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And from the gate the Pilgrim turned,
To seek such covert as the field
Or heath-besprinkled copse might yield,
Or lofty wood, shower-proof.

He paced along; and, pensively,
Halting beneath a shady tree,
Whose moss-grown root might serve for couch or

seat,
Fixed on a Star his upward eye ;
Then, from the tenant of the sky
He turned, and watched with kindred look,
A Glow-worm, in a dusky nook,
Apparent at his feet.

The murmur of a neighbouring stream
Induced a soft and slumberous dream,
A pregnant dream within whose shadowy bounds
He recognised the earth-born Star,
And That which glittered from afar;
And (strange to witness !) from the frame
Of the ethereal Orb, there came
Intelligible sounds.

A corner-stone by lightning cut, The last stone of a cottage hut; And in this dell you see A thing no storm can e'er destroy, The Shadow of a Danish Boy.' In clouds above, the Lark is heard, But drops not here to earth for rest; Within this lonesome nook the Bird Did never build her nest. No Beast, no Bird hath here his home; Bees, wafted on the breezy air, Pass high above those fragrant bells To other flowers ;-to other dells Their burthens do they bear; The Davish Boy walks here alone: The lovely dell is all his own. A Spirit of noon-day is he; He seems a Form of flesh and blood; Nor piping Shepherd shall he be, Nor Herd-boy of the wood. A regal vest of fur he wears, In colour like a raven's wing; It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew; But in the storm 't is fresh and blue As budding pines in Spring; His helmet has a vernal grace, Fresh as the bloom upon his face. A harp is from his shoulder slung; He rests the harp upon his knee; And there, in a forgotten tongue, He warbles melody, Of flocks upon the neighbouring hill He is the darling and the joy; And often, when no cause appears, The mountain ponies prick their ears, –They hear the Danish Boy, While in the dell he sits alone Beside the tree and corner-stone. There sits he: in his face you spy No trace of a ferocious air, Nor ever was a cloudless sky So steady or so fair. The lovely Danish Boy is blest And happy in bis flowery cove: From bloody deeds his thoughts are far; And yet he warbles songs That seem like songs of love, For calm and gentle is his mien; Like a dead Boy he is serene.

Much did it tauot the humbler Light
That now, when day was fled, and night
Hushed the dark earth-fast closing weary eyes,
A very Reptile could presume
To show her taper in the gloom,
As if in rivalship with One
Who sate a Ruler on his throne
Erected in the skies.

« Exalted Star!» the Worm replied,
« Abate this unbecoming pride,
Or with a less uneasy lustre shine ;
Thou shrink'st as momently thy rays
Are mastered by the breathing haze;
While neither mist, nor thickest cloud
That shapes in Heaven its murky shroud,
Hath power to injure mine.

« But not for this do I aspire
To match the spark of local fire,
That at my will burns on the dewy lawn,
With thy acknowledged glories ;-No !
Yet, thus upbraided, I may shew
What favours do attend me here,
Till, like thyself, I disappear
Before the purple dawn.»

of war,

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Transfigured through that fresh abode,
Had heretofore, in humble trust,
Shone meekly mid their native dust,
The Glow-worms of the earth!
This knowledge, from an Angel's voice
Proceeding, made the heart rejoice
Of Him who slept upon the open lea :
Waking at morn he murmured not;
And, till life's journey closed, the spot
Was to the Pilgrim's soul endeared,
Where by that dream he had been cheered
Beneath the shady tree.

HINT FROM THE MOUNTAINS

FOR CERTAIN POLITICAL PRETENDERS.

From the shore come the notes

To their Mill where it floats, To their House and their Mill tethered fast; To the small wooden Isle where, their work to beguile, They from morning to even take whatever is given ;And many a blithe day they have past.

In sight of the Spires,

All alive with the fires
Of the Sun going down to his rest,
In the broad open eye of the solitary sky,
They dance, there are three, as jocund as free,
While they dance on the calm river's breast.

Man and Maidens wheel,

They themselves make the Reel,
And their Music's a prey which they seize;
It plays not for them,—what matter? 't is theirs;
And if they had care, it has scattered their cares,
While they dance, crying, « Long as ye please!»

They dance not for me,

Yet mine is their glee!
Thus pleasure is spread through the earth
In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find;
Thus a rich loving-kindness, redlundantly kind,
Moves all nature to gladness and mirth.

The Showers of the Spring

Rouse the Birds, and they sing; If the Wind do but stir for his proper delight, Each Leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss; Each Wave, one and t'other, speeds after his brother; They are happy, for that is their right!

