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And, to the sinner, mercifully bent;
So may I hope, if truly I repent

And meekly bear the ills which bear I must:
And you, my Offspring! that do still remain,
Yet may outstrip me in the appointed race,
If e'er, through fault of mine, in mutual pain
We breathed together for a moment's space,
The wrong, by love provoked, let love arraign,
And only love keep in your hearts a place.



"THOU look'st upon me, and dost fondly think,
Poet! that, stricken as both are by years,
We, differing once so much, are now Compeers,
Prepared, when each has stood his time, to sink
Into the dust. Erewhile a sterner link
United us; when thou, in boyish play,
Entering my dungeon, didst become a prey
To soul-appalling darkness. Not a blink
Of light was there; and thus did I, thy Tutor,
Make thy young thoughts acquainted with the


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While thou wert chasing the winged butterfly Through my green courts; or climbing, a bold suitor,

Up to the flowers whose golden progeny

Still round my shattered brow in beauty wave."



THE cattle, crowding round this beverage clear To slake their thirst, with reckless hoofs have trod The encircling turf into a barren clod,

Through which the waters creep, then disappear, Born to be lost in Derwent, flowing near;

Yet, o'er the brink, and round the limestone cell Of the pure spring, (they call it the "Nun's Well,” Name that first struck by chance my startled ear,) A tender Spirit broods, the pensive Shade

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Of ritual honors to this Fountain paid

By hooded Votaresses with saintly cheer;
Albeit oft the Virgin-mother mild

Looked down with pity upon eyes beguiled
Into the shedding of "too soft a tear."



(On the Banks of the Derwent.)

PASTOR and Patriot! at whose bidding rise
These modest walls, amid a flock that need,
For one who comes to watch them and to feed,
A fixed abode, — keep down presageful sighs.
Threats, which the unthinking only can despise,
Perplex the Church; but be thou firm, be true

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To thy first hope, and this good work pursue,
Poor as thou art. A welcome sacrifice
Dost thou prepare, whose sign will be the smoke
Of thy new hearth; and sooner shall its wreaths,
Mounting while earth her morning incense breathes,
From wandering fiends of air receive a yoke,
And straightway cease to aspire, than God disdain
This humble tribute as ill-timed or vain.



(Landing at the Mouth of the Derwent, Workington.)

DEAR to the Loves, and to the Graces vowed,
The Queen drew back the wimple that she wore ;
And to the throng, that on the Cumbrian shore
Her landing hailed, how touchingly she bowed!
And like a Star (that, from a heavy cloud
Of pine-tree foliage poised in air, forth darts,
When a soft summer gale at evening parts
The gloom that did its loveliness enshroud)
She smiled; but Time, the old Saturnian seer,
Sighed on the wing as her foot pressed the strand,
With step prelusive to a long array

Of woes and degradations hand in hand,-
Weeping captivity, and shuddering fear

Stilled by the ensanguined block of Fotheringay!




IF Life were slumber on a bed of down,
Toil unimposed, vicissitude unknown,
Sad were our lot: no hunter of the hare
Exults like him whose javelin from the lair
Has roused the lion; no one plucks the rose,
Whose proffered beauty in safe shelter blows
'Mid a trim garden's summer luxuries,

With joy like his who climbs, on hands and knees,
For some rare plant, yon Headland of St. Bees.

This independence upon oar and sail,
This new indifference to breeze or gale,
This straight-lined progress, furrowing a flat lea,
And regular as if locked in certainty,

Depress the hours. Up, Spirit of the storm!
That Courage may find something to perform;
That Fortitude, whose blood disdains to freeze
At Danger's bidding, may confront the seas,
Firm as the towering Headlands of St. Bees.

Dread cliff of Baruth! that wild wish may sleep, Bold as if men and creatures of the deep

Breathed the same element; too many wrecks Have struck thy sides, too many ghastly decks Hast thou looked down upon, that such a thought Should here be welcome, and in verse enwrought: With thy stern aspect better far agrees

Utterance of thanks, that we have past with ease, As millions thus shall do, the Headlands of St. Bees.

Yet, while each useful Art augments her store,
What boots the gain if Nature should lose more?
And Wisdom, as she holds a Christian place
In man's intelligence sublimed by grace?
When Bega sought of yore the Cumbrian coast,
Tempestuous winds her holy errand crossed:
She knelt in prayer,
- the waves their wrath ap-


And from her vow, well weighed in Heaven's de


Rose, where she touched the strand, the Chantry of St. Bees.

"Cruel of heart were they, bloody of hand,"
Who in these wilds then struggled for command;
The strong were merciless, without hope the weak;
Till this bright Stranger came, fair as daybreak,
And as a cresset true that darts its length
Of beamy lustre from a tower of strength;
Guiding the mariner through troubled seas,
And cheering oft his peaceful reveries,

Like the fixed Light that crowns yon Headland of
St. Bees.

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