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ADMONITION.

1.

PART I.

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.

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“ BELOVED Vale !” I said, “when I shall con THERE is a little unpretending Rill
Those many records of my childish years, Of limpid water, humbler far than aught
Remembrance of myself and of my peers That ever among Men or Naiads sought
Will press me down : to think of what is gone Notice or name !—It quivers down the hill

,
Will be an awful thought, if life have one." Furrowing its shallow way with dubious will ;
But, when into the Vale I came, no fears Yet to my mind this scanty Stream is brought
Distressed me; from mine eyes escaped no tears ; Oftener than Ganges or the Nile ; a thought
Deep thought, or dread remembrance, had I none. Of private recollection sweet and still !
By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost Months perish with their moons; year trends an
I stood, of simple shame the blushing Thrall;

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.

IV.

VII.

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.

V.

1801.

Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side,
Together in immortal books enrolled :
His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold;
And that inspiring Hill, which did divide
Into two ample horns his forehead wide,'
Shines with poetic radiance as of old;
While not an English Mountain we behold
By the celestial Muses glorified.
Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in crowds:
What was the great Parnassus' self to Thee,
Mount Skiddaw! In his natural sovereignty
Our British Hill is nobler far; he shrouds
His double front among Atlantic clouds,
And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly.

VIII.
Tue fairest, brightest, hues of ether fade ;
The sweetest notes must terminate and die ;
O Friend ! thy flute has breathed a harmony
Softly resounded through this rocky glade ;
Such strains of rapture as * the Genius played
In his still haunt on Bagdad's summit high ;
He who stood visible to Mirza's eye,
Never before to human sight betrayed.
Lo, in the vale, the mists of evening spread!
The visionary Arches are not there,
Nor the green Islands, nor the shining Seks ;
Yet sacred is to me this Mountain's head,
Whence I have risen, uplifted on the breeze
Of harmony, above all earthly care.

* See the Vision of Mirza in the Spectati.

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TO SLEEP.

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 ;
Soul-soothing Art! whom Morning, Noon-tide, Hence am I cross and peevish as a child :
Even,

Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe,
Do serve with all their changeful pageantry ; Yet ever willing to be reconciled :
Thou, with ambition modest yet sublime,

O gentle Creature ! do not use me so,
Here, for the sight of mortal man, hast given But once and deeply let me be beguiled.
To one brief moment caught from fleeting time
The appropriate calm of blest eternity.

XIII.

TO SLEEP.

X.

66

66

• Why, Minstrel, these untuneful murmurings-
Dull, flagging notes that with each other jar ?"

Think, gentle Lady, of a Harp so far
From its own country, and forgive the strings."
A simple answer ! but even so forth springs,
From the Castalian fountain of the heart,
The Poetry of Life, and all that Art
Divine of words quickening insensate things.
From the submissive necks of guiltless men
Stretched on the block, the glittering axe recoils ;
Sun, moon, and stars, all struggle in the toils
Of mortal sympathy ; what wonder then
That the poor Harp distempered music yields
To its sad Lord, far from his native fields ?

Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep!
And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names ;
The very sweetest, Fancy culls or frames,
When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep!
Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost steep
In rich reward all suffering ; Balm that tames
All anguish ; Saint that evil thoughts and aims
Takest away, and into souls dost creep,
Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone,
I surely not a man ungently made,
Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost?
Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown,
Mere slave of them who never for thee prayed,
Still last to come where thou art wanted most !

XIV.

TO SLEEP.

XI.
AERIAL Rock-whose solitary brow
From this low threshold daily meets my sight;
When I step forth to hail the morning light;
Or quit the stars with a lingering farewell-how
Shall Fancy pay to thee a grateful vow ?
How, with the Muse's aid, her love attest?
-By planting on thy naked head the crest
Of an imperial Castle, which the plough
Of ruin shall not touch. Innocent scheme !
That doth presume no more than to supply
A grace the sinuous vale and roaring stream
Want, through neglect of hoar Antiquity.
Rise, then, ye votive Towers ! and catch a gleam
Of golden sunset, ere it fade and die.

A Flock of sheep that leisurely pass by,
One after one ; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring ; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;
I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie
Sleepless ! and soon the small birds' melodies
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees ;
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth :
So do not let me wear to-night away :
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth ?
Come, blessed barrier between day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health !

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ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED THE PUBLI

CATION OF A CERTAIN POEM.

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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!

1

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!

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XIX.

While flowing rivers yield a blameless sport,
Shall live the name of Walton : Sage benign !
Whose pen, the mysteries of the rod and line
Unfolding, did not fruitlessly exhort
To reverend watching of each still report
That Nature utters from her rural shrine.
Meek, nobly versed in simple discipline-
He found the longest summer day too short,
To his loved pastime given by sedgy Lee,
Or down the tempting maze of Shawford brook-
Fairer than life itself, in this sweet Book,
The cowslip-bank and shady willow-tree;
And the fresh meads—where flowed, from every
Of his full bosom, gladsome Piety! [nook

Grief, thou hast lost an ever ready friend
Now that the cottage Spinning-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 flows
From harp or lute, kind influence to compose
The throbbing pulse-else troubled without end :
Even Joy could tell, Joy craving truce and rest
From her own overflow, what power sedate
On those revolving motions did await
Assiduously—to soothe her aching breast;
And, to a point of just relief, abate
The mantling triumphs of a day too blest.

XVII.

XX.

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
Of occupation, not by fashion led, [spread;
Thou turn’st the Wheel that slept with dust o'er-
My nerves from no such murmur shrink,—tho' near,
Soft as the Dorhawk's to a distant ear,
When twilight shades darken the mountain's head.
Even She who toils to spin our vital thread
Might smile on work, 0 Lady, once so dear
To household virtues. Venerable Art,
Torn from the Poor! yet shall kind Heaven protect
Its own; though Rulers, with undue respect,
Trusting to crowded factory and mart
And proud discoveries of the intellect,
Heed not the pillage of man's ancient heart.

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FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO.

I.

COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE VALLEYS OF WESTMORE

LAND, ON EASTER SUNDAY.
With 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,
In 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 !

Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep pace,
And I be undeluded, unbetrayed;
For if of our affections none find grace
In 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 eternal 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 hearts uninfluenced by the power
Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower,
That breathes on earth the air of paradise.

XXV.

FROM THE SAME.

II.

XXII.

DECAY OF PIETY.
Oft have I seen, ere Time had ploughed my cheek, No mortal object did these eyes behold
Matrons and Sires—who, punctual to the call

When first they met the placid light of thine,
Of their loved Church, on fast or festival

And

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.

III.

XXIII.

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.

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