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Know, if thou grudge not to prolong thy rest,
WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL UPON A STONE,
THE LARGEST OF A HEAP LYING NEAR A DESERTED QUARRY, UPON ONE OF THE ISLANDS AT RYDAL.
STRANGER! this hillock of mis-shapen stones
That from the shore a full-grown man might
wade, And make himself a freeman of this spot At any hour he chose, the prudent Knight Desisted, and the quarry and the mound Are monuments of his unfinished task. The block on which these lines are traced,
perhaps, Was once selected as the corner-stone
15 Of that intended Pile, which would have been Some quaint odd plaything of elaborate skill, So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush, And other little builders who dwell here, Had wondered at the work. But blame him not, For old Sir William was a gentle Knight, Bred in this vale, to which he appertained With all his ancestry. Then peace to him, And for the outrage which he had devised Entire forgiveness !—But if thou art one On fire with thy impatience to become An inmate of these mountains,—if, disturbed By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn Out of the quiet rock the elements Of thy trim Mansion destined soon to blaze 30 In snow-white splendour,-think again; and,
taught By old Sir William and his quarry, leave Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose; There let the vernal slow-worm sun himself, And let the redbreast hop from stone to stone. 35
In these fair vales hath many a Tree
At Wordsworth's suit been spared ;
For some rude beauty of its own,
Was rescued by the Bard :
When here the tender-hearted
As one of the departed.
The massy Ways, carried across these heights
more In earnest converse with beloved Friends, Here will he gather stores of ready bliss, As from the beds and borders of a garden Choice flowers are gathered! But, if Power may
spring Out of a farewell yearning-favoured more Than kindred wishes mated suitably With vain regrets—the Exile would consign This Walk, his loved possession, to the care Of those pure Minds that reverence the Muse.
INSCRIPTIONS SUPPOSED TO BE FOUND IN AND
NEAR A HERMIT'S CELL.
HOPEs what are they?—Beads of morning
What are fears but voices airy?
What is glory?-in the socket
What is friendship ?--do not trust her,
What is truth ?--a staff rejected;
Bright, as if through ether steering,
Such is Joy-as quickly hidden,
INSCRIBED UPON A ROCK.
Pause, Traveller! whosoe'er thou be
Give voice to what my hand shall trace, 5
I saw this Rock, while vernal air
Unsullied did it meet the day,