«Wao but hails the sight with pleasure
When the wings of genius rise,
Their ability to measure

With great enterprise;
But in man was ne'er such daring
As yon Hawk exhibits, pairing
His brave spirit with the war in

The stormy skies!
a Mark him, how his power be uses,
Lays it by, at will resumes!
Mark, ere for his haunt he chooses

Clouds and utter glooms!
There, he wheels in downward mazes;
Sanward now bis flight he raises,
Catches fire, as seems, and blazes

With uninjured plumes !»—

ANSWER.

ON SEEING A NEEDLECASE IN THE FORM

OF A HARP,

THE WORK OF E. M. S.

Stranger, 't is no act of courage
Which aloft thou dost discern;
No bold bird gone forth to forage

Mid the tempest stern;
But such mockery as the Nations
Sce, when public perturbations
Lift men from their native stations,

Like yon TUFT OF FERN; « Such it is;--the aspiring Creature Soaring on andaunted wing, (So you fancied) is by nature

A dull helpless Thing, Dry and withered, light and yellow ;That to be the tempest's fellow! Wair-and you shall see how hollow

Ils endeavouring!»

Frowns are on every Muse's face,

Reproaches from their lips are sent,
That mimickry should thus disgrace

The noble Instrument.
A very Harp in all but size!

Needles for strings in apt gradation!
Minerva's self would stigmatize

The unclassic profanation.
Even her own Needle that subdued

Arachne's rival spirit,
Though wrought in Vulcan's happiest mood,

Like station could not merit.

STRAY PLEASURES.

Pleasure is spread through the earth la stray gifts, to be daimed by whoever shall find.

And this, too, from the Laureate's Child,

A living Lord of melody!
How will her Sire be reconciled

To the refined indignity?
I spake, when whispered a low voice,

« Bard! moderate your ire; Spirits of all degrees rejoice

In presence of the Lyre. « The Minstrels of Pygmean bands,

Dwarf Genii, moonlight-loving Fays, Have shells to fit their tiny hands

And suit their slender lays.

By their floating Mill,

That lies dead and still, Behold you Prisoners three, The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the Thames! The Platform is small, but gives room for them all; And they're dancing merrily.

ON THAT DAY.

« Some, still more delicate of ear,

Thine infant history, on the minds of those
Have lutes (believe my words)

Who might have wandered with thee.- Mother's love, Whose framework is of gossamer,

Nor less than Mother's love in other breasts,
While sunbeams are the chords.

Will, among us warm clad and warmly housed,

Do for thee what the finger of the heavens « Gay Sylphs this Miniature will court,

Doth all too often harshly execute
Made vocal by their brushing wings,

For thy unblest Coevals, amid wilds
And sullen Goomes will learn to sport

Where fancy hath small liberty to grace
Around its polished strings;

The affections, to exalt them or refine ;

And the maternal sympathy itself, «Whence strains to love-sick Maiden dear, Though strong, is, in the main, a joyless tie While in her lonely Bower she tries

Of naked instinct, wound about the heart.
To cheat the thought she cannot cheer,

Happier, far happier is thy lot and ours!
By fanciful embroideries.

Even now—to solemnize thy helpless state,

And to enliven in the mind's regard « Trust, angry Bard! a knowing Sprite,

Thy passive beauty-parallels have risen,
Nor think the Harp her lot deplores ;

Resemblances, or contrasts, that connect,
Though mid the stars the Lyre shines bright,

Within the region of a Father's thoughts,
Love stoops as fondly as he soars.»

Thee and thy Mate and Sister of the sky.
And first;—thy sinless progress, through a world
By sorrow darkened and by care disturbed,

Apt likeness bears to hers, through gathered clouds, ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER, Moving untouched in silver purity,

And cheering oft-times their reluctant gloom. ON BEING REMINDED, THAT SHE WAS A MONTH OLD, Fair are ye both, and both are free from stain:

But thou, how leisurely thou fill'st thy horn Hast thou then survived, With brightness !-leaving her to post along, Mild Offspring of infirm humanity,

And range about-disquieted in change,
Meek Infant! among all forlornest things

And still impatient of the shape she wears.
The most forlorn, one life of that bright Star, Once up, once down the hill, one journey, Babe,
The second glory of the heavens ?- Thou hast : That will suflice thee; and it seems that now
Already hast survived that great decay;

Thou hast fore-knowledge that such task is thine;
That transformation through the wide earth felt, Thou travell'st so contentedly, and sleep'st
And by all nations. In that Being's sight

In such a heedless

peace.

