Raise on that dreary Waste a monument
That may record my story: nor let words—
Few must they be, and delicate in their touch
As light itself-be there withheld from Her
Who, through most wicked arts, was made an orphan
By One who would have died a thousand times,
To shield her from a moment's harm. To you,
Wallace and Wilfred, I commend the Lady,
By lowly nature reared, as if to make her
In all things worthier of that noble birth,
Whose long-suspended rights are now on the eve
Of restoration : with your tenderest care
Watch over her, I pray-sustain her-

Several of the band (eagerly).

Captain!

Mar. No more of that; in silence hear my doom:

A hermitage has furnished fit relief

To some offenders; other penitents,
Less patient in their wretchedness, have fallen,
Like the old Roman, on their own sword's point.
They had their choice: a wanderer must I go,
The Spectre of that innocent Man, my guide.
No human ear shall ever hear me speak;
No human dwelling ever give me food,
Or sleep, or rest: but, over waste and wild,
In search of nothing, that this earth can give,
But expiation, will I wander on—

A Man by pain and thought compelled to live,
Yet loathing life-till anger is appeased

In Heaven, and Mercy gives me leave to die.

1795-6.

POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD OF

CHILDHOOD.

I.

[WRITTEN at Town-end, Grasmere.]

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:

So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;

So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!

The Child is father of the Man;

And I could wish my days to be

Bound each to each by natural piety.

1804.

II.

TO A BUTTERFLY.

[WRITTEN in the Orchard, Town-end, Grasmere. My sister and I were parted immediately after the death of our mother, who died in 1778, both being very young.]

STAY near me- -do not take thy flight!

A little longer stay in sight!

Much converse do I find in thee,

Historian of my infancy!

Float near me; do not yet depart!
Dead times revive in thee:

Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art!
A solemn image to my heart,

My father's family!

Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,
The time, when, in our childish plays,
My sister Emmeline and I

Together chased the butterfly!

A

very hunter did I rush

Upon the prey-with leaps and springs
I followed on from brake to bush;
But she, God love her, feared to brush
The dust from off its wings.

1801.

III.

THE SPARROW'S NEST.

[WRITTEN in the Orchard, Town-end, Grasmere. At the end of the garden of my father's house at Cockermouth was a high terrace that commanded a fine view of the river Derwent and Cockermouth Castle. This was our favourite play-ground. The terrace-wall, a low one, was covered with closely-clipt privet and roses, which gave an almost impervious shelter to birds that built their nests there. The latter of these stanzas alludes to one of those nests.]

BEHOLD, within the leafy shade,
Those bright blue eggs together laid!
On me the chance-discovered sight
Gleamed like a vision of delight.

I started-seeming to espy
The home and sheltered bed,

The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by
My Father's house, in wet or dry
My sister Emmeline and I
Together visited.

She looked at it and seemed to fear it ;
Dreading, tho' wishing, to be near it :
Such heart was in her, being then
A little Prattler among men.
The Blessing of my later years
Was with me when a boy :

She gave me eyes, she gave me ears;
And humble cares, and delicate fears;
A heart, the fountain of sweet tears;
And love, and thought, and joy.

1801

IV.

FORESIGHT.

[ALSO composed in the Orchard, Town-end, Grasmere.]

THAT is work of waste and ruin-
Do as Charles and I are doing!
Strawberry-blossoms, one and all,

We must spare them-here are many :
Look at it-the flower is small,
Small and low, though fair as any:
Do not touch it! summers two

I am older, Anne, than you.

Pull the primrose, sister Anne!
Pull as many as you can.

-Here are daisies, take your fill;
Pansies, and the cuckoo-flower:
Of the lofty daffodil

Make your bed, or make your bower;
Fill your lap, and fill your bosom ;
Only spare the strawberry-blossom!

Primroses, the Spring may love them-
Summer knows but little of them:
Violets, a barren kind,

Withered on the ground must lie;
Daisies leave no fruit behind
When the pretty flowerets die;
Pluck them, and another year
As many will be blowing here.

God has given a kindlier power
To the favoured strawberry-flower.
Hither soon as spring is fled
You and Charles and I will walk ;

Lurking berries, ripe and red,

Then will hang on every stalk,

Each within its leafy bower;

And for that promise spare the flower!

1802.