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The social rights of man breathe purer

Religion deepens her preventive care;
Then, moved by needless fear of past abuse,
Strike not from Law's firm hand that awful rod,
But leave it thence to drop for lack of use:
Oh, speed the blessed hour, Almighty God!



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THE formal World relaxes her cold chain
For One who speaks in numbers; ampler scope
His utterance finds; and, conscious of the gain,
Imagination works with bolder hope
The cause of grateful reason to sustain;
And, serving Truth, the heart more strongly beats
Against all barriers which his labour meets
In lofty place, or humble Life's domain.
Enough ;-before us lay a painful road,
And guidance have I sought in duteous love
From Wisdom's heavenly Father. Hence hath flowed
Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the way
Each takes in this high matter, all may move
Cheered with the prospect of a brighter day.








(This poem, opened when first written, with a paragraph that has

been transferred as an introduction to the first series of my Scotch Memorials. The journey, of which the first part is here described, was from Grasmere to Bootle on the south-west coast of Cumberland, the whole among mountain roads through a beautiful country, and we had fine weather. The verses end with our breakfast at the head of Yewdale in a yeoman's house, which, like all the other property in that sequestered vale, has passed or is passing into the hands of Mr. James Marshall of Monk Coniston,-in Mr. Knott's, the late owner's, time called Waterhead. Our hostess married a Mr. Oldfield, a lieutenant in the Navy : they lived together for some time at Hacket, where she still resides as his widow. It was in front of that house, on the mountain side, near which stood the peasant who, while we were passing at a distance, saluted us, waving a kerchief in her hand as described in the poem. (This matron and her husband were then residing at the Hacket. The

house and its inmates are referred to in the fifth book of the “Excursion,” in the passage beginning,

“ You behold,
High on the breast of yon dark mountain, dark

With stony barrenness, a shining speck.”—J. C.) The dog which we met with soon after our starting belonged to Mr. Rowlandson, who for forty years was curate of Grasmere in place of the rector who lived to extreme old age in a state of insanity. Of this Mr. R. much might be said both with reference to his character, and the way in which he was regarded by his parishioners. He was a man of a robust frame,

with age.

had a firm voice and authoritative manner, of strong natural talents, of which he was himself conscious, for he has been heard to say (it grieves me to add) with an oath-"If I had been brought up at college I should have been a bishop Two vices used to struggle in him for mastery, avarice and the love of strong drink : but avarice, as is common in like cases, always got the better of its opponent; for, though he was often intoxicated, it was never I believe at his own expense. As has been said of one in a more exalted station, he would take any given quantity. I have heard a story of him which is worth the telling. One summer's morning, our Grasmele curate, after a night's carouse in the vale of Langdale, on his return home, baving reached a point near which the whole of the vale of Grasmere might be seen with the lake immediately below him, stepped aside and sat down on the turf. After looking for some time at the landscape, then in the perfectior of its morning beauty, he exclaimed—“Good God, that I should have led so long such a life in such a place !"_This un doubt was deeply felt by him at the time, but I am not authorised to say that any noticeable amendment followed. Penuriousness strengthened upon him as his body grew feebler

He had purchased property and kept some land in his own hands, but he could not find in his heart to lay out the necessary hire for labourers at the proper season, and consequently he has often been seen in half-dotage working his hay in the month of November by moonlight, a melancholy sight which I myself have witnessed. Notwithstanding all that has been said, this man, on account of his talents and superior education, was looked up to by his parishioners, who without a single exception lived at that time (and most of them upon their own small inheritances) in a state of republican equality, a condition favorable to the growth of kindly feelings among them, and in a striking degree exclusive to temptations to gross vice and scandalous behaviour. As a pastor their curate did little or nothing for them; but what could more strikingly set forth the efficacy of the Church of England through its Ordinances and Liturgy than that, in spite of the unworthiness of the minister, his church was regularly attended ; and, though there was not much appearance in his flock of what might be called animated piety, intoxication was rare, and dissolute morals unknown. With the Bible they were for the most part well acquainted ; and, as was strikingly shown when they were under affliction, must have been supported and comforted by habitual belief in those truths wbich it is the aim of the Church to inculcate.---Loughrigg Tarn. This beautiful pool and the surrounding scene are minutely de. scribed in my little Book on the Lakes. Sir G. H. Beauinont,

