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For the Spot where the HERMITAGE stood on St. Herbert's Island, Derwent-Water.


If thou in the dear love of some one friend

Hast been so happy, that thou know'st what thoughts Will, sometimes, in the happiness of love

Make the heart sink, then wilt thou reverence

This quiet spot. St. Herbert hither came
And here, for many seasons, from the world
Remov'd, and the affections of the world
He dwelt in solitude. He living here,

This island's sole inhabitant! had left

A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man lov'd

As his own soul; and when within his cave

Alone he knelt before the crucifix

While o'er the lake the cataract of Lodore

Peal'd to his orisons, and when he pac'd
Along the beach of this small isle and thought
Of his Companion, he had pray'd that both
Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain
So pray'd he :-as our Chronicles report,
Though here the Hermit number'd his last days,
Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved friend,
Those holy men both died in the same hour.


For the House (an Outhouse) on the Island at Grasmere.

Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen
Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintain'd
Proportions more harmonious, and approach'd
To somewhat of a closer fellowship

With the ideal grace. Yet as it is

Do take it in good part; for he, the poor
Vitruvius of our village, had no help

From the great city; never on the leaves
Of red Morocco folio saw display'd

The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts
Of Beauties yet unborn, the rustic Box,

Snug Cot, with Coach-house, Shed and Hermitage.

It is a homely pile, yet to these walls

The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here

The new-dropp'd lamb finds shelter from the wind.
And hither does one Poet sometimes row

His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled
With plenteous store of heath and wither'd fern,
A lading which he with his sickle cuts

Among the mountains, and beneath this roof

He makes his summer couch, and here at noon Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unborn, the sheep Panting beneath the burthen of their wool

Lie round him, even as if they were a part

Of his own household: nor, while from his bed He through that door-place looks toward the lake And to the stirring breezes, does he want Creations lovely as the work of sleep,

Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy.


Let thy wheel-barrow alone.
Wherefore, Sexton, piling still

In thy bone-house bone on bone?

"Tis already like a hill

In a field of battle made,

Where three thousand skulls are laid.

These died in peace each with the other,

Father, Sister, Friend, and Brother.

Mark the spot to which I point!
From this platform eight feet square

Take not even a finger-joint :

Andrew's whole fire-side is there.

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