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Intended more particularly for the Perusal of those who may have happened to be enamoured of some beautiful Place of Retreat, in the Country of the Lakes. Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye —The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook Hath stirred thee deeply; with its own dear brook, Its own small pasture, almost its own sky! But covet not the Abode;—forbear to sigh, As many do, repining while they look; Intruders — who would tear from Nature's book This precious leaf with harsh impiety. Think what the Home must be if it were thine, Even thine, though few thy wants!—Roof, window, door, The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, The roses to the porch which they entwine: Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day On which it should be touched, would melt, and melt away.

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“BELoved Vale "I said, “when I shall con
Those many records of my childish years,
Remembrance of myself and of my peers
Will press me down: to think of what is gone
Will be an awful thought, if life have one.”
But, when into the Vale I came, no fears
Distressed me; from mine eyes escaped no tears;
Deep thought, or awful vision, had I none.
By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost,
I stood of simple shame the blushing Thrall;
So narrrow seemed the brooks, the fields so small.
A Juggler's balls old Time about him tossed;
I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed; and all
The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.


PELion and Ossa flourish side by side,
Together in immortal books enrolled:
His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold;
And that inspiring Hill, which “did divide
Into two ample horns his forehead wide,”
Shines with poetic radiance as of old;
While not an English Mountain we behold
By the celestial Muses glorified.
Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in crowds;
What was the great Parnassus' self to Thee,
Mount Skiddaw in his natural sovereignty
Our British Hill is fairer far; he shrouds
His double front among Atlantic clouds,
And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly.


THERE is a little unpretending Rill
Of limpid water, humbler far than aught
That ever among Men or Naiads sought
Notice or name — it quivers down the hill,
Furrowing its shallow way with dubious will;
Yet to my mind this scanty Stream is brought
Oftener than Ganges or the Nile; a thought
Of private recollection sweet and still:
Months perish with their moons; year treads on year;
But, faithful Emma, thou with me canst say
That, while ten thousand pleasures disappear,
And flies their memory fast almost as they,
The immortal Spirit of one happy day
Lingers beside that Rill, in vision clear.


HER only Pilot the soft breeze, the Boat
Lingers, but Fancy is well satisfied;
With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory, at her side,
And the glad Muse at liberty to note
All that to each is precious, as we float
Gently along; regardless who shall chide
If the Heavens smile, and leave us free to glide,
Happy Associates breathing air remote
From trivial cares. But, Fancy and the Muse,
Why have I crowded this small Bark with you
And others of your kind, Ideal Crew :
While here sits One whose brightness owes its hues
To flesh and blood; no Goddess from above,
No fleeting Spirit, but my own true Love!

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The fairest, brightest hues of ether fade;
The sweetest notes must terminate and die;
O Friend! thy flute has breathed a harmony
Softly resounded through this rocky glade;
Such strains of rapture as” the Genius played
In his still haunt on Bagdad's summit high;
He who stood visible to Mirza's eye,
Never before to human sight betrayed.
Lo, in the vale, the mists of evening spread:
The visionary arches are not there,
Nor the green Islands, nor the shining seas;
Yet sacred is to me this Mountain's head,
From which I have been lifted on the breeze
Of harmony, above all earthly care.

* See the vision of Mirza, in the Spectator.

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O GENTLE Sleep! do they belong to thee,
These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love
To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove,
A Captive never wishing to be free.
This tiresome night, 0 Sleep! thou art to me
A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove,
Upon a fretful rivulet, now above,
Now on the water, vexed with mockery.
I have no pain that calls for patience, no;
Hence am I cross and peevish as a child :
Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe,
Yet ever willing to be reconciled :
O gentle Creature ! do not use me so,
But once and deeply let me be beguiled.



A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by,
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;
By turns have all been thought of, yet I lie
Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees;
And the first Cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth :
So do not let me wear to-night away:
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
Come, blessed barrier between day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!