Alas! full soon From whom the Race of human kind proceed, Hath this conception, grateful to behold, A thousand years are but as yesterday;

Changed countenance, like an object sullied o'er And one day's narrow circuit is to him

By breathing mist; and thine appears to be
Not less capacious than a thousand years.

A mournful labour, while to her is given
But what is time? What outward glory? neither Hope-and a renovation without end.
A measure is of Thee, whose claims extend

– That smile forbids the thought; -for on thy face Through « heaven's eternal year.»-Yet hail to Thee, Smiles are beginning, like the beams of dawn, Frail, feeble Monthling! - by that name, methioks,

To shoot and circulate;--smiles have there been seen, Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out

Tranquil assurances that Heaven supports Not idly.-Hadst thou been of Indian birth,

The feeble motions of thy life, and cheers Couched on a casual bed of moss and leaves,

Thy loneliness;-or shall those smiles be called And rudely canopied by leafy boughs,

Feelers of love,-put forth as if to explore Or to the churlish elements exposed

This untried world, and to prepare thy way On the blank plains,—the coldness of the night, Through a strait passage intricate and dim? Or the night's darkness, or its cheerful face

Such are they,—and the same are tokens, sigas, Of beauty, by the changing Moon adorned,

Which, when the appointed season hath arrived, Would, with imperious admonition, then

Joy, as her holiest language, shall adopt; Have scored thine age, and punctually timed

And Reason's godlike Power be proud to own.

Poems of the Imagination.

THERE was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye Cliffs
And islands of Winander!-many a time,
At evening, when the earliest stars began
To move along the edges of the hills,
Rising or seuing, would he stand alone,
Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake;
And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands

Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth
Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,
Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,
That they might answer him.-And they would shout
Across the watery vale, and shout again,
Responsive to his call, - with quivering peals,
And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud

TO THE CUCKOO. O BLITHE New-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice. O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering voice?

Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild
Of mirth and jocund din! And, when it chanced
That pauses of deep silence mocked his skill,
Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung
Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise
llas carried far into his heart the voice
Of mountain torrents; or the visible scene
Would enter unawares into his mind
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,
lo woods, and that uncertain heaven, received
Into the bosom of the steady lake.

This Boy was taken from his Mates, and died
In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old.
Fair is the spot, most beautiful the Vale
Where be was born: the grassy Church-yard hangs
Upon a slope above the village-school;
And through that Church-yard when my way has led
Ai evening, I believe, that oftentimes
A long half-hour together I have stood
Mute-looking at the grave in which he lies!

While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear,
That seems to fill the whole air's space,
As loud far off as near.

Though babbling only, to the Vale, Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, Darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No Bird: but an invisible Thing, A voice, a mystery. The same whom in my School-boy days I listened to; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky. To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert sull a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen.

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And I can listen to thee

yet; Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again.

O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, faery place;
That is fit home for Thee!

ON HER FIRST ASCENT TO THE SUMMIT OF HELVELLYN.

INMATE of a mountain Dwelling,
Thou hast clomb aloft, and gazed,
From the watch-lowers of Helvellyn;
Awed, delighted, and amazed!
Potent was the spell that bound thee
Not unwilling to obey;
For blue Ether's arms, flung round thee,
Stilled the pantings of dismay.
Lo! the dwindled woods and meadows!
What a vast abyss is there!
Lo! the clouds, the solemn shadows,
And the glistenings-heavenly fair !
And a record of commotion
Which a thousand ridges yield;
Ridge, and gulf, and distant ocean
Gleaming like a silver shield!

- Take thy flight;-possess, inherit
Alps or Andes- they are thine!
With the morning's roseate Spirit,
Sweep their leagth of snowy line;
Or survey the bright dominions
lo the gorgeous colours drest,
Flung from off the purple pinions,
Evening spreads throughout the west!
Thine are all the choral fountains
Warbling in each sparry vault
Of the untrodden lunar mountains;
Listen to their songs!-or balt,
To Niphate's top invited,
Whitber spiteful Satan steered;
Or descend where the ark alighted,
When the green carth re-appeared;
For the power of hills is on thee,
As was witnessed through thine eye
Then, when old Helvellyn won thee
To confess their majesty!

A NIGHT-PIECE.

The sky is overcast With a continuous cloud of texture close, Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon, Which through that veil is indistinctly seen, A dull, contracted circle, yielding light So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls, Checkering the ground — from rock, plant, tree, or

tower. At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam Startles the pensive traveller while he treads His lonesome path, with unobserving eye Bent earthwards: he looks up- the clouds are split Asunder,—and above his head he sees The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. There, in a black blue vault she sails along, Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss Drive as she drives;-how fast they wheel away, Yet vanish not!- the wind is in the tree, But they are silent;-still they roll along Immeasurably distant;--and the vault, Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, Still deepens its unfathomable depth.

