WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL UPON A STONE IN
THE WALL OF THE HOUSE (AN OUT-HOUSE),
ON THE ISLAND AT GRASMERE.
RUDE is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen
Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained
Proportions more harmonious, and approached
To closer fellowship with ideal grace.
But take it in good part:-alas! the poor
Vitruvius of our village had no help
From the great City; never, upon leaves
Of red Morocco folio saw displayed,
In long succession, pre-existing ghosts
Of Beauties yet unborn-the rustic Lodge
Antique, and Cottage with verandah graced,
Nor lacking, for fit company, alcove,
Green-house, shell-grot, and moss-lined hermi
tage.
Thou see'st a homely Pile, yet to these walls
The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here
The new-dropped lamb finds shelter from the
And hither does one Poet sometimes row
His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled
With plenteous store of heath and withered
fera,
(A lading which he with his sickle cuts,
Among the mountains) and beneath this roor
He makes his summer couch, and here at noon
Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unshorn, the
Sheep,
Panting beneath the burthen of their wool,
Lie round him, even as if they were a part
Of his own Household: nor, while from his bed
He looks, through the open door-place, toward
And to the stirring breezes, does he want Creations lovely as the work of sleepFair sights, and visions of romantic joy!
Bedim, the grand terraqueous spectacle,
From centre to circumference, unveiled!
Know, if thou grudge not to prolong thy rest,
That on the suminit whither thou art bound
A geographic Labourer pitched his tent,
With books supplied and instruments of art,
To measure height and distance; lonely task,
Week after week pursued!-To him was given
Full many a glimpse (but sparingly bestowed
On timid man) of Nature's processes
Upon the exalted hills. He made report
That once, while there he plied his studious
work
Within that canvas dwelling, colours, lines,
And the whole surface of the out-spread map,
Became invisible: for all around
Had darkness fallen-unthreatened, unproclaimed
As if the golden day itself had been
Extinguished in a moment; total gloom,
In which he sate alone, with unclosed eyes,
Upon the blinded mountain's silent top!
1813.
WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL UPON A
STONE, THE LARGEST OF A HEAP LYING
NEAR A DESERTED QUARRY, UPON ONE OF
THE ISLANDS AT RYDAL.
STRANGER! this hillock of mis-shapen stones
Is not a Ruin spared or made by time,
Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the
Cairn
Of some old British Chief: 'tis nothing more
Than the rude embryo of a little Dome
Or Pleasure-house, once destined to be built
Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle.
But, as it chanced, Sir William having learned
That from the shore a full-grown man might
wade,
And make himself a freeman of this spot
At any hour he chose, the prudent Knight
Desisted, and the quarry and the mound
Are monuments of his unfinished task.
The block on which these lines are traced,
perhaps,
Was once selected as the corner-stone
Of that intended Pile, which would have been
Some quaint odd plaything of elaborate skill,
So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush,
And other little builders who dwell here,
Had wondered at the work. But blame him
For old Sir William was a gentle Knight,
Bred in this vale, to which he appertained
With all his ancestry. Then peace to him,
And for the outrage which he had devised
Entire forgiveness!-But if thou art one
On fire with thy impatience to become
An inmate of these mountains,-if, disturbed
By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn
Out of the quiet rock the elements
Of thy trim Mansion destined soon to blaze.
In snow-white splendour,-think again; and,
taught
By old Sir William and his quarry, leave
Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose;
There let the vernal slow-worm sun himself,
And let the redbreast hop from stone to stone.
1800.
THE massy ways, carried across these heights
By Roman perseverance, are destroyed,
Or hidden under ground, like sleeping worms.
How venture then to hope that Time will spare
This humble Walk? Yet on the mountain's
side
A POET's hand first shaped it; and the step.
Of that same Bard-repeated to and fro
At morn, at noon, and under moonlight skies
Through the vicissitudes of many a year-
Forbade the weeds to creep o'er its gray line.
No longer, scattering to the heedless winds
The vocal raptures of fresh poesy,
Shall he frequent those precincts; locked ro
In earnest converse with beloved Friends,
Here will he gather stores of ready bliss,
As from the beds and borders of a garden
Choice flowers are gathered! But, if Power
may spring
Out of a farewell yearning-favoured more
Than kindred wishes mated suitably
With vain regrets-the Exile would consign
This Walk, his loved possession, to the care
Of those pure Minds that reverence the Muse.
1826.
INSCRIPTIONS SUPPOSED TO BE FOUND IN AND
NEAR A HERMIT'S CELL.
1818.
I.
HOPES what are they?-Beads of morning
Strung on slender blades of grass;
Or a spider's web adorning
In a strait and treacherous pass.
What are fears but voices airy?
Whispering harm where harm is not;
And deluding the unwary
Till the fatal bolt is shot!
What is glory? in the socket
See how dying tapers fare!
What is pride?-a whizzing rocket
That would emulate a star.
What is friendship?-do not trust her,
Nor the vows which she has made;
Diamonds dart their brightest lustre
From a palsy-shaken head.
What is truth?—a staff rejected;
Duty? an unwelcome clog;
Joy?-a moon by fits reflected
Bright, as if througn ether steering,
To the Traveller's eye it shone:
He hath hailed it re-appearing-
And as quickly it is gone;
Such is Joy-as quickly hidden
Or mis-shapen to the sight,
And by sullen weeds forbidden
To resume its native light.
What is youth?—a dancing billow,
(Winds behind, and rocks before !)
Age?-a drooping, tottering willow
On a flat and lazy shore.
What is peace?-when pain is over,
And love ceases to rebel,
Let the last faint sigh discover
That precedes the passing-knell!
