And, in the fashion which I have described, Feeding unthinking fancies, we advanced Along the indented shore; when suddenly, Through a thin veil of glittering haze, we saw Before us, on a point of jutting land, The tall and upright figure of a man Attired in peasant's garb, who stood alone, Angling beside the margin of the lake.
That way we turned our steps, nor was it long Ere, making ready comments on the sight Which then we saw, with one and the same voice Did all cry out that he must be indeed An idler, he who thus could lose a day Of the mid-harvest, when the labourer's hire Is ample, and some little might be stored Wherewith to cheer him in the winter time. Thus talking of that peasant, we approached Close to the spot where with his rod and line He stood alone; whereat he turned his head To greet us and we saw a man worn down By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean That for my single self I looked at them, Forgetful of the body they sustained. Too weak to labour in the harvest-field, The man was using his best skill to gain A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake That knew not of his wants. I will not say What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how The happy idleness of that sweet morn, With all its lovely images, was changed To serious musing and to self-reproach. Nor did we fail to see within ourselves What need there is to be reserved in speech, And temper all our thoughts with charity. Therefore, unwilling to forget that day, My friend, myself, and she who then received The same admonishment, have called the place By a memorial name, uncouth indeed
As e'er by mariner was given to bay
Or foreland, on a new-discovered coast;
And "Point Rash Judgment" is the name it bears.
OUR walk was far among the ancient trees; There was no road, nor any woodman's path; But the thick umbrage, checking the wild growth Of weed and sapling, on the soft green turf Beneath the branches, of itself had made
A track, which brought us to a slip of lawn, And a small bed of water in the woods.
All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink On its firm margin, even as from a well,
Or some stone basin which the herdsman's hand
Had shaped for their refreshment; nor did sun Or wind from any quarter ever come, But as a blessing, to this calm recess, This glade of water and this one green field. The spot was made by Nature for herself. The travellers know it not, and 'twill remain Unknown to them; but it is beautiful; And if a man should plant his cottage near, Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees, And blend its waters with his daily meal, He would so love it, that in his death hour Its image would survive among his thoughts: And therefore, my sweet Mary, this still nook, With all its beeches, we have named from you.
WHEN, to the attractions of the busy world, Preferring studious leisure, I had chosen A habitation in this peaceful vale,
Sharp season followed of continual storm In deepest winter; and, from week to week, Pathway, and lane, and public road were clogged With frequent showers of snow. Upon a hill At a short distance from my cottage, stands A stately fir-grove, whither I was wont To hasten, for I found, beneath the roof Of that perennial shade, a cloistral place Of refuge, with an unencumbered floor. Here, in safe covert, on the shallow snow, And, sometimes, on a speck of visible earth, The redbreast near me hopped; nor was I loth To sympathise with vulgar coppice birds That, for protection from the nipping blast, Hither repaired. A single beech-tree grew Within this grove of firs; and, on the fork Of that one beech, appeared a thrush's nest; A last year's nest, conspicuously built At such small elevation from the ground As gave sure sign that they, who in that house Of nature and of love had made their home Amid the fir-trees all the summer long Dwelt in a tranquil spot. And oftentimes,
A few sheep, stragglers from some mountain flock, Would watch my motions with suspicious stare, From the remotest outskirts of the grove,- Some nook where they had made their final stand, Huddling together from two fears-the fear
Of me and of the storm. Full many an hour Here did I lose. But in this grove the trees Had been so thickly planted, and had thriven In such perplexed and intricate array,
That vainly did I seek, between their stems, A length of open space,-where to and fro My feet might move without concern or care: And, baffled thus, before the storm relaxed, I ceased that shelter to frequent,-and prized Less than I wished to prize, that calm recess.
The snows dissolved, and genial spring returned To clothe the fields with verdure. Other haunts Meanwhile were mine; till, one bright April day, By chance retiring from the glare of noon To this forsaken covert, there I found
A hoary pathway traced between the trees, And winding on with such an easy line Along a natural opening, that I stood Much wondering at my own simplicity
How I could e'er have made a fruitless search - For what was now so obvious.
