CAPTIVITY-MARY QUEEN OF

SCOTS

"As the cold aspect of a sunless way Strikes through the Traveller's frame with deadlier chill,

Oft as appears a grove, or obvious hill,
Glistening with unparticipated ray,
Or shining slope where he must never stray;
So joys, remembered without wish or will
Sharpen the keenest edge of present ill,-
On the crushed heart a heavier burthen lay.
Just Heaven, contract the compass of my
mind

To fit proportion with my altered state!
Quench those felicities whose light I find
Reflected in my bosom all too late!-
O be my spirit, like my thraldom, strait;
And, like mine eyes that stream with sorrow,
blind!"
1819.

TO A SNOWDROP

LONE Flower, hemmed in with snows and white as they

But hardier far, once more I see thee bend Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend,

Like an unbidden guest. Though day by day,

Storms, sallying from the mountain-tops, waylay

The rising sun, and on the plains descend; Yet art thou welcome, welcome as a friend Whose zeal outruns his promise! Blue-eyed May

Shall soon behold this border thickly set With bright jonquils, their odours lavishing On the soft west-wind and his frolic peers; Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, Chaste Snowdrop, venturous harbinger of Spring,

And pensive monitor of fleeting years!

1819.

ON SEEING A TUFT OF SNOWDROPS IN A STORM

WHEN haughty expectations prostrate lie, And grandeur crouches like a guilty thing, Oft shall the lowly weak, till nature bring Mature release, in fair society

Survive, and Fortune's utmost anger try;

Like these frail snowdrops that together cling,

And nod their helmets, smitten by the wing Of many a furious whirl-blast sweeping by. Observe the faithful flowers! if small to great May lead the thoughts, thus struggling used to stand

The Emathian phalanx, nobly obstinate; And so the bright immortal Theban band, Whom onset, fiercely urged at Jove's command,

Might overwhelm, but could not separate! 1819.

COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE VALLEYS OF WESTMORELAND, ON EASTER SUNDAY

WITH each recurrence of this glorious morn That saw the Saviour in his human frame Rise from the dead, erewhile the Cottagedame

Put on fresh raiment till that hour un

worn:

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 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 ! 1819.

"GRIEF, THOU HAST LOST AN EVER-READY FRIEND"

I could write a treatise of lamentation upon the changes brought about among the cottages of Westmoreland by the silence of the spinningwheel. During long winter nights and wet days, the wheel upon which wool was spun gave employment to a great part of a family. The old

man, however infirm, was able to card the wool, as he sate in the corner by the fireside; and often, when a boy, have I admired the cylinders of carded wool which were softly laid upon each other by his side. Two wheels were often at work on the same floor; and others of the family, chiefly little children, were occupied in teasing and cleaning the wool to fit it for the hand of the carder. So that all, except the smallest infants, were contributing to mutual support. Such was the employment that prevailed in the pastoral vales. Where wool was not at hand, in the small rural towns, the wheel for spinning flax was almost in as constant use, if knitting was not preferred; which latter occupation has the advantage (in some cases disadvantage) that, not being of necessity stationary, it allowed of gossiping about from house to house, which good housewives reckoned an idle thing.

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

Blue ether still surrounds him-yet-and yet;

But now the horizon's rocky parapet Is reached, where, forfeiting his bright attire,

He burns-transmuted to a dusky fireThen pays submissively the appointed debt To the flying moments, and is seen no

more.

Angels and gods! We struggle with our fate,

While health, power, glory, from their height decline,

Depressed; and then extinguished; and

our state,

In this, how different, lost Star, from thine, That no to-morrow shall our beams restore! 1819.

"I HEARD (ALAS! 'TWAS ONLY IN A DREAM)"

I HEARD (alas! 'twas only in a dream) Strains which, as sage Antiquity believed, By waking ears have sometimes been received

Wafted adown the wind from lake or stream;

A most melodious requiem, a supreme
And perfect harmony of notes, achieved
By a fair Swan on drowsy billows heaved,
O'er which her pinions shed a silver gleam.
For is she not the votary of Apollo?
And knows she not, singing as he inspires,
That bliss awaits her which the ungenial
Hollow1

Of the dull earth partakes not, nor desires?
Mount, tuneful Bird, and join the immortal

quires !

She soared-and I awoke, struggling in vain to follow. 1819.

THE HAUNTED TREE

ΤΟ

This tree grew in the park of Rydal, and I have often listened to its creaking as described. THOSE silver clouds collected round the sun His mid-day warmth abate not, seeming less

1 See the Phædon of Plato, by which this Sonnet was suggested.

Ask, for its pleasure, screen or canopy
More ample than the time-dismantled Oak
Spreads o'er this tuft of heath, which now,
attired

In the whole fulness of its bloom, affords
Couch beautiful as e'er for earthly use
Was fashioned; whether, by the hand of
Art,

That eastern Sultan, amid flowers enwrought

On silken tissue, might diffuse his limbs
In languor; or, by Nature, for repose
Of panting Wood-nymph, wearied with the
chase.

O Lady! fairer in thy Poet's sight

Than fairest spiritual creature of the groves, Approach; and, thus invited, crown with

SEPTEMBER 1819

THE Sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields
Are hung, as if with golden shields,
Bright trophies of the sun!
Like a fair sister of the sky,
Unruffled doth the blue lake lie,
The mountains looking on.

And, sooth to say, yon vocal grove,
Albeit uninspired by love,
By love untaught to ring,
May well afford to mortal ear
An impulse more profoundly dear
Than music of the Spring.

For that from turbulence and heat
Proceeds, from some uneasy seat
In nature's struggling frame,
Some region of impatient life:
And jealousy, and quivering strife,
Therein a portion claim.

This, this is holy;-while I hear
These vespers of another year,
This hymn of thanks and praise,
My spirit seems to mount above
The anxieties of human love,
And earth's precarious days.

But list!-though winter storms be nigh,
Unchecked is that soft harmony:
There lives Who can provide
For all his creatures; and in Him,
Even like the radiant Seraphim,
These choristers confide.

UPON THE SAME OCCASION
DEPARTING summer hath assumed
An aspect tenderly illumed,
The gentlest look of spring;
That calls from yonder leafy shade
Unfaded, yet prepared to fade,
A timely carolling.

No faint and hesitating trill,
Such tribute as to winter chill
The lonely redbreast pays!
Clear, loud, and lively is the din,
From social warblers gathering in
Their harvest of sweet lays.