SEE what gay wild flowers deck this earth-built Cot, Whose smoke, forth-issuing whence and how it may, Shines in the greeting of the sun's first ray
Like wreaths of vapour without stain or blot. The limpid mountain rill avoids it not,
And why shouldst thou ?—If rightly trained and bred, Humanity is humble, finds no spot
Which her Heaven-guided feet refuse to tread. The walls are cracked, sunk is the flowery roof, Undressed the pathway leading to the door. But love, as Nature loves, the lonely Poor! Search, for their worth, some gentle heart wrong-proof, Meek, patient, kind,—and, were its trials fewer, Belike less happy.—Stand no more aloof!
“THERE!” said a Stripling, pointing with meet pride Towards a low roof with green trees half concealed, "Is Mosgiel Farm; and that's the very field
Where Burns ploughed up the Daisy." Far and wide A plain below stretched seaward, while, descried Above sea-clouds, the Peaks of Arran rose; And, by that simple notice, the repose Of earth, sky, sea, and air, was vivified. Beneath "the random bield of clod or stone Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away; less happy than the One That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.
WHO HAD PAINTED MRS. WORDSWORTH'S PORTRAIT.
ALL praise the Likeness by thy skill pourtrayed; But 'tis a fruitless task to paint for me,
Who, yielding not to changes Time has made,
By the habitual light of memory see
Eyes unbedimmed, see bloom that cannot fade, And smiles that from their birth-place ne'er shall flee Into the land where ghosts and phantoms be; And, seeing this, own nothing in its stead. Couldst thou go back into far distant years, Or share with me, fond thought! that inward eye, Then, and then only, Painter ! could thy Art The visual powers of Nature satisfy,
Which hold, whate'er to common sight appears, Their sovereign empire in a faithful heart.
LVI.-ON THE SAME SUBJECT.
THOUGH I beheld at first with blank surprise This Work, I now have gazed on it so long I see its truth with unreluctant eyes; O, my Beloved! I have done thee wrong, Conscious of blessedness, but, whence it sprung, Ever too heedless, as I now perceive : Morn into noon did pass, noon into eve, And the old day was welcome as the young, As welcome, and as beautiful-in sooth More beautiful, as being a thing more holy : Thanks to thy virtues, to the eternal youth Of all thy goodness, never melancholy; To thy large heart and humble mind, that cast Into one vision, future, present, past.
LVII.-IN SIGHT OF THE TOWN OF COCKERMOUTH. (Where the Author was born, and his Father's remains are laid.)
A POINT of life between my Parents' dust, And yours, my buried Little-ones! am I ; And to those graves looking habitually In kindred quiet I repose my trust. Death to the innocent is more than just, And, to the sinner, mercifully bent; So may I hope, if truly I repent
And meekly bear the ills which bear I must : And You, my Offspring! that do still remain, Yet may outstrip me in the appointed race, If e'er, through fault of mine, in mutual pain We breathed together for a moment's space, The wrong, by love provoked, let love arraign, And only love keep in your hearts a place.
TRANQUILLITY! the sovereign aim wert thou In heathen schools of philosophic lore; Heart-stricken by stern destiny of yore
The Tragic Muse thee served with thoughtful vow; And what of hope Elysium could allow Was fondly seized by Sculpture, to restore
Peace to the Mourner. But when He, who wore The crown of thorns around His bleeding brow, Warmed our sad being with His glorious light, Then Arts, which still had drawn a softening grace From shadowy fountains of the Infinite, Communed with that Idea face to face; And move around it now, as planets run, Each in its orbit, round the central Sun.
Intended more particularly for the Perusal of those who may have happened to be enamoured of some beautiful Place of Retreat, in the Country of the Lakes.
YES, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!
-The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook Hath stirred thee deeply; with its own dear brook, Its own small pasture, almost its own sky! But covet not the Abode ;-forbear to sigh, As many do, repining while they look ; Intruders-who would tear from Nature's book This precious leaf, with harsh impiety.
Think what the Home must be if it were thine, Even thine, though few thy wants !-Roof, window, door, The very flowers are sacred to the Poor ; The roses to the porch which they entwine.
Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day On which it should be touched, would melt away.
WANSFELL!' this Household has a favoured lot, Living with liberty on thee to gaze,
To watch while Morn first crowns thee with her rays, Or when along thy breast serenely float
Evening's angelic clouds.
Hath sounded (shame upon the Bard!) thy praise For all that thou, as if from heaven, hast brought Of glory lavished on our quiet days.
Bountiful Son of Earth! when we are gone From every object dear to mortal sight, As soon we shall be, may these words attest How oft, to elevate our spirits, shone
Thy visionary majesties of light,
How in thy pensive glooms our hearts found rest.
1 The Hill that rises to the south-east, above Ambleside.
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