Doth yet frequent the hill of storms,
The Stars dim-twinkling through their forms! What! Ossian here--a painted Thrall, Mute fixture on a stuccoed wall; To serve, an unsuspected screen For show that must not yet be seen; And, when the moment comes, to part And vanish by mysterious art; 【lead, Harp, and Body, split asunder, For ingress to a world of wonder; A gay Saloon, with waters dancing Upon the sight wherever glancing; One loud Cascade in front, and lo! A thousand like it, white as snow- Streams on the walls, and torrents foam As active round the hollow dome, Illusive cataracts! of their terrors Not stript, nor voiceless in the Mirrors, That catch the pageant from the Flood Thundering adown a rocky wood! Strange scene, fantastic and uneasy As ever made a Maniac dizzy, When disenchanted from the mood That loves on sullen thoughts to brood!
O Nature, in thy changeful visions, Through all thy most abrupt transitions, Smooth, graceful, tender, or sublime, Ever averse to Pantomime,
Thee neither do they know nor us Thy Servants, who can trifle thus ;
Else surely had the sober powers
Of rock that frowns, and stream that roars, Exalted by congenial sway
Of Spirits, and the undying Lay, And names that moulder not away, Awaken'd some redeeming thought More worthy of this favour'd Spot; Recall'd some feeling-to set free The Bard from such indignity!
The Effigies of a valiant Wight I once beheld, a Templar Knight; Not prostrate, not like those that rest On Tombs, with palms together press'd, But sculptured out of living stone, And standing upright and alone, Both hands with rival energy Employ'd in setting his sword free From its dull sheath-stern Sentinel Intent to guard St Robert's Cell; As if with memory of the affray
Far distant, when, as legends say, The Monks of Fountain's throng'd to force From its dear home the Hermit's corse, That in their keeping it might lie, To crown their Abbey's sanctity.
So had they rush'd into the Grot Of sense despised, a world forgot, And torn him from his loved Retreat, Where Altar-stone and rock-hewn seat Still hint that quiet best is found, Even by the Living, under ground; But a bold Knight, the selfish aim
On the banks of the River Nid, near Knaresborough.
Defeating, put the Monks to shame, There where you see his Image stand Bare to the sky, with threatening brand Which lingering NID is proud to show Reflected in the pool below.
Thus, like the Men of carliest days, Our Sires set forth their grateful praise; Uncouth the workmanship, and rude! But, nursed in mountain solitude, Might some aspiring Artist dare To seize whate'er, through misty air, A Ghost, by glimpses, may present Of imitable lineament,
And give the Phantom such array As less should scorn the abandon'd clay; Then let him hew, with patient stroke, An Ossian out of mural rock, And leave the figurative Man Upon thy Margin, roaring Bran! Fixed, like the Templar of the steep, An everlasting watch to keep; With local sanctities in trust,
More precious than a hermit's dust; And virtues through the mass infused, Which old idolatry abused.
What though the granite would deny All fervour to the sightless eye; And touch from rising Suns in vain Solicit a Memnonian strain;
Yet, in some fit of anger sharp,
The Wind might force the deep-grooved barp
To utter melancholy moans
Not unconnected with the tones
Of soul-sick flesh and weary bones;
While grove and river notes would lend,
Less deeply sad, with these to blend!
Vain Pleasures of luxurious life, For ever with yourselves at strife; Through town and country both deranged By affectations interchanged, And all the perishable gauds That heaven-deserted man applauds; When will your hapless Patrons learn To watch and ponder-to discern The freshness, the eternal youth, Of admiration sprung from truth; From beauty infinitely growing Upon a mind with love o'erflowing; To sound the depths of every Art That seeks its wisdom through the heart?
Thus (where the intrusive Pile, ill-graced With baubles of Theatric taste, O'erlooks the Torrent breathing showers On motley bands of alien flowers, In stiff confusion set or sown, Till Nature cannot find her own, Or keep a remnant of the sod Which Caledonian Heroes trod)
I mused; and, thirsting for redress, Recoiled into the wilderness.
