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 way,
And before him doth dawn perpetual run.

RURAL ILLUSIONS
1832. 1835

Written at Rydal Mount. Observed a hundred times in the grounds there.

SYLPH was it? or a Bird more bright

Than those of fabulous stock? A second darted by;- and lo! Another of the flock,

And, if you can, the unwieldy toad
That crawls from his secure abode
Within the mossy garden wall
When evening dews begin to fall.
Oh mark the beauty of his eye:
What wonders in that circle lie!
So clear, so bright, our fathers said
He wears a jewel in his head!
And when, upon some showery day,
Into a path or public way

A frog leaps out from bordering grass,
Startling the timid as they pass,
Do you observe him, and endeavour
To take the intruder into favour;
Learning from him to find a reason
For a light heart in a dull season.
And you may love him in the pool,
That is for him a happy school,

In which he swims as taught by nature,
Fit pattern for a human creature,
Glancing amid the water bright,
And sending upward sparkling light.

Nor blush if o'er your heart be stealing
A love for things that have no feeling:
The spring's first rose by you espied,
May fill your breast with joyful pride;
And you may love the strawberry-flower,
And love the strawberry in its bower;
But when the fruit, so often praised
For beauty, to your lip is raised,
Say not you love the delicate treat,
But like it, enjoy it, and thankfully eat.

10

20

30

Long may you love your pensioner mouse, Though one of a tribe that torment the

ful, and kind behaviour to women, of whatever age, I found them, I may say almost always, to be married men.

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 rare.

"IF THOU INDEED DERIVE THY LIGHT FROM HEAVEN"

1832. 1836

These verses were written some time after we had become residents at Rydal Mount, and I will take occasion from them to observe upon the beauty of that situation, as being backed and flanked by lofty fells, which bring the heavenly bodies to touch, as it were, the earth upon the mountain-tops, while the prospect in front lies open to a length of level valley, the extended lake, and a terminating ridge of low hills; so that it gives an opportunity to the inhabitants of the place of noticing the stars in both the positions here alluded to, namely, on the tops of the mountains, and as winter-lamps at a distance among the leafless trees.

IF thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven,

Then, to the measure of that heaven-born light,

Shine, Poet! in thy place, and be content:
The stars pre-eminent in magnitude,

And they that from the zenith dart their beams,

(Visible though they be to half the earth, Though half a sphere be conscious of their brightness)

Are yet of no diviner origin,

No purer essence, than the one that burns,

Like an untended watch-fire on the ridge Of some dark mountain; or than those which seem

Humbly to hang, like twinkling winter lamps,

Among the branches of the leafless trees. All are the undying offspring of one Sire: Then, to the measure of the light vouchsafed,

Shine, Poet! in thy place, and be content.

TO THE AUTHOR'S PORTRAIT Painted at Rydal Mount, by W. Pickersgill, Esq., for St. John's College, Cambridge. 1832. 1835

The six last lines of this Sonnet are not written for poetical effect, but as a matter of fact, which, in more than one instance, could not escape my notice in the servants of the house.

Go, faithful Portrait ! and where long hath knelt

Margaret, the Saintly Foundress, take thy place;

And, if Time spare the colours for the grace Which to the work surpassing skill hath dealt,

Thou, on thy rock reclined, though kingdoms melt

And states be torn up by the roots, wilt seem To breathe in rural peace, to hear the stream,

And think and feel as once the Poet felt. Whate'er thy fate, those features have not

grown

Unrecognised through many a household tear

More prompt, more glad, to fall than drops of dew

By morning shed around a flower halfblown;

Tears of delight, that testified how true To life thou art, and, in thy truth, how dear!

A WREN'S NEST
1833. 1835

Written at Rydal Mount. This nest was built, as described, in a tree that grows near the pool in Dora's field next the Rydal Mount garden.

AMONG the dwellings framed by birds
In field or forest with nice care,

Is none that with the little Wren's
In snugness may compare.

No door the tenement requires,
And seldom needs a laboured roof:
Yet is it to the fiercest sun

Impervious, and storm-proof.

So warm, so beautiful withal,
In perfect fitness for its aim,
That to the Kind by special grace
Their instinct surely came.

And when for their abodes they seek
An opportune recess,

The hermit has no finer eye
For shadowy quietness.