PAUSE, Traveller! whosoe'er thou be
Whom chance may lead to this retreat,
Where silence yields reluctantly
Even to the fleecy straggler's bleat;
Give voice to what my hand shall trace,
And fear not lest an idle sound
Of words unsuited to the place
Disturb its solitude profound.
I saw this Rock, while vernal air
Blew softly o'er the russet heath,
Uphold a Monument as fair
As church or abbey furnisheth.
Unsullied did it meet the day,
Like marble, white, like ether, pure;
As if, beneath, some hero lay,
Honoured with costliest sepulture.
My fancy kindled as I gazed;
And, ever as the sun shone forth,
The flattered structure glistened, blazed,
And seemed the proudest thing on earth.
But frost had reared the gorgeous Pile
Unsound as those which Fortune builds-
To undermine with secret guile,
Sapped by the very beam that gilds.
And, while I gazed, with sudden shock
Fell the whole Fabric to the ground;
And naked left this dripping Rock,
With shapeless ruin spread around!
I resign my soul's emotions
Uuto Thee, mysterious God!
What avails the kindly shelter
Yielded by this craggy rent,
If my spirit toss and welter
On the waves of discontent?
Parching Summer hath no warrant
To consume this crystal Well;
Rains, that make each rill a torrent
Neither sully it nor swell.
Thus, dishonouring not her station,
Would my Life present to Thee,
Gracious God, the pure oblation
Of divine tranquillity!
NOT seldom, clad in radiant vest,
Deceitfully goes forth the Morn;
Not seldom Evening in the west
Sinks smilingly forsworn.
The smoothest seas will sometimes prove
To the confiding Bark untrue
And, if she trust the stars above,
They can be treacherous too.
The umbrageous Oak, in pomp outspread,
Full oft, when storms the welkin rend,
Draws lightning down upon the head
It promised to defend.
But Thou art true, incarnate Lord,
Who didst vouchsafe for man to die;
Thy smile is sure, thy plighted word
No change can falsify!
I bent before thy gracious throne,
And asked for peace on suppliant knee;
And peace was given,-nor peace alone,
Bat faith sublimed to ecstasy!
FOR THE SPOT WHERE THE HERMITAGE STOOD
ON ST HERBERT'S ISLAND, DERWENT-WATER.
IF thou in the dear love of some one Friend
Hast been so happy that thou know'st what
thoughts
Will sometimes in the happiness of love
Make the heart sink, then wilt thou reverence
This quiet spot; and, Stranger! not unmoved
Wilt thou behold this shapeless heap of stones,
The desolate ruins of St Herbert's Cell.
Here stood his threshold; here was spread the
roof
That sheltered him, a self-secluded Man,
After long exercise in social cares
And offices humane, intent to adore
The Deity, with undistracted mind,
And meditate on everlasting things,
In utter solitude.-But he had left
A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man loved
As his own soul. And, when with eye upraised
To heaven he knelt before the crucifix,
While o'er the lake the cataract of Lodore
Pealed to his orisons, and when he paced
Along the beach of this small isle and thought
Of his Companion, he would pray that both
(Now that their earthly duties were fulfilled)
Might die in the same moment. Nor in vair
So prayed he:-as our chronicles report,
Though here the Hermit numbered his last day
Far from St Cuthbert his beloved Friend,
Those holy Men both died in the same hour.
1800.
ON THE BANKS OF A ROCKY STREAM. BEHOLD an emblem of our human mind Crowded with thoughts that need a settled home,
Yet, like to eddying balls of foam
Within this whirlpool, they each other chase
Round and round, and neither find
An outlet nor a resting-place!
Stranger! if such disquietude be thine,
Fall on thy knees and sue for help divine.
THE PRIORESS' TALE. "Call up him who left half told The story of Cambuscan bold." In the following Poem no further deviation from the original has been made than was necessary for the fluent reading and instant understanding of the Author: so much, however, is the language altered since Chaucer's time, especially in pronunciation, that much was to be removed, and its place supplied with as little incongruity as possible. The ancient accent has been retained in a few conjunctions, as also and alway, from a conviction that such sprinklings of antiquity would be admitted, by persons of taste, to have a graceful accordance with the subject. The fierce bigotry of the Prioress forms a fine back-ground for her tender-hearted sympathies with the Mother and Child; and the mode in which the story is told amply atones for the extravagance of the
Conceived was the Father's sapience, Help me to tell it in thy reverence!
From that day forward have the Jews con
Out of the world this Innocent to chase;
And to this end a Homicide they hired,
That in an alley had a privy place,
And, as the Child 'gan to the school to pace,
This cruel Jew him seized, and held him fast
And cut his throat, and in a pit him cast.
I say that him into a pit they threw,
A loathsome pit, whence noisome scents ex-
hale :
O cursed folk! away, ye Herods new!
What may your ill intentions you avail?
Murder will out; certès it will not fail;
Know, that the honour of high God may
spread
The blood cries out on your accursed deed.
O Martyr 'stablished in virginity!
Now may'st thou sing for aye before the
throne,
Following the Lamb celestial," quoth she,
"Of which the great Evangelist, Saint John,
In Patmos wrote, who saith of them that go
Before the Lamb singing continually,
That never fleshly woman they did know.
Now this poor widow waiteth all that night
After her little Child, and he came not;
For which, by earliest glimpse of morning
light,
With face all pale with dread and busy thought,
She at the School and elsewhere him hath sought,
Until thus far she learned, that he had been In the Jews' street, and there he last was seen. XXI.
With Mother's pity in her breast enclosed She goeth, as she were half out of her mind, To every place wherein she hath supposed By likelihood her little Son to find:
And ever on Christ's Mother meek and kind She cried, till to the Jewry she was brought, And him among the accursed Jews she sought.
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