lifeless use into which mythology fell towards the close of the 17th century, and which continued through the 18th, disgusted the general reader with all allusion to it in modern verse; and though, in deference to this disgust, and also in a measure participating in it, I abstained in my earlier writings from all introduction of pagan fable, surely, even in its humble form, it may ally itself with real sentiment, as I can truly affirm it did in the present case.] AN I. age hath been when Earth was proud Of lustre too intense To be sustained; and Mortals bowed Who then, if Dian's crescent gleamed, And smooths her liquid breast-to show II. In youth we love the darksome lawn To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness. Lycoris (if such name befit Thee, thee my life's celestial sign!) Pleased with the harvest hope that runs Pleased while the sylvan world displays Its ripeness to the feeding gaze; Pleased when the sullen winds resound the knell Of the resplendent miracle. III. But something whispers to my heart That, as we downward tend, Lycoris! life requires an art To which our souls must bend; Then welcome, above all, the Guest Whose smiles, diffused o'er land and sea, Seem to recal the Deity Of youth into the breast: May pensive Autumn ne'er present A claim to her disparagement! While blossoms and the budding spray Still, as we nearer draw to life's dark goal, Be hopeful Spring the favourite of the Soul! 247 XXVI. TO THE SAME. [THIS as well as the preceding and the two that follow were composed in front of Rydal Mount and during my walks in the neighbourhood. Nine-tenths of my verses have been murmured out in the open air and here let me repeat what I believe has already appeared in print. One day a stranger having walked round the garden and grounds of Rydal Mount asked one of the female servants, who happened to be at the door, permission to see her master's study. "This," said she, leading him forward, "is my master's library where he keeps his books, but his study is out of doors." After a long absence from home it has more than once happened that some one of my cottage neighbours has said "Well, there he is; we are glad to hear him booing about again." Once more in excuse for so much egotism let me say, these notes are written for my familiar friends, and at their earnest request. Another time a gentleman whom James had conducted through the grounds asked him what kind of plants throve best there : after a little consideration he answered-"Laurels." is," said the stranger, "as it should be; don't you know that the laurel is the emblem of poetry, and that poets used on public occasions to be crowned with it.' James stared when the question was first put, but was doubtless much pleased with the information.] ENOUGH of climbing toil !—Ambition treads "That Here, as 'mid busier scenes, ground steep and rough, Or slippery even to peril! and each step, As we for most uncertain recompence Mount toward the empire of the fickle clouds, Unacceptable feelings of contempt, With wonder mixed-that Man could e'er be tied, And formal fellowship of petty things! -Oh! 'tis the heart that magnifies this life, The umbrageous woods are left-how far beneath! But lo! where darkness seems to guard the mouth Of yon wild cave, whose jaggèd brows are fringed With flaccid threads of ivy, in the still And sultry air, depending motionless. Mingling with night, such twilight to compose Drawn toward the centre whence those sighs creep Or, shutting up thyself within thyself, Of gentler thought, protracted till thine eye forth Be calm as water when the winds are gone, XXVII. SEPTEMBER, 1819. THE sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields Like a fair sister of the sky, Unruffled doth the blue lake lie, The mountains looking on. And, sooth to say, yon Vocal grove, For that from turbulence and heat 1817. |