If from what her hand would do,
Her voice would utter, there ensue
Aught untoward or unfit ;

She, in benign affections pure,

In self-forgetfulness secure,

Sheds round the transient harm or vague mischance

A light unknown to tutored elegance :

Her's is not a cheek shame-stricken,

But her blushes are joy-flushes;
And the fault (if fault it be)

Only ministers to quicken
Laughter-loving gaiety,

And kindle sportive wit

Leaving this Daughter of the mountains free
As if she knew that Oberon king of Faery
Had crossed her purpose with some quaint vagary,
And heard his viewless bands

Over their mirthful triumph clapping hands.

"Last of the Three, though eldest born,

Reveal thyself, like pensive Morn
Touched by the skylark's earliest note,

Ere humbler gladness be afloat.

But whether in the semblance drest

Of Dawn—or Eve, fair vision of the west,

Come with each anxious hope subdued

By woman's gentle fortitude,

Each grief, through meekness, settling into rest.

-Or I would hail thee when some high-wrought page

Of a closed volume lingering in thy hand
Has raised thy spirit to a peaceful stand
Among the glories of a happier age."

Her brow hath opened on me-see it there,
Brightening the umbrage of her hair;
So gleams the crescent moon, that loves
To be descried through shady groves.
Tenderest bloom is on her cheek;

Wish not for a richer streak ;

Nor dread the depth of meditative eye;
But let thy love, upon that azure field
Of thoughtfulness and beauty, yield
Its homage offered up in purity.

What would'st thou more? In sunny glade,
Or under leaves of thickest shade,
Was such a stillness e'er diffused

Since earth grew calm while angels mused?
Softly she treads, as if her foot were loth
To crush the mountain dew-drops-soon to melt
On the flower's breast; as if she felt

That flowers themselves, whate'er their hue,
With all their fragrance, all their glistening,
Call to the heart for inward listening-
And though for bridal wreaths and tokens true
Welcomed wisely; though a growth

Which the careless shepherd sleeps on,

As fitly spring from turf the mourner weeps on-
And without wrong are cropped the marble tomb to strew.

The charm is over; the mute phantom's gone,
Nor will return-but droop not, favoured Youth;
The apparition that before thee shone
Obeyed a summons covetous of truth.

From these wild rocks thy footsteps I will guide
To bowers in which thy fortune may be tried,

And one of the bright Three become thy happy Bride.

1828.

XXXVII.

THE WISHING-GATE.

In the vale of Grasmere, by the side of the old high-way leading to Ambleside, is a gate, which, time out of mind, has been called the Wishing-gate, from a belief that wishes formed or indulged there have a favourable issue.

HOPE rules a land for ever green:

All powers that serve the bright-eyed Queen
Are confident and gay ;

Clouds at her bidding disappear;

Points she to aught ?—the bliss draws near,
And Fancy smooths the way.

Not such the land of Wishes-there

Dwell fruitless day-dreams, lawless prayer,
And thoughts with things at strife;
Yet how forlorn, should ye depart
Ye superstitions of the heart,
How poor, were human life!

When magic lore abjured its might,
Ye did not forfeit one dear right,
One tender claim abate;

Witness this symbol of your sway,
Surviving near the public way,
The rustic Wishing-gate!

Inquire not if the faery race
Shed kindly influence on the place,
Ere northward they retired;
If here a warrior left a spell,
Panting for glory as he fell;
Or here a saint expired.

Enough that all around is fair,

Composed with Nature's finest care,

And in her fondest love

Peace to embosom and content-

To overawe the turbulent,

The selfish to reprove.

Yea! even the stranger from afar,
Reclining on this moss-grown bar,
Unknowing, and unknown,

The infection of the ground partakes,
Longing for his Belov'd-who makes
All happiness her own.

Then why should conscious Spirits fear
The mystic stirrings that are here,
The ancient faith disclaim?

The local Genius ne'er befriends
Desires whose course in folly ends,
Whose just reward is shame.

Smile if thou wilt, but not in scorn,
If some, by ceaseless pains outworn,
Here crave an easier lot;

If some have thirsted to renew

A broken vow, or bind a true,

With firmer, holier knot.

And not in vain, when thoughts are cast

Upon the irrevocable past,

Some penitent sincere

May for a worthier future sigh,

While trickles from his downcast eye

No unavailing tear.