To rouse the dawn, soft gales shall speed thy wing,
And thy erratic voice be faithful to the Spring!
[Miss not the occasion; by the forelock take That subtile Power, the never-halting Time, Lest a mere moment's putting off should make Mischance almost as heavy as a crime.] "WAIT, prithee, wait!" this answer Lesbia threw
Forth to her Dove, and took no further heed. Her eye was busy, while her fingers flew Across the harp, with soul-engrossing speed; But from that bondage when her thoughts were freed
She rose, and toward the close-shut casement drew,
Whence the poor unregarded Favourite, true To old affections, had been heard to plead With flapping wing for entrance. What a
Forced from that voice so lately tuned to a strain
Of harmony!-a shriek of terror, pain, And self-reproach! for, from aloft, a Kite Pounced, and the Dove, which from its ruth- less beak
She could not rescue, perished in her sight!
UNQUIET Childhood here by special grace Forgets her nature, opening like a flower That neither feeds nor wastes its vital power In painful struggles. Months each other chase, And nought untunes that Infant's voice; no
Of fretful temper sullies her pure cheek; Prompt, lively, self-sufficing, yet so meek That one enrapt with gazing on her face (Which even the placid innocence of death Could scarcely make more placid, heaven more bright)
Might learn to picture, for the eye of faith, The Virgin, as she shone with kindred light; A nursling couched upon her mother's knee, Beneath some shady palm of Galilee.
TO, IN HER SEVENTIETH YEAR.
SUCH age how beautful! O Lady bright, Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined By favouring Nature and a saintly Mind To something purer and more exquisite Than flesh and blood; whene'er thou meet'st my sight,
When I behold thy blanched unwithered cheek, Thy temples fringed with locks of gleaming white,
And head that droops because the soul is meek, Thee with the welcome Snowdrop I compare; That child of winter, prompting thoughts that climb
From desolation toward the genial prime; Or with the Moon conquering earth's misty air, And filling more and more with crystal light As pensive Evening deepens into night.
GRAVE-STONE UPON THE FLOOR IN THE CLOISTERS OF WORCESTER CATHEDRAL.
"MISERRIMUS!" and neither name nor date, Prayer, text, or symbol, graven upon the stone; Nought but that word assigned to the unknown, That solitary word-to separate
From all, and cast a cloud around the fate Of him who lies beneath. Most wretched one, Who chose his epitaph ?-Himself alone Could thus have dared the grave to agitate, And claim, among the dead, this awful crown; Nor doubt that He marked also for his own Close to these cloistral steps a burial-place, That every foot might fall with heavier tread, Trampling upon his vileness. Stranger, pass Softly!-To save the contrite, Jesus bled.
With every semblance of entire content; So kind is simple Nature, fairly tried!
Yet He whose heart in childhood gave her troth
To pastoral dales, thin-set with modest farms, May learn, if judgment strengthen with his growth,
That, not for Fancy only, pomp hath charms; And, strenuous to protect from lawless harms The extremes of favoured life, may honour both.
A TRADITION OF OKER HILL IN DARLEY DALE,
"Tis said that to the brow of yon fair hill Two Brothers clomb, and, turning face from face,
Nor one look more exchanging, grief to still Or feed, each planted on that lofty place A chosen Tree; then, eager to fulfil Their courses, like two new-born rivers, they In opposite directions urged their way Down from the far-seen mount. No blast might kill
Or blight that fond memorial;-the trees grew, And now entwine their arms; but ne'er again Embraced those. Brothers upon Earth's wide plain;
Nor aught of mutual joy or sorrow knew Until their spirits mingled in the sea That to itself takes all, Eternity.
(ON THE WAYSIDE BETWEEN PRESTON AND LIVERPOOL.)
UNTOUCHED through all severity of cold; Inviolate, whate'er the cottage hearth Might need for comfort, or for festal mirth; That Pile of Turf is half a century old: Yes, Traveller! fifty winters have been told Since suddenly the dart of death went forth 'Gainst him who raised it,-his last work on earth:
Thence has it, with the Son, so strong a hold Upon his Father's memory, that his hands, Through reverence, touch it only to repair Its waste. Though crumbling with each breath of air,
In annual renovation thus it stands- Rude Mausoleum! but wrens nestle there, And red-breasts warble when sweet sounds are
Unrecognised through many a household tear More prompt, more glad, to fall than drops of dew
By morning shed around a flower half-blown ; Tears of delight, that testified how true To life thou art, and, in thy truth, how dear!