At the sight, Conviction also flashed upon my mind That this same path (within the shady grove Begun and ended) by my brother's steps Had been impressed. To sojourn a short while Beneath my roof, he from the barren seas Had newly come-a cherished visitant! And much did it delight me to perceive That to this opportune recess allured, He had surveyed it with a finer eye,
A heart more wakeful; that, more loth to part From place so lovely, he had worn the track By pacing here, unwearied and alone,
In that habitual restlessness of foot
With which the sailor measures o'er and o'er His short domain upon the vessel's deck, While she is travelling through the dreary sea.
When thou hadst quitted Esthwaite's pleasant shore, And taken thy first leave of those green hills And rocks that were the playground of thy youth, Year followed year, my brother! and we two, Conversing not, knew little in what mould Each other's minds were fashioned; and at length, When once again we met in Grasmere Vale, Between us there was little other bond Than common feelings of fraternal love. But thou, a school-boy, to the sea hadst carried Undying recollections. Nature there
Was with thee; she who loved us both, she still Was with thee; and even so didst thou become A silent poet; from the solitude
Of the vast sea didst bring a watchful heart Still couchant, an inevitable ear,
And an eye practised like a blind man's touch. Back to the joyless ocean thou art gone; And now I call the pathway by thy name, And love the fir-grove with a perfect love. Thither do I withdraw when cloudless suns Shine hot, or wind blows troublesome and strong: And there I sit at evening, when the steep Of Silver How, and Grasmere's placid lake, And one green island, gleam between the stems Of the dark firs, a visionary scene;
And, while I gaze upon the spectacle
Of clouded splendour, on this dream-like sight Of solemn loveliness, I think on thee,
My brother, and on all which thou hast lost. Nor seldom, if I rightly guess, while thou, Muttering the verses which I muttered first Among the mountains, through the midnight watch Art pacing to and fro the vessel's deck
In some far region, here, while o'er my head, At every impulse of the moving breeze, The fir-grove murmurs with a sea-like sound, Alone I tread this path-for aught I know, Timing my steps to thine; and, with a store Of undistinguishable sympathies,
Mingling most earnest wishes for the day When we, and others whom we love, shall meet A second time, in Grasmere's happy vale.*
WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL, UPON A STONE, THE LARGEST OF A HEAP LYING NEAR A DESERTED QUARRY, UPON ONE OF THE ISLANDS AT RYDALE.
STRANGER! this hillock of misshapen stones
Is not a ruin of the ancient time,
Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the cairn
Of some old British chief: 'tis nothing more
Than the rude embryo of a little dome
Or pleasure-house, once destined to be built
Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle.
But, as it chanced, Sir William having learned
*This wish was not granted; the lamented person, not long after, perished by shipwreck, in discharge of his duty, as commander of the Hon. East India Company's vessel the Earl of Abergavenny.
That from the shore a full-grown man might wade, And make himself a freeman of this spot At any hour he chose, the knight forthwith 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
Of the intended pile, which would have been Some quaint old 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
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 red breast hop from stone to stone.
WRITTEN WITH A SLATE-PENCIL, ON A STONE, ON THE SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN OF BLACK COMB, CUMBERLAND.
STAY, bold adventurer; rest awhile thy limbs On this commodious seat! for much remains Of hard ascent before thou reach the top
Of this huge eminence-from blackness named- And, to far-travelled storms of sea and lard, A favourite spot of tournament and war! But thee may no such boist'rous visitants Molest; may gentle breezes fan thy brow: And neither cloud conceal, nor misty air Bedim, the grand terraqueous spectacle, From centre to circumference, unveiled! Know, if thou grudge not to prolong thy rest, That, on the summit whither thou art bound, A geographic labourer pitched his tent, With books supplied and instruments of art, To measure height and distance; lonely task, Week after week pursued! To him was given Full many a glimpse (but sparingly bestowed
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