Of naked instinct, wound about the heart. Happier, far happier is thy lot and ours! Even now-to solemnize thy helpless state, And to enliven in the mind's regard Thy passive beauty-parallels have risen, Resemblances, or contrasts, that connect, Within the region of a father's thoughts, Thee and thy mate and sister of the sky. And first; thy sinless progress, through a world By sorrow darkened and by care disturbed, Apt likeness bears to hers through gathered clouds Moving untouched in silver purity,
And cheering ofttimes their reluctant gloom. Fair are ye both, and both are free from stain : But thou, how leisurely thou fill'st thy horn With brightness !-leaving her to post along, And range about-disquieted in change, And still impatient of the shape she wears. Once up, once down the hill, one journey, babe, That will suffice thee; and it seems that now Thou hast foreknowledge that such task is thine; Thou travellest so contentedly, and sleep'st In such a heedless peace. Alas! full soon Hath this conception, grateful to behold, Changed countenance, like an object sullied o'er By breathing mist; and thine appears to be A mournful labour, while to her is given
Hope and renovation without end.
-That smile forbids the thought;-for on thy face Smiles are beginning, like the beams of dawn,
To shoot and circulate; smiles have there been seen,- Tranquil assurances that heaven supports The feeble motions of thy life, and cheers Thy loneliness; or shall those smiles be called Feelers of love,-put forth as if t' explore This untried world, and to prepare thy way Through a strait passage intricate and dim? Such are they, and the same are tokens, signs, Which, when the appointed season hath arrived, Joy, as her holiest language, shall adopt; And reason's godlike power be proud to own.
Poems of the Imagination.
THERE was a boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs And islands of Winander! Many a time, At evening, when the earliest stars began To move along the edges of the hills,
Rising or setting, would he stand alone, Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake; And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,
That they might answer him. And they would shout Across the watery vale, and shout again, Responsive to his call,—with quivering peals, And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild
Of mirth and jocund din! And, when it chanced That pauses of deep silence mocked his skill, Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise Has carried far into his heart the voice Of mountain torrents; or the visible scene Would enter unawares into his mind With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,
Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received Into the bosom of the steady lake.
This boy was taken from his mates, and died In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. Fair are the woods, and beauteous is the spot, The vale where he was born: the church-yard hangs Upon a slope above the village school;
And there, along that bank, when I have passed At evening, I believe that oftentimes A long half-hour together I have stood Mute-looking at the grave in which he lies!
TO THE CUCKOO.
O BLITHE new-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice:
O Cuckoo shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
While I am lying on the grass, Thy loud note smites my ear! From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off and near!
I hear thee babbling to the vale Of sunshine and of flowers;
And unto me thou bring'st a tale Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the spring! Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery.
The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to; that cry
Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen!
And I can listen to thee yet; Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again.
O blessed bird! the earth we pace Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, fairy place; That is fit home for thee!
-THE sky is overcast
With a continuous cloud of texture close,
Heavy and wan, all whitened by the moon, Which through that vale is indistinctly seen, A dull contracted circle, yielding light So feebly spread that not a shadow falls,
Chequering the ground, from rock, plant, tree, or tower. At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam Startles the pensive traveller as he treads His lonesome path, with unobserving eye
Bent earthwards; he looks up-the clouds are split Asunder, and above his head he sees The clear moon, and the glory of the heavens There, in a black blue vault she sails along, Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small, And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss Drive as she drives. How fast they wheel away, Yet vanish not !-the wind is in the tree But they are silent; still they roll along Immeasurably distant; and the vault,
Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, Still deepens its unfathomable depth. At length the vision closes; and the mind, Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.
THERE is a yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, Which to this day stands single, in the midst Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore, Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands Of Umfraville or Percy, ere they marched To Scotland's heaths: or those that crossed the sea And drew their sounding bows at Azincour, Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.
Of vast circumference and gloom profound This solitary tree !-a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay; Of form and aspect too magnificent
To be destroyed. But worthier still of note Are those fraternal four of Borrowdale, Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;
Huge trunks!-and each particular trunk a growth Of intertwisted fibres serpentine
Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved,- Nor uninformed with phantasy, and looks That threaten the profane; a pillared shade, Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue, By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged Perennially-beneath whose sable roof Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked With unrejoicing berries, ghostly shapes May meet at noontide-Fear and trembling Hope, Silence and Foresight-Death the skeleton And Time the shadow,-there to celebrate, As in a natural temple scattered o'er With altars undisturbed of mossy stone, United worship; or in mute repose To lie, and listen to the mountain flood Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.
VIEW FROM THE TOP OF BLACK COMB.
THIS height a ministering angel might select: For from the summit of Black Comb (dread name Derived from clouds and storms!) the amplest range Of unobstructed prospect may be seen
That British ground commands: low dusky tracts, Where Trent is nursed, far southward! Cambrian hills To the south-west, a multitudinous show;
And, in a line of eye-sight linked with these,
The hoary peaks of Scotland that give birth
To Teviot's stream, to Annan, Tweed, and Clyde;
Crowding the quarter whence the sun comes forth, Gigantic mountains rough with crags; beneath, Right at the imperial station's western base, Main ocean, breaking audibly, and stretched Far into silent regions blue and pale; And visibly engirding Mona's isle,
That, as we left the plain, before our sight Stood like a lofty mount, uplifting slowly (Above the convex of the watery globe) Into clear view the cultured fields that streak Its habitable shores; but now appears A dwindled object, and submits to lie At the spectator's feet. Yon azure ridge, Is it a perishable cloud-or there
Do we behold the frame of Erin's coast? Land sometimes by the roving shepherd swain (Like the bright confines of another world) Not doubtfully perceived. Look homeward now! In depth, in height, in circuit, how serene The spectacle-how pure! Of Nature's works, In earth, and air, and earth embracing sea, A revelation infinite it seems;
Display august of man's inheritance, Of Britain's calm felicity and power.
(I speak of one from many singled out), One of those heavenly days which cannot die; When forth I sallied from our cottage door,* With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, A nutting-crook in hand, and turned my steps Towards the distant woods, a figure quaint, Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds Which for that service had been husbanded, By exhortation of my frugal dame.
Motley accoutrement-of power to smile
At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,—and, in truth, More ragged than need was. Among the woods, And o'er the pathless rocks, I forced my way, Until, at length, I came to one dear nook Unvisited, where not a broken bough
Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign Of devastation, but the hazels rose
Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung, A virgin seen! A little while I stood, Breathing with such suppression of the heart As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint
The house in which I was boarded during the time I was at school.
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