AND is this-Yarrow?-This the Stream Of which my fancy cherished, So faithfully, a waking dream?
An image that hath perished!
O that some Minstrel's harp were near, To utter notes of gladness,
And chase this silence from the air, That fills my heart with sadness!
Yet why?-a silvery current flows With uncontroll'd meanderings; Nor have these eyes by greener hills Been soothed, in all my wanderings.
And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake Is visibly delighted;
For not a feature of those hills Is in the mirror slighted.
A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, Save where that pearly whiteness Is round the rising sun diffused, A tender hazy brightness;
Mild dawn of promise! that excludes All profitless dejection;
Though not unwilling here to admit A pensive recollection,
Where was it that the famous Flower
Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?
His bed perchance was yon smooth mound On which the herd is feeding: And haply from this crystal pool, Now peaceful as the morning,
The Water-wraith ascended thrice- And gave his doleful warning.
Delicious is the Lay that sings The haunts of happy Lovers,
The path that leads them to the grove, The leafy grove that covers: And Pity sanctifies the verse That paints, by strength of sorrow, The unconquerable strength of love; Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!
But thou, that didst appear so fair To fond imagination,
Dost rival in the light of day
Her delicate creation :
Meek loveliness is round thee spread, A softness still and holy;
grace of forest charms decay'd, And pastoral melancholy.
That region left, the Vale unfolds
Rich groyes of lofty stature,
With Yarrow winding through the pomp
Of cultivated nature;
And, rising from those lofty groves,
Behold a Ruin hoary!
The shattered front of Newark's Towers, Renown'd in Border story.
Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom,
For sportive youth to stray in;
For manhood to enjoy his strength; And age to wear away in!
Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, A covert for protection
Of tender thoughts that nestle there, The brood of chaste affection.
How sweet, on this autumnal day, The wild-wood fruits to gather, And on my True-love's forehead plant
A crest of blooming heather! And what if I enwreath'd my own! 'T were no offence to reason;
The sober Hills thus deck their brows To meet the wintry season.
I see-but not by sight alone, Loved Yarrow, have I won thee! A ray of Fancy still survives- Her sunshine plays upon thee! Thy ever youthful waters keep A course of lively pleasure;
And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, Accordant to the measure.
The vapours linger round the Heights, They melt-and soon must vanish; One hour is theirs, nor more is mine- Sad thought, which I would banish,
But that I know, where'er I go,
Thy genuine image, Yarrow! Will dwell with me-to heighten joy, And cheer my mind in sorrow.
Poems on the Naming of Places.
Ir was an April morning: fresh and clear The Rivulet, delighting in its strength, Ran with a young man's speed; and yet the voice By persons resident in the country and attached to rural Of waters which the winter had supplied objects, many places will be found unnamed or of un- Was soften'd down into a'vernal tone. known names, where little Incidents must have occur- The spirit of enjoyment and desire, red, or feelings been experienced, which will have given to And hopes and wishes, from all living things such places a private and peculiar interest. From a Went circling, like a multitude of sounds. wish to give some sort of record to such Incidents, or The budding groves appear'd as if in haste renew the gratification of such Feelings, Names have To spur the steps of June; as if their shades been given to places by the Author and some of his Of various green were hindrances that stood Friends, and the following Poems written in consequence. Between them and their object: yet, meanwhile,
There was such deep contentment in the air, That every naked ash, and tardy tree Yet leafless, seem'd as though the countenance With which it look'd on this delightful day Were native to the summer.-Up the brook I roam'd in the confusion of my heart, Alive to all things and forgetting all, At length I to a sudden turning came In this continuous glen, where down a rock The Stream, so ardent in its course before, Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all Which I till then had heard, appear'd the voice Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the Lamb, The Shepherd's Dog, the Linnet and the Thrush Vied with this Waterfall, and made a song Which, while I listened, seem'd like the wild growth Or like some natural produce of the air, That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here; But it was the foliage of the rocks, the birch, The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn, With hanging islands of resplendent furze : And on a summit, distant a short space, By any who should look beyond the dell, A single mountain cottage might be seen. I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said,
<«<Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook, My EMMA, I will dedicate to thee.»> --Soon did the spot become my other home, My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode. And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there, To whom I sometimes in our idle talk Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps, Years after we are gone and in our graves, When they have cause to speak of this wild place, May call it by the name of EMMA'S DELL.