WHY art thou silent? Is thy love a plant Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air Of absence withers what was once so fair? Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant? Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant- Bound to thy service with unceasing care, The mind's least generous wish a mendicant For nought but what thy happiness could spare. Speak-though this soft warm heart, once free to hold
A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, Be left more desolate, more dreary cold Than a forsaken bird's-nest filled with snow 'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine- Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!
TO B. R. HAYDON, ON SEEING HIS PICTURE OF NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE ON THE ISLAND OF ST HELENA.
HAYDON! let worthier judges praise the skill Here by thy pencil shown in truth of lines And charm of colours; I applaud those signs Of thought, that give the true poetic thrill; That unencumbered whole of blank and still, Sky without cloud-ocean without a wave; And the one Man that laboured to enslave The World, sole-standing high on the bare hill- Back turned, arms folded, the unapparent face Tinged, we may fancy, in this dreary place With light reflected from the invisible sun Set, like his fortunes; but not set for aye Like them. The unguilty Power pursues his
A POET!-He hath put his heart to school, Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff Which Art hath lodged within his hand-must laugh
By precept only, and shed tears by rule. Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff, And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool, In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph. How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold; And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree Comes not by casting in a formal mould, But from its own divine vitality.
Of pure delight, come whencesoe'er it may, Peace let us seek, -to stedfast things attune Calm expectations: leaving to the gay And volatile their love of transient bowers, The house that cannot pass away be ours.
ON A PORTRAIT OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON UPON THE FIELD OF WATERLOO, BY HAYDON.
By Art's bold privilege Warrior and War-horse
On ground yet strewn with their last battle's wreck ;
Let the Steed glory while his Master's hand Lies fixed for ages on his conscious neck;
But by the Chieftain's look, though at his side Hangs that day's treasured sword, how firm a check
Is given to triumph and all human pride! Yon trophied Mound shrinks to a shadowy speck In his calm presence! Him the mighty deed Elates not, brought far nearer the grave's rest, As shows that time-worn face, for he such seed Has sown as yields, we trust, the fruit of fame In Heaven; hence no one blushes for thy name, Conqueror, mid some sad thoughts, divinely
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 Then, and then only, Painter ! could thy Art Which hold, whate'er to common sight appears, The visual powers of Nature satisfy, Their sovereign empire in a faithful heart.
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 sprang, Ever too heedless, as I now perceive: Morn into noon did pass, noon into eve, And the old day was welcome as the young, More beautiful, as being a thing more holy: As welcome, and as beautiful-in sooth 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.
HARK! 'tis the Thrush, undaunted, undeprest, By twilight premature of cloud and rain; Nor does that roaring wind deaden his strain Who carols thinking of his Love and nest, And seems, as more incited, still more blest. Thanks; thou hast snapped a fire-side Prisoner's chain,
Exulting Warbler! eased a fretted brain, And in a moment charmed my cares to rest. Yes, I will forth, bold Bird and front the blast. That we may sing together, if thou wilt,
So loud, so clear, my Partner through life's day, Mute in her nest love-chosen, if not love-built Like thine, shall gladden, as in seasons past, Thrilled by loose snatches of the social Lay. Rydal Mount, 1838.
Entanglings of the brain; though shadows | Reader, farewell! My last words let them be
O'er the chilled heart-reflect; far, far within Hers is a holy Being, freed from Sin. She is not what she seems, a forlorn wretch, But delegated Spirits comfort fetch
To Her from heights that Reason may not win. Like Children, She is privileged to hold Divine communion; both do live and move, Whate'er to shallow Faith their ways unfold, Inly illumined by Heaven's pitying love; Love pitying innocence not long to last, In them-in Her our sins and sorrows past.
If in this book Fancy and Truth agree; If simple Nature trained by careful Art Through It have won a passage to thy heart ; Grant me thy love, I crave no other fee!
TO THE REV. CHRISTOPHER WORDSWORTH, D.D. MASTER OF HARROW SCHOOL, After the perusal of his Theophilus Anglicanus, recently published.