PRAISED be the Art whose subtle power could stay

Yon Cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape;
L! Nor would permit the thin smoke to escape,
ES". Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day;

Which stopped that Band of Travellers on their way, * Ere they were lost within the shady wood;

And showed the Bark upon the glassy flood

For ever anchored in her sheltering Bay. mas: Soul-soothing Art! which Morning, Noon-tide, Even,

Do serve with all their changeful pageantry;
Thou, with ambition modest yet sublime,
Here, for the sight of mortal man, hast given
To one brief moment caught from fleeting time
The appropriate calm of blest eternity.



"War, Minstrel, these untuneful murmurings

, Aagging notes that with each other jar ?
"Think, gentle Lady, of a Harp so far
From its own Country, and forgive the strings."
A simple Answer! but even so forth springs,
From the Castalian fountain of the heart,
The Poetry of Life, and all that Art
Divine of words quickening insensate Things.
From the submissive necks of guiltless Men
Stretched on the block, the glittering axe recoils ;
Sun, Moon, and Stars, all struggle in the toils
Of mortal sympathy; what wonder then

If the poor Harp distempered music yields
{To its sad Lord, far from his native Fields ?


AERIAL Rock — whose solitary brow
From this low threshold daily meets my sight ;
When I step forth to hail the morning light;
Or quit the stars with lingering farewell — how
Shall Fancy pay to thee a grateful vow?
How, with the Muse's aid, her love attest?
By planting on thy naked head the crest
Of an imperial Castle, which the plough
Of ruin shall not touch. Innocent scheme !
T'hat doth presume no more than to supply
A grace the sinuous vale and roaring stream
Want, through neglect of hoar Antiquity.
Rise, then, ye votive Towers, and catch a gleam
Of golden sucset, ere it fade and die!

Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep!
And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names ;
The very sweetest words that fancy frames,
When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep!
Dear bosom Child we call thee, that dost steep
In rich reward all suffering; Balm that tames
All anguish ; Saint that evil thoughts and aims
Takest away, and into souls dost creep,
Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone,
I surely not a man ungently made,
Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost ?.
Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown,
Mere Slave of them who never for thee prayed,
Still last to come where thou art wanted most !




PUBLICATION OF A CERTAIN POEM. THE Imperial Consort of the Fairy King

See Millon's Sonnet, beginning Owns not a sylvan bower; or gorgeous cell

"A Book was writ of late, called "Tetrachordon.'" With emerald floored, and with purpureal shell

A Book came forth of late, called “ Peter Bell;" Ceilinged and roofed ; that is so fair a thing

Not negligent the style; – the matter ? --- good As this low Structure for the tasks of Spring

As aught that song records of Robin Hood; Prepared by one who loves the buoyant swell

Or Roy, renowned through many a Scottish dell; Of the brisk waves, yet here consents to dwell;

But some (who brook these hacknied themes full well, And spreads in steadfast peace her brooding wing.

Nor heat, at Tam o' Shanter's name, their blood) Words cannot paint the o'ershadowing yew-tree bough, Waxed wroth, and with foul claws, a harpy brood, And dimly-gleaming Nest, - a hollow crown

On Bard and Hero clamorously fell. Of golden leaves inlaid with silver down,

Heed not, wild Rover once through heath and glen, Fine as the Mother's softest plumes allow:

Who madest at length the better life thy choice, I gaze - and almost wish to lay aside

Heed not such onset! nay, if praise of men
Humanity, weak slave of cumbrous pride!

To thee appear not an unmeaning voice,
Lift up that gray-haired forehead, and rejoice
In the just tribute of thy Poet's pen!