AMID the smoke of cities did you pass
The time of early youth; and there you learned, From years of quiet industry, to love The living Beings by your own fire-side, With such a strong devotion, that your heart Is slow toward the sympathies of them Who look upon the hills with tenderness,
Reviving obsolete Idolatry,
I, like a Runic Priest, in characters Of formidable size had chisseled out Some uncouth name upon the native rock, Above the Rotha, by the forest side. -Now, by those dear immunities of heart Engendered betwixt malice and true love, I was not loth to be so catechised, And this was my reply:-« As it befel, One summer morning we had walked abroad At break of day, Joanna and myself. -'T was that delightful season when the broom, Full-flowered, and visible on every steep,
Along the copses runs in veins of gold. Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks; And when we came in front of that tall rock Which looks toward the East, I there stopped short, And traced the lofty barrier with my eye From base to summit: such delight I found To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower, That intermixture of delicious hues, Along so vast a surface, all at once, In one impression, by connecting force Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart. -When I had gazed perhaps two minutes's space, Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld
That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud. The Rock, like something starting from a sleep, Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed again: That ancient Woman seated on Helm-Crag Was ready with her cavern: Hammer-Scar, And the tall Steep of Silver-How, sent forth A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard, And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone: Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky Carried the Lady's voice,-old Skiddaw blew His speaking trumpet;-back out of the clouds Of Glaramara southward came the voice; And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head. -Now whether (said I to our cordial Friend, Who in the hey-day of astonishment Smiled in my face) this were in simple truth A work accomplished by the brotherhood Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched With dreams and visionary impulses To me alone imparted, sure I am
And make dear friendships with the streams and groves. That there was a loud uproar in the hills:
Yet we, who are transgressors in this kind, Dwelling retired in our simplicity
Among the woods and fields, we love you well, Joanna! and I guess, since you have been So distant from us now for two long years, That you will gladly listen to discourse However trivial, if you thence are taught That they, with whom you once were happy, talk Familiarly of you and of old times.
While I was seated, now some ten days past, Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop Their ancient neighbour, the old Steeple tower, The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by Came forth to greet me; and when he had asked, « How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid! And when will she return to us?» he paused; And, after short exchange of village news, He with grave looks demanded, for what cause,
And, while we both were listening, to my side
The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished
To shelter from some object of her fear.
-And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen mocas Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm And silent morning, I sat down, and there, In memory of affections old and true, I chisseled out in those rude characters Joanna's name upon the living stone. And I, and all who dwell by my fire-side, Have called the lovely rock, JoANNA'S ROCK.»
In Cumberland and Westmoreland are several Inscriptions, w the native rock, which, from the wasting of Time, and the rudenes of the Workmanship, have been mistaken for Runic. They are, with out doubt, Roman.
The Rotha, mentioned in this poem, is the River which, flow in through the lakes of Grasmere and Rydale, falls into Wynander.On Helm-Grag, that impressive single Mountain at the head of th
THERE is an Eminence,-of these our hills The last that parleys with the setting sun. We can behold it from our Orchard-seat; And when at evening we pursue our walk Along the public way, this Cliff, so high Above us, and so distant in its height, Is visible; and often seems to send Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts. The meteors make of it a favourite haunt: The star of Jove, so beautiful and large In the mid heavens, is never half so fair As when he shines above it. T is in truth The loneliest place we have among the clouds. And She who dwells with me, whom I have loved With such communion, that no place on earth Can ever be a solitude to me,
Hath to this lonely Summit given my Name.
