XXI. 1830. [I HAVE reason to remember the day that gave rise to this Sonnet, the 6th of November, 1830. Having undertaken, a great feat for me, to ride my daughter's pony from Westmoreland to Cambridge, that she might have the use of it while on a visit to her uncle at Trinity Lodge, on my way from Bakewell to Matlock I turned aside to Chatsworth, and had scarcely gratified my curiosity by the sight of that celebrated place before there came on a severe storm of wind and rain which continued till I reached Derby, both man and pony in a pitiable plight. For myself, I went to bed at noon-day. In the course of that journey I had to encounter a storm worse if possible, in which the pony could (or would) only make his way slantwise. I mention this merely to add that notwithstanding this battering I composed, on horseback, the lines to the memory of Sir George Beaumont, suggested during my recent visit to Coleorton.] CHATSWORTH! thy stately mansion, and the pride Yet He whose heart in childhood gave her troth XXII. A TRADITION OF OKER HILL IN DARLEY DALE, DERBYSHIRE. [THIS pleasing tradition was told me by the coachman at whose side I sate while he drove down the dale, he pointing to the trees on the hill as he related the story.] 'Tis said that to the brow of yon fair hill Two Brothers clomb, and, turning face from face, Down from the far-seen mount. No blast might kill That to itself takes all, Eternity. XXIII. FILIAL PIETY. (ON THE WAYSIDE BETWEEN PRESTON AND LIVERPOOL.) [THIS was also communicated to me by a coachman in the same way. In the course of my many coach rambles and journeys, which, during the day-time always and often in the night, were taken on the outside of the coach, I had good and frequent opportunities of learning the characteristics of this class of men. One remark I made that is worth recording; that whenever I had occasion especially to notice their well-ordered, respectful and kind behaviour to women, of whatever age, I found them, I may say almost always, to be married men.] UNTOUCHED through all severity of cold; Upon his Father's memory, that his hands, Its waste. Though crumbling with each breath of air, Rude Mausoleum! but wrens nestle there, And red-breasts warble when sweet sounds are rare. XXIV. TO THE AUTHOR'S PORTRAIT. [Painted at Rydal Mount, by W. Pickersgill, Esq., for St. John's College, Cambridge.] [THE six last lines of this Sonnet are not written for poetical effect, but as a matter of fact, which, in more than one instance, could not escape my notice in the servants of the house.] Go, faithful Portrait! and where long hath knelt XXV. [IN the month of January,—when Dora and I were walking from Town-end, Grasmere, across the vale, snow being on the ground, she espied, in the thick though leafless hedge, a bird's nest half filled with snow. Out of this comfortless appearance VOL. II. AA arose this Sonnet, which was, in fact, written without the least WHY art thou silent! Is thy love a plant XXVI. TO B. R. HAYDON, ON SEEING HIS PICTURE OF NAPOLEON [THIS Sonnet, though said to be written on seeing the Portrait of Napoleon, was, in fact, composed some time after, extempore, in the wood at Rydal Mount.] HAYDON! let worthier judges praise the skill |