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Picture of Christmas Eve.-Addressed to the Rev. Dr. Wordsworth, with Sonnets to the River Duddon, &c.

The minstrels played their Christmas

tune

To-night beneath my cottage eaves:
While, smitten by a lofty moon:
The encircling laurels, thick with leaves,
Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen,
That overpowered their natural green.

Through hill and valley every breeze
Had sunk to rest with folded wings;
Keen was the air, but could not freeze,
Nor check the music of the strings;
So stout and hardy were the band,

That scraped the chords with strenuous hand.

And who but listened till was paid
Respect to every inmate's claim;
The greeting given, the music played
In honour of each household name,
Duly pronounced with lusty call,
And Merry Christmas' wished to all?

O brother! I revere the choice
That took thee from thy native hills;
And it is given thee to rejoice:
Though public care full often tills-
Heaven only witness of the toil-
A barren and ungrateful soil.

Yet, would that thou, with me and mine,
Hadst heard this never-failing rite;
And seen on other faces shine
A true revival of the light
Which nature, and these rustic powers,
In simple childhood spread through ours!

For pleasure hath not ceased to wait
On these expected annual rounds,
Whether the rich man's sumptuous gate
Call forth the unelaborate sounds.
Or they are offered at the door
That guards the lowliest of the poor

How touching, when at midnight sweep
Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark,
To hear-and sink again to sleep!
Or, at an earlier call, to mark,

By blazing fire, the still suspense
Of self-complacent innocence;

The mutual nod-the grave disguise
Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er;
And some unbidden tears that rise
For names once heard, and heard no
more;

Tears brightened by the serenade
For infant in the cradle laid!

Ah! not for emerald fields alone, With ambient streams more pure and bright

Than fabled Cytherea's zone

Glittering before the Thunderer's sight,
Is to my heart of hearts endeared
The ground where we were born and
reared!

Hail, ancient manners! sure defence,
Where they survive, of wholesome laws;
Remnants of love, whose modest sense
Thus into narrow room withdraws;
Hail, usages of pristine mould,
And ye that guard them, mountains old!

Bear with me, brother, quench the thought

That slights this passion or condemns;
If thee fond fancy ever brought
From the proud margin of the Thames,
And Lambeth's venerable towers,
To humbler streams and greener bowers.

Yes, they can make, who fail to find
Short leisure even in busiest days,
Moments to cast a look behind,
And profit by those kindly rays
That through the clouds do sometimes
steal,

And all the far-off past reveal.

Hence, while the imperial city's din
Beats frequent on thy satiate ear,
A pleased attention I may win
To agitations less severe,
That neither overwhelm nor cloy,
But fill the hollow vale with joy.

through the whole of Mr. Wordsworth's system of thought, filling up all interstices, penetrating all recesses, colouring all media. supporting, associating, and giving coherency and mutual relevancy to it in all its parts. Though man is his subject, yet is man never presented to us divested of his relations with external nature. Man is the text, but there is always a running commentary of natural phenomena. -Quarterly Review for 1834.

In illustration of this remark. every episode in the Excursion might also be cited (particularly the affecting and beautiful tale of Margaret in the first book): and the poems of the Cumberland Beggar, Michael, and the Fountain-the las unquestionably one of the finest of the ballads are also striking instances.

To a Highland Girl.—At Inversneyd, upon Loch Lomond.

Sweet Highland girl, a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
Twice seven consenting years have shed
Their utmost bounty on thy head:
And these gray locks; this household
lawn;

These trees, a veil just half withdrawn ;
This fall of water that doth make
A murmur near the silent lake;
This little bay, a quiet road
That holds in shelter thy abode-
In truth, together do you seem
Like something fashioned in a dream;
Such forms as from their covert peep
When earthly cares are laid asleep!
Yet, dream or vision as thou art,
I bless thee with a human heart:
God shield thee to thy latest years!
I neither know thee nor thy peers;
And yet my eyes are filled with tears.
With earnest feeling I shall pray
For thee when I am far away:
For never saw I mien or face,
In which more plainly I could trace
Benignity and homebred sense
Ripening in perfect innocence.
Here scattered like a random seed,
Remote from men, thou dost not need
The embarrassed look of shy distress
And maidenly shamefacedness:
Thou wearest upon thy forehead clear
The freedom of a mountaineer:
A face with gladness overspread!
Soft smiles, by human kindness bred!
And seemliness complete, that sways
Thy courtesies, about the plays;
With no restraint, but such as springs
From quick and eager visitings
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach

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Of thy few words of English speech.
A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife
That gives thy gestures grace and life!
So have I, not unmoved in mind,
Seen birds of tempest-loving kind,
Thus beating up against the wind.