A NARROW girdle of rough stones and crags, A rude and natural causeway, interposed Between the water and a winding slope Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy. And there, myself and two beloved Friends, One calm September morning, ere the mist Had altogether yielded to the sun,
Sauntered on this retired and difficult way. -- suits the road with one in haste, but we Played with our time; and, as we strolled along, It was our occupation to observe
Such objects as the waves had tossed ashore, Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough, Each on the other heaped, along the line Of the dry wreck. And, in our vacant mood, Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard,
That skimmed the surface of the dead calm lake, Suddenly halting now-a lifeless stand! And starting off again with freak as sudden; In all its sportive wanderings, all the while, Making report of an invisible breeze
That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse, Its playmate, rather say its moving soul. --And often, trifling with a privilege Alike indulged to all, we paused, one now, And now the other, to point out, perchance To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fair Either to be divided from the place
On which it grew, or to be left alone
To its own beauty. Many such there are, Fair Ferns and Flowers, and chiefly that tall Fern, So stately, of the Queen Osmunda named; Plant lovelier in its own retired abode
Ou Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by the side Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere, Sole-sitting by the shores of old Romance. -So fared we that bright morning: from the fields, Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth Of Reapers, Men and Women, Boys and Girls.
Vale of Grasmere, is a rock which from most points of view bears a striking resemblance to an Old Woman cowering. Close by this rock is one of those Fissures or Caverns, which in the language of the country are called Dungeons. Most of the Mountains here mentoped immediately surround the Vale of Grasmere; of the others, some are at a considerable distance, but they belong to the same cluster.
Delighted much to listen to those sounds, And feeding thus our fancies, we advanced Along the indented shore; when suddenly, Through a thin veil of glittering haze was seen Before us, on a point of jutting land, The tall and upright figure of a Man Attired in peasant's garb, who stood alone, Angling beside the margin of the lake. Improvident and reckless, we exclaimed, The Man must be, who thus can lose a day Of the mid-harvest, when the labourer's hire Is ample, and some little might be stored Wherewith to cheer him in the winter time. Thus talking of that Peasant, we approached Close to the spot where with his rod and line He stood alone; whereat he turned his head To greet us-and we saw a Man worn down By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean That for my single self I looked at them, Forgetful of the body they sustained.— Too weak to labour in the harvest field, The Man was using his best skill to gain A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake That knew not of his wants. I will not say What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how The happy idleness of that sweet morn, With all its lovely images, was changed To serious musing and to self-reproach. Nor did we fail to see within ourselves What need there is to be reserved in speech, And temper all our thoughts with charity. -Therefore, unwilling to forget that day, My Friend, Myself, and She who then received The same admonishment, have called the place By a memorial name, uncouth indeed As e'er by Mariner was given to Bay
Or Foreland, on a new-discovered coast;
And POINT RASH JUDGMENT is the Name it bears.
OUR walk was far among the ancient trees; There was no road, nor any woodman's path; But the thick umbrage, checking the wild growth Of weed and sapling, along soft green turf Beneath the branches, of itself had made A track, that brought us to a slip of lawn, And a small bed of water in the woods.
All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink On its firm margin, even as from a Well,
Or some Stone-basin which the Herdsman's hand Had shaped for their refreshment; nor did sun, Or wind from any quarter, ever come, But as a blessing, to this calm recess, This glade of water and this one green field. The spot was made by Nature for herself, The travellers know it not, and 't will remain Unknown to them: but it is beautiful; And if a man should plant his cottage near, Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees, And blend its waters with his daily meal, He would so love it, that in his death hour Its image would survive among his thoughts: And therefore, my sweet MARY, this still Nook, With all its beeches, we have named from You.