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WHILE flowing Rivers yield a blameless sport,
Shall live the name of Walton; - Sage benign!
Whose pen, the mysteries of the rod and line
Unfolding, did not fruitlessly exhort
To reverend watching of each still report
That Nature utters from her rural shrine.
Meek, nobly versed in simple discipline,
He found the longest summer day too short,
To his loved pastime given by sedgy Lee,
Or down the tempting maze of Shawford brook !
Fairer than life itself, in this sweet Book,
The cowslip bank and shady willow-tree,
And the fresh meads; where flowed, from every nook
Of his full bosom, gladsome Piety!

Among the mountains were we nursed, loved Stream!
Thou, near the eagle's nest — within brief sail,
I, of his bold wing floating on the gale,
Where thy deep voice could lull me! — Faint the

Of human life when first allowed to gleam
On mortal notice. — Glory of the Vale,
Such thy meek outset, with a crown though frail
Kept in perpetual verdure by the steam
Of thy soft breath!- Less vivid wreath entwined
Nemæan Victors brow ; less bright was worn,
Meed of some Roman Chief - in triumph borne
With captives chained ; and shedding from his car
The sunset splendours of a finished war
Upon the proud enslavers of mankind !



COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE VALLEYS OF WESTBard of the Fleece, whose skilful genius made

MORELAND, ON EASTER SUNDAY, That work a living landscape fair and bright; With each recurrence of this glorious morn Nor hallowed less with musical delight

That saw the Saviour in his human frame Than those soft scenes through which thy Childhood Rise from the dead, erewhile the Cottage-darne strayed,

Put on fresh raiment - till that hour unworn :
Those southern Tracts of Cambria, “deep embayed, Domestic hands the home-bred wool had shorn,
With green hills fenced, with Ocean's murmur lulled;" And she who span it culled the daintiest fleece,
Though hasty Fame hath many a chaplet culled In thoughtful reverence to the Prince of Peace,
For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade Whose temples bled beneath the platted thorn.
Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced, A blest estate when piety sublime

and powerful minds, hearts meek and still, These humble props disdained not ! 0 A grateful few, shall love thy modest Lay,

Sad may I be who heard your sabbath chime Long as the Shepherd's bleating flock shall stray When Art's abused inventions were unknown; O'er naked Snowdon's wide aerial waste;

Kind Nature's various wealth was all your own; Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill ! And benefits were weighed in Reason's scales !





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A CERTU Grier, thou hast lost an ever-ready Friend,
niet bang Now that the cottage spinning-wheel is mute ;
4, (2N'Ts And Care - a Comforter that best could suit

Mer froward mood, and softliest reprehend;
the rest. 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 rest
From her own overflow, what power sedate
On those revolving motions did await
Asiduously, to soothe her aching breast –
And — to a point of just relief — abate
The mantling triumphs of a day too blest.


What need of clamorous bells, or ribands gay,
These humble Nuptials to proclaim or grace?
Angels of Love, look down upon the place,
Shed on the chosen Vale a sun-bright day!
Yet no proud gladness would the Bride display
Even for such promise : — serious is her face,
Modest her mien; and she, whose thoughts keep pace
With gentleness, in that becoming way
Will thank you. Faultless does the Maid appear;
No disproportion in her soul, no strife:
But, when the closer view of wedded life
Hath shown that nothing human can be clear
From frailty, for that insight may the Wife
To her indulgent Lord become more dear.

XXIII. -TO 8. H.

Excuse is needless when with love sincere
CVEV Of occupation, not by fashion led,

FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO. Thou turn'st the Wheel that slept with dust o'erspread; YES! hope may with my strong desire keep pace, by My nerves from no such murmur shrink, – tho' near, And I be undeluded, unbetrayed ; soft as the Dorhawk's to a distant ear,

For if of our affections none find grace cox When twilight shades bedim the mountain's head.

In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God made She who was feigned to spin our vital thread

The world which we inhabit? Better plea Might smile, O Lady! on a task once dear

Love cannot have, than that in Joving thee To household virtues. Venerable Art,

Glory to that eternal Peace is paid, Torn from the Poor! yet will kind Heaven protect Who such divinity to thee imparts own, not left without a guiding chart,

As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts. uc ! Rulers, trusting with undue respect

His hope is treacherous only whose love dies To proud discoveries of the Intellect,

With beauty, which is varying every hour;
Sanction the pillage of man's ancient heart.