At length the Vision closes; and the mind,

Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked Not undisturbed by the delight it feels,

With unrejoicing berries, ghostly Shapes Which slowly settles into peaceful calm,

May meet at noontide-Fear and trembling Hope, Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.

Silence and Foresight-Death the Skeleton,
And Time the Shadow,- there to celebrate,

As in a natural temple scattered o'er
WATER-FOWL.

With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,

United worship; or in mute repose Let me be allowed the aid of verso to describe the evolutions To lie, and listen to the mountain flood which these visitants sometimes perform, on a fine day towards Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves. the close of winter. Extract from the Author's Book on the Lakes.

VIEW FROM THE TOP OF BLACK COMB. MARK how the feathered tenants of the flood, With of motion that might scarcely seem

Tuis lleight a ministering Angel might select: grace

For from the summit of Black Comb (dread name Inferior to angelical, prolong

Derived from clouds and storms !) the amplest range Their curious pastime! shaping in mid air

Of unobstructed prospect may be seen (And sometimes with ambitious wing that soars High as the level of the mountain tops)

That British ground commands :-low dusky tracts, A circuit ampler than the lake beneath,

Where Trent is nursed, far southward! Cambrian Hills Their own domain ;-but ever, while intent

To the south-west, a multitudinous show; On tracing and retracing that large round,

And, in a line of eye-sight linked with these, Their jubilant activity evolves

The hoary Peaks of Scotland that give birth Hundreds of curves and circlets, to and fro,

To Tiviot's Stream, to Annan, Tweed, and Clyde ;Upward and downward, progress intricate

Crowding the quarter whence the sun comes forth Yet unperplexed, as if one spirit swayed

Gigantic Mountains rough with crags; beneath, Their indefatigable flight. — 'T is done

Right at the imperial Station's western base, Ten times, or more, I fancied it had ceased;

Main Ocean, breaking audibly, and stretched
But lo! the vanished company again

Far into silent regions blue and pale;-
Ascending ;- they approach-I hear their wings And visibly engirding Mona's Isle
Faint, faint at first; and then an eager sound

That, as we left the Plain, before our sight
Past in a moment—and as faint again!

Stood like a lofty Mount, uplifting slowly, They tempt the sun to sport amid their plumes;

(Above the convex of the watery globe) They tempt the water, or the gleaming ice,

Into clear view the cultured fields that streak To shew them a fair image ; 't is themselves,

Her habitable shores; but now appears Their own fair forms, upon the glimmering plain,

A dwindled object, and submits to lie Painted more soft and fair as they descend

At the Spectator's feet.—Yon azure Ridge, Almost to touch ;-then up again aloft,

Is it a perishable cloud? Or there Up with a sally and a flash of speed,

Do we behold the frame of Erio's Coast?
As if they scorned both resting-place and rest!

Land sometimes by the roving shepherd swain
(Like the bright confines of another world)

Not doubtfully perceived.-Look homeward now!
YEW-TREES.

In depth, in height, in circuit, how serene

The spectacle, how pure!-Of Nature's works, Tuere is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,

In earth, and air, and earth-embracing sea, Which to this day stands single, in the midst

A revelation infinite it seems; Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore,

Display august of man's inheritance,
Not loth to furnish weapons for the Bands

Of Britain's calm felicity and power.
Of Umfra ville or Percy ere they marched
To Scotland's Heaths; or those that crossed the Sea
And drew their sounding bows at Azincour,

NUTTING.
Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.

-It seems a day, Of vast circumference and gloom profound

(I speak of one from many singled out) This solitary Tree! --a living thing

One of those heavenly days which cannot die; Produced too slowly ever to decay;

When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, Of form and aspect too magnificent

I left our Cottage-threshold, sallying forth To be destroyed. But worthier still of note

With a huge wallet o'er ту

shoulder slung, Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale,

A nutting-crook in hand, and turned my steps Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;

Towards the distant woods, a Figure quaint, Huge trunks !--and each particular trunk a growth

Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds
Of intertwisted fibres serpentine

Which for that service had been husbanded,
Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved, -
Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and looks

By exhortation of my frugal Dame.
That threaten the profane;-a pillared shade,

Motley accoutrement, of power to smile Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue,

" Black Comb stands at the southern extremity of Cumberland : its

base covers a much greater extent of ground than any other monsBy sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged

tain in these parts; and, from its situation, the summit commands Perennially-beneath whose sable roof

a moro extensive view than any other point in Britaio.

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