that I should rear
Her only pilot the soft breeze, the boat A seemly Cottage in this sunny Dell,
Lingers, but Fancy is well satisfied ; On favoured ground, thy gift, where I might dwell
With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory, at her sta In neighbourhood with One to me most dear,
And the glad Muse at liberty to note That undivided we from year to year
All that to each is precious, as we float Might work in our high Calling--a bright hope
Gently along ; regardless who shall chide To which our fancies, mingling, gave free scope
If the heavens smile, and leave us free to glide, Till checked by some necessities severe.
Happy Associates breathing air remote And should these slacken, honoured Beaumont! From trivial cares. But, Fancy and the Muse still
Why have I crowded this small bark with you Even then we may perhaps in vain implore
And others of your kind, ideal crew! Leave of our fate thy wishes to fulfil.
While here sits One whose brightness owes its by Whether this boon be granted us or not,
To flesh and blood; no Goddess from above, Old Skiddaw will look down upon the Spot
No fleeting Spirit, but my own true Love ! With pride, the Muses love it evermore.
Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side,
* See the Vision of Mirza in the Spectati.
Painted by Sir G. H. Beaumont, Bart.
UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE,
O GENTLE SLEEP! do they belong to thee, Praised be the Art whose subtle power could stay These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love Yon cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape ; To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove, Nor would permit the thin smoke to escape, A captive never wishing to be free. Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day ; This tiresome night, 0 Sleep! thou art to me Which stopped that band of travellers on their way, A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove Ere they were lost within the shady wood; Upon a fretful rivulet, now above And showed the Bark upon the glassy flood Now on the water vexed with mockery. For ever anchored in her sheltering bay.
I have no pain that calls for patience, no ;
Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe,
O gentle Creature ! do not use me so,
• Why, Minstrel, these untuneful murmurings-
Think, gentle Lady, of a Harp so far
Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep!
A Flock of sheep that leisurely pass by,
ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED THE PUBLI
CATION OF A CERTAIN POEM.
THE WILD DUCK'S NEST. The imperial Consort of the Fairy-king Owns not a sylvan bower; or gorgeous cell With emerald floored, and with purpureal shell Ceilinged and roofed ; that is so fair a thing As this low structure, for the tasks of Spring, Prepared by one who loves the buoyant swell Of the brisk waves, yet here consents to dwell ; And spreads in steadfast peace her brooding wing. Words cannot paint the o'ershadowing yew-tree And dimly-gleaming Nest,-a hollow crown [bough, Of golden leaves inlaid with silver down, Fine as the mother's softest plumes allow: I gazed-and, self-accused while gazing, sighed For human-kind, weak slaves of cumbrous pride!
See Milton's Sonnet, beginning, A Book was writ of late called
“Tetrachordon." A Book came forth of late, called PETER BELL; Not negligent the style ;-the matter ?-good As aught that song records of Robin Hood; Or Roy, renowned through many a Scottish dell ; But some (who brook those hackneyed themes
full well, Nor heat, at Tam o' Shanter's name, their blood) Waxed wroth, and with foul claws, a harpy brood, On Bard and Hero clamorously fell. Heed not, wild Rover once through heath and glen, Who mad'st at length the better life thy choice, 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!
While flowing rivers yield a blameless sport,
Grief, thou hast lost an ever ready friend
TO S. H.
TO THE POET, JOHN DYER. Bard of the Fleece, whose skilful genius made That work a living landscape fair and bright; Nor hallowed less with musical delight Than those soft scenes through which thy child
hood strayed, Those southern tracts of Cambria, 'deep embayed, With green hills fenced, with ocean's murmurlulld;' Though hasty Fame hath many a chaplet culled For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced, Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and still, A grateful few, shall love thy modest Lay, Long as the shepherd's bleating flock shall stray O'er naked Snowdon's wide aërial waste; Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill !
Excuse is needless when with love sincere
FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO.
COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE VALLEYS OF WESTMORE
LAND, ON EASTER SUNDAY.
Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep pace,
FROM THE SAME.
DECAY OF PIETY.
When first they met the placid light of thine,
my Soul felt her destiny divine, Through the long year the House of Prayer would
And hope of endless peace in me grew bold : By Christmas snows, by visitation bleak [seek:
Heaven-born, the Soul a heaven-ward course must Of Easter winds, unscared, from hut or hall
Beyond the visible world she soars to seek [hold; They came to lowly bench or sculptured stall,
(For what delights the sense is false and weak) But with one fervour of devotion meek.
Ideal Form, the universal mould. I see the places where they once were known,
The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest And ask, surrounded even by kneeling crowds,
In that which perishes : nor will he lend Is ancient Piety for ever flown?
His heart to aught which doth on time depend. Alas! even then they seemed like fleecy clouds
'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love, That, struggling through the western sky, have won
That kills the soul : love betters what is best, Their pensive light from a departed sun!
Even here below, but more in heaven above.
XXVI. COMPOSED ON THE EVE OF THE MARRIAGE OF A FROM THE SAME. TO THE SUPREME BEING.
FRIEND IN THE VALE OF GRASMERE, 1812. What need of clamorous bells, or ribands gay, The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed These humble nuptials to proclaim or grace? If Thou the spirit give by which I pray: Angels of love, look down upon the place; My unassisted heart is barren clay, Shed on the chosen vale a sun-bright day!
That of its native self can nothing feed : Yet no proud gladness would the Bride display Of good and pious works thou art the seed, Even for such promise :-serious is her face, That quickens only where thou say’st it may : Modest her mien; and she, whose thoughts keep pace
Unless Thou shew to us thine own true way With gentleness, in that becoming way
No man can find it: Father! Thou must lead. Will thank you. Faultless does the Maid appear; Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind No disproportion in her soul, no strife:
By which such virtue may in me be bred But, when the closer view of wedded life
That in thy holy footsteps I may tread; Hath shown that nothing human can be clear The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind, From frailty, for that insight may the Wife That I may have the power to sing of thee, to her indulgent Lord' become more dear. And sound thy praises everlastingly.