But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power
Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower,
That breathes on earth the air of paradise.





No mortal object did these eyes behold
When first they met the placid light of thine


Orr have I seen, ere Time had ploughed my cheek
Matrons and Sires --- who, punctual to the call
Of their loved Church, on Fast or Festival
Through the long year the House of Prayer would And my Soul felt her destiny divine,
By Christmas snows, by visitation bleak
Of Easter winds, unscared, from Hut or Hall
Tiey came to lowly bench or sculptured Stall,
But with one fervour of devotion meek.
I see the places where they once were known,
And ask, surrounded even by kneeling crowds,
Le ancient Piety for ever down?
Alas! even then they seemed like fleecy clouds
That struggling through the western sky, have won
Their pensive light from a departed sun !

And hope of endless peace in me grew bold:
Heaven-born, the Soul a heavenward course must hold
Beyond the visible world She soars to seek
(For what delights the sense is false and weak)
Ideal Form, the universal mould.
The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest
In that which perishes; nor will he lend
His heart to aught which doth on time depend.
'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love,
That kills the soul: love betters what is best,
Even here below, but more in heaven above




The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed,
If Thou the spirit give by which I pray:
My unassisted heart is barren clay,
That of its native self can nothing feed :
Of good and pious works thou art the seed,
That quickens only where thou sayest it may:
Unless thou shew to us thine own true way,
No man can find it: Father! thou must lead.
Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind
By which such virtue may in me be bred
That in thy holy footsteps I may tread;
The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind,
That I may have the power to sing of thee,
And sound thy praises everlastingly.

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SURPRISED by joy — impatient as the Wind I turned to share the transport — Oh! with whom But Thee, deep buried in the silent Tomb, That spot which no vicissitude can find ? Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind But how could I forget thee? Through what power, Even for the least division of an hour, Hlave I been so beguiled as to be blind To my most grievous loss? — That thought's return Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more; That neither present time, nor years unborn Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.


I. METHOUGHT I saw the footsteps of a throne Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed ; But all the steps and ground about were strown With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone Ever put on; a miserable crowd, Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud,

Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan." I seemed to mount those steps; the vapours gave Smooth way; and I beheld the face of one Sleeping alone within a mossy cave, With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone; A lovely Beauty in a summer grave!




EVEN so for me a Vision sanctified
The sway of Death; long ere mine eyes had seen
Thy countenance the still rapture of thy mien-
When thou, dear Sister! wert become Death's Bride
No trace of pain or languor could abide
That change:-age on thy brow was smoothed—thy code
Wan cheek at once was privileged to unfold
A loveliness to living youth denied.
Oh! if within me hope should e'er decline,
The lamp of faith, lost Friend! too faintly burn;
Then may that heaven-revealing smile of thine,
The bright assurance, visibly return:
And let my spirit in that power divine
Rejoice, as, through that power, it ceased to mouri.


It is a beauteous Evening, calm and free; The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity; The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea : Listen! the mighty Being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder - everlastingly. Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here, If thou appear'st untouched by solemn thought, Thy nature is not therefore less divine: Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not."


WHERE lies the Land to which yon Ship must go: Festively she puts forth in trim array; As vigorous as a Lark at break of day: Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow? What boots the inquiry?- Neither friend nor foe She cares for; let her travel where she may, She finds familiar names, a beaten way Ever before her, and a wind to blow. Yet, still I ask, what Haven is her mark? And, almost as it was when ships were rare, (From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark, Of the old Sea some reverential fear, Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark!

* [In the same spirit Coleridge speaks of " the sacred light of Childhood." if Friend,'III, p. 46.-H. R.)

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