ENLIGHTENED Teacher, gladly from thy hand Have I rceived this proof of pains bestowed By Thee to guide thy Pupils on the road
INTENT on gathering wool from hedge and That, in our native isle, and every land,
A PLEA FOR AUTHORS, MAY 1838. FAILING impartial measure to dispense To every suitor, Equity is lame : And social Justice, stript of reverence For natural rights, a mockery and a shame; Law but a servile dupe of false pretence, If, guarding grossest things from common claim Now and for ever, She, to works that came From mind and spirit, grudge a short-lived fence.
"What! lengthened privilege, a lineal tie, For Books!" Yes, heartless Ones, or be it proved
That 'tis a fault in Us to have lived and loved Like others, with like temporal hopes to die; No public harm that Genius from her course Be turned; and streams of truth dried up, even at their source !
The Church, when trusting in divine command And in her Catholic attributes, hath trod: O may these lessons be with profit scanned To thy heart's wish, thy labour blest by God! So the bright faces of the young and gay Shall look more bright-the happy, happier still:
Catch, in the pauses of their keenest play, Motions of thought which elevate the will And, like the Spire that from your classic Hill Points heavenward, indicate the end and way. Rydal Mount, Dec. 11, 1843.
When earth shall vanish from our closing eyes, Ere we lie down in our last dormitory?
WANSFELL!* this Household has a favoured
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. Yet ne'er a note Hath sounded (shame upon the Bard!) thy praise
For all that thou, as if from heaven, hast brought
*The Hill that rises to the south-east, above Ambleside.
WHILE beams of orient light shoot wide and Intrenched your brows: ye gloried in each scar: high,
Deep in the vale a little rural Town *
Breathes forth a cloud-like creature of its own, That mounts not toward the radiant morning sky,
But, with a less ambitious sympathy,
Hangs o'er its Parent waking to the cares, Troubles and toils that every day prepares. So Fancy, to the musing Poet's eye, Endears that Lingerer. And how blest her
IN my mind's eyes a Temple, like a cloud Slowly surmounting some invidious hill, Rose out of darkness: the bright Work stood still;
And might of its own beauty have been proud,
But it was fashioned and to God was vowed By Virtues that diffused, in every part, Spirit divine through forms of human art; Faith had her arch-her arch, when winds blow loud,
Into the consciousness of safety thrilled; And Love her towers of dread foundation laid
Under the grave of things; Hope had her spire Star-high, and pointing still to something higher;
Trembling I gazed, but heard a voice-it said, "Hell-gates are powerless Phantoms when we build."
ON THE PROJECTED KENDAL AND WINDERMERE RAILWAY.
Is then no nook of English ground secure From rash assault? Schemes of retirement
In youth, and mid the busy world kept pure As when their earliest flowers of hope were blown,
Must perish;-how can they this blight endure?
And must he too the ruthless change bemoan Who scorns a false utilitarian lure
Mid his paternal fields at random thrown? Baffle the threat, bright Scene, from Orresthead
Given to the pausing traveller's rapturous glance :
Plead for thy peace, thou beautiful romance
Now, for your shame, a Power, the Thirst of Gold,
That rules o'er Britain like a baneful star, Wills that your peace, your beauty, shall be sold,
And clear way made for her triumphal car Through the beloved retreats your arms enfold! Heard YE that Whistle? As her long-linked Train
Swept onwards, did the vision cross your view? Yes, ye were startled-and, in balance true, Weighing the mischief with the promised gain, Mountains, and Vales, and Floods, I call on you To share the passion of a just disdain.
WELL have yon Railway Labourers to THIS ground
Withdrawn for noontide rest. They sit, they walk
Among the Ruins, but no idle talk
Is heard; to grave demeanour all are bound; And from one voice a Hymn with tuneful sound Hallows once more the long-deserted Quire And thrills the old sepulchral earth, around. Others look up, and with fixed eyes admire That wide-spanned arch, wondering how it was raised,
To keep, so high in air, its strength and grace: All seem to feel the spirit of the place, And by the general reverence God is praised: Profane Despoilers, stand ye not reproved, While thus these simple-hearted men are moved?
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