That flowers themselves, whate'er their hue,
With all their fragrance, all their glistening,
Call to the heart for inward listening,—
And though for bridal wreaths and tokens true
Welcomed wisely; though a growth

Which the careless shepherd sleeps on,

As fitly spring from turf the mourner weeps on, And without wrong are cropped the marble tonib

to strew.

The Charm is over; the mute Phantoms gone,
Nor will return;—but droop not, favored Youth;
The apparition that before thee shone
Obeyed a summons covetous of truth.

From these wild rocks thy footsteps I will guide
To bowers in which thy fortune may be tried,
And one of the bright Three become thy happy
Bride.

XLI.

1928.

THE WISHING-GATE.

In the vale of Grasmere, by the side of the old highway leading to Ambleside, is a gate, which, time out of mind, has been called the Wishing-gate, from a belief that wishes formed or indulged there have a favorable issue.

HOPE rules a land for ever green :

All powers that serve the bright-eyed Queen Are confident and gay;

Clouds at her bidding disappear;

Points she to aught?-the bliss draws near And Fancy smooths the way.

Not such the land of Wishes, there Dwell fruitless day-dreams, lawless prayer,

And thoughts with things at strife;

Yet how forlorn, should ye depart,

Ye superstitions of the heart,

How poor, were human life!

When magic lore abjured its might,
Ye did not forfeit one dear right,
One tender claim abate;
Witness this symbol of your sway,
Surviving near the public way,
The rustic Wishing-gate!

Inquire not if the Faery race
Shed kindly influence on the place,
Ere northward they retired;

If here a warrior left a spell,
Panting for glory as he fell;

Or here a saint expired.

Enough that all around is fair,
Composed with Nature's finest care,
And in her fondest love,-

Peace to embosom and content,

To overawe the turbulent,

The selfish to reprove.

Yea! even the Stranger from afar,
Reclining on this moss-grown bar,
Unknowing, and unknown,

The infection of the ground partakes,
Longing for his Beloved, -

All happiness her own.

who makes

Then why should conscious Spirits fear
The mystic stirrings that are here,
The ancient faith disclaim?
The local Genius ne'er befriends
Desires whose course in folly ends,
Whose just reward is shame.

Smile if thou wilt, but not in scorn,
If some, by ceaseless pains outworn,
Here crave an easier lot;

If some have thirsted to renew
A broken vow, or bind a true,
With firmer, holier knot.

And not in vain, when thoughts are cast Upon the irrevocable past,

Some Penitent sincere

May for a worthier future sigh,

While trickles from his downcast eye

No unavailing tear.

The Worldling, pining to be freed
From turmoil, who would turn or speed
The current of his fate,

Might stop before this favored scene,
At Nature's call, nor Blush to lean
Upon the Wishing-gate.

The Sage, who feels how blind, how weak
Is man, though loth such help to seek,
Yet, passing, here might pause,

And thirst for insight to allay
Misgiving, while the crimson day
In quietness withdraws;

Or when the church-clock's knell profound
To Time's first step across the bound
Of midnight makes reply;
Time pressing on with starry crest,
To filial sleep upon the breast
Of dread eternity.

XLII.

1825

THE WISHING-GATE DESTROYED.

"T IS gone,

with old belief and dream

That round it clung, and tempting scheme

Released from fear and doubt;

And the bright landscape too must lie,

By this blank wall from every eye
Relentlessly shut out.

Bear witness, ye who seldom passed

That opening, but a look ye cast
Upon the lake below,

What spirit-stirring power it gained

From faith which here was entertained,
Though reason might say no.

Blest is that ground, where, o'er the springs Of history, Glory claps her wings,

Fame sheds the exulting tear;

Yet earth is wide, and many a nook
Unheard of is, like this, a book

For modest meanings dear.

It was in sooth a happy thought
That grafted, on so fair a spot,
So confident a token

Of coming good; the charm is fled;
Indulgent centuries spun a thread,

Which one harsh day has broken.

Alas for him who gave the word!
Could he no sympathy afford,

Derived from earth or heaven,
To hearts so oft by hope betrayed,
Their very wishes wanted aid

Which here was freely given?

Where, for the love-lorn maiden's wound,

Will now so readily be found

A balm of expectation?