WHEN, to the attractions of the busy World, Preferring studious leisure, I had chosen A habitation in this peaceful Vale, Sharp season followed of continual storm In deepest winter; and, from week to week, Pathway, and lane, and public road, were clogged With frequent showers of snow. Upon a hill At a short distance from my Cottage, stands A stately Fir-grove, whither I was wont To hasten, for I found, beneath the roof Of that perennial shade, a cloistral place Of refuge, with an unincumbered floor. Here, in safe covert, on the shallow snow, And, sometimes, on a speck of visible earth, The redbreast near me hopped; nor was I loth To sympathise with vulgar coppice Birds That, for protection from the nipping blast, Hither repaired.-A single beech-tree grew Within this grove of firs; and, on the fork Of that one beech, appeared a thrush's nest; A last year's nest, conspicuously built At such small elevation from the ground As gave sure sign that they, who in that house Of nature and of love had made their home Amid the fir-trees, all the summer long Dwelt in a tranquil spot. And oftentimes, A few sheep, stragglers from some mountain-flock, Would watch my motions with suspicious stare, From the remotest outskirts of the grove,- Some nook where they had made their final stand, Huddling together from two fears-the fear Of me and of the storm. Full many an hour Here did I lose. But in this grove the trees Had been so thickly planted, and had thriven In such perplexed and intricate array, That vainly did I seek, between their stems, A length of open space, where to and fro My feet might move without concern or care And, baffled thus, before the storm relaxed, Iceased the shelter to frequent,-and prized, Less than I wished to prize, that calm recess.
The snows dissolved, and genial Spring returned To clothe the fields with verdure. Other haunts Meanwhile were mine; till, one bright April day, By chance retiring from the glare of noon To this forsaken covert, there I found A hoary path-way traced between the trees, And winding on with such an easy line Along a natural opening, that I stood
Much wondering how I could have sought in vain For what was now so obvious. To abide, For an allotted interval of ease, Beneath my cottage roof, had newly come From the wild sea a cherished Visitant; And with the sight of this same path-begun, Begun and ended, in the shady grove,
Pleasant conviction flashed upon my mind That, to this opportune recess allured, He had surveyed it with a finer eye,
A heart more wakeful; and had worn the track By pacing here, unwearied and alone,
In that habitual restlessness of foot With which the Sailor measures o'er and o'er His short domain upon the vessel's deck, While she is travelling through the dreary sea.
When thou hadst quitted Esthwaite's pleasant shore, And taken thy first leave of those green hills And rocks that were the play-ground of thy Youth, Year followed year, my Brother! and we two, Conversing not, knew Ettle in what mould Each other's minds were fashioned; and at length, When once again we met in Grasmere Vale, Between us there was little other bond Than common feelings of fraternal love. But thou, a School-boy, to the sea hadst carried Undying recollections; Nature there
Was with thee; she, who loved us both, she still Was with thee; and even so didst thou become A silent Poet; from the solitude
Of the vast sea didst bring a watchful heart Still couchant, an inevitable ear,
And an eye practised like a blind man's touch. -Back to the joyless Ocean thou art gone; Nor from this vestige of thy musing hours Could I withhold thy honoured name, and now I love the fir-grove with a perfect love. Thither do I withdraw when cloudless suns Shine hot, or wind blows troublesome and strong: And there I sit at evening, when the steep Of Silver-how, and Grasmere's peaceful Lake, And one green Island, gleam between the stems Of the dark firs, a visionary scene! And, while I gaze upon the spectacle Of clouded splendour, on this dream-like sight Of solemn loveliness, I think on thee, My brother, and on all which thou hast lost. Nor seldom, if I rightly guess, while Thou, Muttering the Verses which I muttered first Among the mountains, through the midnight watch Art pacing thoughtfully the Vessel's deck In some far region, here, while o'er my head, At every impulse of the moving breeze, The fir-grove murmurs with a sea-like sound, Alone I tread this path;-for aught I know, Timing my steps to thine; and, with a store Of undistinguishable sympathies, Mingling most earnest wishes for the day When we, and others whom we love, shall meet A second time, in Grasmere's happy Vale.
Note.-This wish was not granted; the lamented Person, not lon after, perished by shipwreck, in discharge of his duty as Commande of the Honourable East India Company's Vessel, the Earl of Aber
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