What hand but would a garland cull
For thee who art so beautiful?
O happy pleasure! here to dwell
Beside thee in some heathy dell;
Adopt your homely ways, and dress
A shepherd, thou a shepherdess!
But I could frame a wish for thee
More like a grave reality:

Thou art to me but as a wave
Of the wild sea; and I would have
Some claim upon thee, if I could,
Though but of common neighbourhood.
What joy to hear thee, and to see!
Thy elder brother I would be-
Thy father-anything to thee!

Now thanks to Heaven! that of its
grace

Hath led me to this lonely place.
Joy have I had; and going hence,
I bear away my recompense.
In spots like these it is we prize
Our memory, feel that she hath eyes:
Then, why should I be loath to stir?
I feel this place was made for her;
To give new pleasure like the past,
Continued long as life shall last.
Nor am I loath, though pleased at heart,
Sweet Highland girl! from thee to part;
For I, methinks, till I grow old,
As fair before me shall behold,
As I do now, the cabin small,
The lake, the bay, the waterfall;
And thee, the spirit of them all!
Laodamia.

'With sacrifice before the rising morn,
Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired;
And from the infernal gods, 'mid shades forlorn
Of night, my slaughtered lord have I required:
Celestial pity I again implore;

Restore him to my sight-great Jove, restore!'

So speaking, and by fervent love endowed

With faith, the suppliant heavenward lifts her hands;
While, like the sun emerging from a cloud,

Her countenance brightens and her eye expands;
Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows;

And she expects the issue in repose.

O terror! what hath she perceived?-O joy!
What doth she look on ?-whom doth she behold?

Her hero slain upon the beach of Troy?
His vital presence? his corporeal mould?
It is-if sense deceive her not-'tis he!
And a god leads him, winged Mercury !

Mild Hermes spake, and touched her with his wand

That calms all fear: Such grace hath crowned thy prayer, Laodamia! that at Jove's command

Thy husband walks the paths of upper air;

He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space;

Accept the gift; behold him face to face!'

Forth sprang the impassioned queen her lord to clasp,
Again that consummation she essayed;
But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp
As often as that eager grasp was made.
The phantom parts-but parts to reunite,
And reassume his place before her sight."

'Protesilaus, lo! thy guide is gone!
Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice.
This is our palace-yonder is thy throne;
Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice.
Not to appal me have the gods bestowed
This precious boon; and blest a sad abode.'

'Great Jove, Laodamia doth not leave
Her gifts imperfect. Spectre though I be,
I am not sent to scare thee or deceive;
But in reward of thy fidelity.

And something also did my worth obtain;
For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain.

"Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold

That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand
Should die: but me the threat could not withhold:
A generous cause a victim did demand;

And forth I leaped upon the sandy plain;
A self-devoted chief-by Hector slain.'

'Supreme of heroes; bravest, noblest, best!
Thy matchless courage I bewail no more,

Which then, when tens of thousands were depressed
By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore;

Thou found'st-and I forgive thee-here thou art→
A nobler counsellor than my poor heart.

'But thou, though capable of sternest deed,
Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave;
And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed
That thou shouldst cheat the malice of the grave.
Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair

As when their breath enriched Thessalian air.

'No spectre greets me-no vain shadow this;
Come, blooming hero, place thee by my side!
Give, on this well-known couch, one nuptial kiss
To me, this day, a second time thy bride!'

Jove frowned in heaven; the conscious Parce threw
Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue.