in the earlier part of his life, was induced, by his love of nature
and the art of painting, to take up his abode at Old Brathay,
about three miles from this spot, so that he must bave seen it
under many aspects; and he was so much pleased with it that
he purchased the Tarn with a view to build, near it, such a
residence as is alluded to in this Epistle. Baronets and knights
were not so common in that day as now, and Sir Michael le
Fleming, Lot liking to have a rival in that kind of distinction
so near lim, claimed a sort of lordship over the territory, and
showed dispositions little in unison with those of Sir G. Beau-
mont, who was eminently a lover of peace. The project of
building was in consequence given up, Sir George retaining
possession of the Tarn. Many years afterwards a Kendal
tradesman born upon its banks applied to me for the purchase
of it, and accordingly it was sold for the sum that had been
given for it, and the money was laid out under my direction
upon a substantial oak fence for a certain number of yew trees
to be planted in Grasmere church-yard ; two were planted in
each enclosure, with a view to remove, after a certain time, the
one which throve the least. After several years, the stouter
plant being left, the others were taken up and placed in other
parts of the same church-yard, and were adequately fenced at
the expense and under the care of the late Mr. Barber, Mr.
Greenwood, and myself : the whole eight are now thriving, and
are already an ornament to a place which, during late years,
has lost much of its rustic simplicity by the introduction of iron
palisades to fence off family burying-grounds, and by numerous:
monuments, some of them in very bad taste; from which this
place of burial was in my memory quite free. See the lines in
the sixth book of the “Excursion” beginning—“Green is the
church-yard, beautiful and green.” The “Epistle” to which
these notes refer, though written so far back as 1804, was
carefully revised so late as 1842, previous to its publication.
I am loth to add, that it was never seen by the person to whom:
it is addressed. So sensible am I of the deficiencies in all
that I write, and so far does everything that I attempt fall
short of what I wisb it to be, that even private publication, if
such a term may be allowed, requires more resolution than I
can command. I have written to give vent to my own mind,
and not without hope that, some time or other, kindred minds
might benefit by my labours : but I am inclined to believe I
should never have ventured to send forth any verses of mine to the
world if it had not been done on the pressure of personal
occasions. Had I been a rich man, my productions, like this

Epistle," the tragedy of the “Borderers,” &c., would most likely have been confined to manuscript.]

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Far from our home by Grasmere's quiet Lake,
From the Vale's peace which all her fields partake,
Here on the bleakest point of Cumbria's shore
We sojourn stunned by Ocean's ceaseless roar;
While, day by day, grim neighbour! huge Black Comb
Frowns deepening visibly his native gloom,
Unless, perchance rejecting in despite
What on the Plain we have of warmth and light,
In his own storms he hides himself from sight.
Rough is the time; and thoughts, that would be free
From heaviness, oft fly, dear Friend, to thee;
Turn from a spot where neither sheltered road
Nor hedge-row screen invites my steps abroad;
Where one poor Plane-tree, having as it might
Attained a stature twice a tall man's height,
Hopeless of further growth, and brown and sere
Through half the summer, stands with top cut sheer,
Like an unshifting weathercock which proves
How cold the quarter that the wind best loves,
Or like a Centinel that, evermore
Darkening the window, ill defends the door
Of this unfinished house-a Fortress bare,
Where strength has been the Builder's only care;
Whose rugged walls may still for years demand
The final polish of the Plasterer's hand.

— This Dwelling's Inmate more than three weeks'space
And oft a Prisoner in the cheerless place,
I-of whose touch the fiddle would complain,
Whose breath would labour at the fute in vain,
In music all unversed, nor blessed with skill
A bridge to copy, or to paint a mill,


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