These find, 'mid ivied abbey-walls,
A canopy in some still nook;
Others are pent-housed by a brae
That overhangs a brook.

There to the brooding bird her mate
Warbles by fits his low clear song;
And by the busy streamlet both
Are sung to all day long.

Or in sequestered lanes they build,
Where, till the flitting bird's return,
Her eggs within the nest repose,
Like relics in an urn.

But still, where general choice is good, There is a better and a best;

And, among fairest objects, some Are fairer than the rest;

ΤΟ

UPON THE BIRTH OF HER FIRST-BORN CHILD, MARCH 1833

1833. 1835

Written at Moresby near Whitehaven, when I was on a visit to my son, then Incumbent of that small living. While I am dictating these notes to my friend, Miss Fenwick, January 24, 1843, the child upon whose birth these verses were written is under my roof, and is of a disposition so promising that the wishes and prayers and prophecies which I then breathed forth in verse are, through God's mercy, likely to be realised.

"Tum porro puer, ut sævis projectus ab undis Navita, nudus humi jacet, etc."- LUCRETIUS.

LIKE a shipwrecked Sailor tost
By rough waves on a perilous coast,
Lies the Babe, in helplessness
And in tenderest nakedness,
Flung by labouring nature forth
Upon the mercies of the earth.
Can its eyes beseech? - no more
Than the hands are free to implore:
Voice but serves for one brief cry;
Plaint was it? or prophecy
Of sorrow that will surely come?
Omen of man's grievous doom!

But, O Mother! by the close
Duly granted to thy throes;
By the silent thanks, now tending
Incense-like to Heaven, descending
Now to mingle and to move
With the gush of earthly love,
As a debt to that frail Creature,
Instrument of struggling Nature
For the blissful calm, the peace
Known but to this one release
Can the pitying spirit doubt
That for human-kind springs out
From the penalty a sense

Of more than mortal recompence ?
As a floating summer cloud,
Though of gorgeous drapery proud,
To the sun-burnt traveller,
Or the stooping labourer,
Oft-times makes its bounty known
By its shadow round him thrown;
So, by chequerings of sad cheer,
Heavenly Guardians, brooding near,
Of their presence tell too bright
Haply for corporeal sight!
Ministers of grace divine
Feelingly their brows incline
O'er this seeming Castaway
Breathing, in the light of day,
Something like the faintest breath
That has power to baffle death
Beautiful, while very weakness
Captivates like passive meekness.
And, sweet Mother! under warrant
Of the universal Parent,
Who repays in season due

Them who have, like thee, been true
To the filial chain let down
From his everlasting throne,
Angels hovering round thy couch,
With their softest whispers vouch,
That-whatever griefs may fret,
Cares entangle, sins beset,

This thy First-born, and with tears

Stain her cheek in future years -
Heavenly succour, not denied
To the babe, whate'er betide,
Will to the woman be supplied!
Mother! blest be thy calm ease;
Blest the starry promises,—
And the firmament benign
Hallowed be it, where they shine!
Yes, for them whose souls have scope
Ample for a winged hope,

And can earthward bend an ear

For needful listening, pledge is here,
That, if thy new-born Charge shall tread
In thy footsteps, and be led

By that other Guide, whose light
Of manly virtues, mildly bright,
Gave him first the wished-for part
In thy gentle virgin heart;
Then, amid the storms of life
Presignified by that dread strife
Whence ye have escaped together,
She may look for serene weather;
In all trials sure to find
Comfort for a faithful mind;
Kindlier issues, holier rest,

Than even now await her prest,
Conscious Nursling, to thy breast!

THE WARNING

A SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING

1833. 1835

60

70

These lines were composed during the fever spread through the Nation by the Reform Bill. As the motives which led to this measure, and the good or evil which has attended or has risen from it, will be duly appreciated by future historians, there is no call for dwelling on the subject in this place. I will content myself with saying that the then condition of the people's mind is not, in these verses, exaggerated.

LIST, the winds of March are blowing; Her ground-flowers shrink, afraid of showing

Their meek heads to the nipping air,
Which ye feel not, happy pair!
Sunk into a kindly sleep.

We, meanwhile, our hope will keep;
And if Time leagued with adverse Change
(Too busy fear !) shall cross its range,
Whatsoever check they bring,