SACRED Religion! "mother of form and fear," Dread arbitress of mutable respect,
New rites ordaining when the old are wrecked, Or cease to please the fickle worshipper; Mother of Love! (that name best suits thee here,) Mother of Love! for this deep vale, protect
Truth's holy lamp, pure source of bright effect, Gifted to purge the vapory atmosphere That seeks to stifle it; as in those days When this low Pile * a Gospel teacher knew, Whose good works formed an endless retinue: A Pastor such as Chaucer's verse portrays; Such as the heaven-taught skill of Herbert drew; And tender Goldsmith crowned with deathless praise!
Mr frame hath often trembled with delight When hope presented some far-distant good, That seemed from heaven descending, like the flood Of yon pure waters, from their aëry height
Hurrying, with lordly Duddon to unite; Who, 'mid a world of images imprest
On the calm depth of his transparent breast, Appears to cherish most that Torrent white, The fairest, softest, liveliest of them all! And seldom hath ear listened to a tune More lulling than the busy hum of Noon, Swoln by that voice, whose murmur musical Announces to the thirsty fields a boon Dewy and fresh, till showers again shall fall.
THE PLAIN OF DONNERDALE.
THE old inventive Poets, had they seen, Or rather felt, the entrancement that detains Thy waters, Duddon ! 'mid these flowery plains,→ The still repose, the liquid lapse serene, Transferred to bowers imperishably green,
Had beautified Elysium! But these chains Will soon be broken;
a rough course remains, Rough as the past; where thou, of placid mien, Innocuous as a firstling of the flock,
And countenanced like a soft cerulean sky, Shalt change thy temper; and, with many a shock Given and received in mutual jeopardy,
Dance, like a Bacchanal, from rock to rock,
Tossing her frantic thyrsus wide and high!
WHENCE that low voice? A whisper from the heart,
That told of days long past, when here I rovel With friends and kindred tenderly beloved; Some who had early mandates to depart, Yet are allowed to steal my path athwart By Duddon's side; once more do we unite, Once more beneath the kind Earth's tranquil light ; And smothered joys into new being start. From her unworthy seat, the cloudy stall Of Time, breaks forth triumphant Memory; Her glistening tresses bound, yet light and free As golden locks of birch, that rise and fall On gales that breathe too gently to recall Aught of the fading year's inclemency!
A LOVE-LORN Maid, at some far-distant time, Came to this hidden pool, whose depths surpass In crystal clearness Dian's looking-glass; And, gazing, saw that Rose, which from the prime Derives its name, reflected as the chime Of echo doth reverberate some sweet sound: The starry treasure from the blue profound
She longed to ravish ;- - shall she plunge, or climb The humid precipice, and seize the guest Of April, smiling high in upper air?
Desperate alternative! what fiend could dare To prompt the thought? Upon the steep rock's breast
The lonely Primrose yet renews its bloom, Untouched memento of her hapless doom!
SAD thoughts, avaunt! — partake we their blithe cheer
Who gathered in betimes the unshorn flock
To wash the fleece, where haply bands of rock, Checking the stream, make a pool smooth and clear As this we look on. Distant Mountains hear, Hear and repeat, the turmoil that unites Clamor of boys with innocent despites
Of barking dogs, and bleatings from strange fear. And what if Duddon's spotless flood receive Unwelcome mixtures as the uncouth noise
Thickens, the pastoral River will forgive Such wrong; nor need we blame the licensed joys, Though false to Nature's quiet equipoise: Frank are the sports, the stains are fugitive.
MID-NOON is past ;- upon the sultry mead No zephyr breathes, no cloud its shadow throws: If we advance unstrengthened by repose, Farewell the solace of the vagrant reed! This Nook with woodbine hung and straggling weed,
Tempting recess as ever pilgrim chose,
Half grot, half arbor - proffers to inclose Body and mind, from molestation freed,
Or if the Fancy, too industrious Elf,
Be loth that we should breathe awhile exempt From new incitements friendly to our task, Here wants not stealthy prospect, that may tempt Loose Idless to forego her wily mask.
METHINKS 't were no unprecedented feat Should some benignant minister of air Lift, and encircle with a cloudy chair, The one for whom my heart shall ever beat With tenderest love; or, if a safer seat Atween his downy wings be furnished, there Would lodge her, and the cherished burden bear O'er hill and valley to this dim retreat!
Rough ways my steps have trod; too rough and long
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