"This visage tells thee that my doom is past:

Nor should the change be mourned, even if the joys

Of sense were able to return as fast

And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys

Those raptures duly-Erebus disdains;

Calm pleasures there abide-majestic pains..

'Be taught, O faithful consort, to control
Rebellious passion; for the gods approve
The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul;
A fervent, not ungovernable love.

Thy transports moderate; and meekly mourn
When I depart, for brief is my sojourn.'

'Ah, wherefore? Did not Hercules by force
Wrest from the guardian monster of the tomi.
Alcestis, a reanimated corse,

Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom>
Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years,
And Æson stood a youth 'mid youthful peers.

"The gods to us are merciful: and they
Yet further may relent; for mightier far
Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway
Of magic potent over sun and star,

Is love, though oft to agony distressed,

And though his favourite seat be feeble woman's preast,

But if thou goest, I follow.' 'Peace!' he said:

She looked upon him, and was calmed and chored;
The ghastly Colour from his lips had fled.

In his deportment, shape, and mien appeared
Elysian beauty, melancholy grace,

Brought from a pensive though a happy place.

He spake of love, such love as spirits feel
In worlds whose course is equable and pure;
No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,
The past unsighed for, and the future sure;
Spake of heroic arts in graver mood
Revived, with finer harmony pursued.

Of all that is most beauteous-imaged there
In happier beauty; more pellucid streams,
An ampler ether, a diviner ai.,

And fields invested with purpureal gleams,

Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest day

Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey.

Yet there the soul shall enter which hath earned
That privilege by virtue.

'Ill,' said he,

"The end of man's existence I discerned,

Who from ignoble games and revelry

Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight,
While tears were thy best pastime, day and night:

'And while my youthful peers before my eyes-
Each hero following his peculiar bent-
Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise
By martial sports; or seated in the tent,

Chieftains and kings in council were detained-
What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained.

"The wished-for wind was given: I then revolved
The oracle upon the silent sea;

And, if no worthier led the way, resolved
That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be
The foremost prow in pressing to the strand→
Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand.

'Yet bitter, ofttimes bitter was the pang,
When of thy loss I thought, beloved wife!
On thee too fondly did my memory hang,
And on the joys we shared in mortal life;

The paths which we had trod-these fountains, flowers;
My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers.

'But should suspense permit the foe to cry,
"Behold they tremble! haughty their array;
Yet of their number no one dares to die!"
In soul I swept the indignity away:

Old frailties then recurred; but lofty thought,
In act embodied, my deliverance wrought.

'And thou, though strong in love, art all too weak
In reason, in self-government too slow;

I counsel thee by fortitude to seek

Our blest reunion in the shades below.

The invisible world with thee hath sympathised;
Be thy affections raised and solemnised.

'Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend-
Seeking a higher object. Love was given,
Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end:
For this the passion to excess was driven,
That self might be annulled: her bondage prove
The fetters of a dream, opposed to love."

Aloud she shrieked; for Hermes reappears!

Round the dear shade she would have clung; 'tis vain;
The hours are past-too brief had they been years;
And him no mortal effort can detain:

Swift toward the realms that know not earthly day,
He through the portal takes his silent way,
And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse she lay.

By no weak pity might the gods be moved;
She who thus perished, not without the crime
Of lovers that in reason's spite have loved,
Was doomed to wear out her appointed time
Apart from happy ghosts, that gather flowers
Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers.

-Yet tears to human suffering are due;
And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown
Are mourned by man, and not by man alone,
As fondly he believes. Upon the side
Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained)
A knot of spiry trees for ages grew
From out the tomb of him for whom she died;
And ever, when such stature they had gained,
That Ilium's walls were subject to their view,
The trees' tall summits withered at the sight-
A constant interchange of growth and blight!

Memoirs of Wordsworth were published in 1851, two volumes, by the poet's nephew, CHRISTOPHER WORDSWORTH, D. D. This is rather a meagre, unsatisfactory work, but no better has since appeared. Many interesting anecdotes, reports of conversation, letters, &c., will be found in the Diary' of Henry Crabb Robinson, 1869. In 1874 was published Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland, A. D. 1803,' by DOROTHY WORDSWORTH, sister of the poet, to whose talents and

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