Bathed duteously her wayworn feet,

Prevented each desire:

The cricket chirped, the house-dog dozed,
And on that simple bed,
Where she in childhood had reposed,
Now rests her weary head.

When she, whose couch had been the sod,
Whose curtain, pine or thorn,
Had breathed a sigh of thanks to God,
Who comforts the forlorn;
While over her the Matron bent

Sleep sealed her eyes, and stole
Feeling from limbs with travel spent,
And trouble from the soul.

Refreshed, the Wanderer rose at morn,
And soon again was dight
In those unworthy vestments worn
Through long and perilous flight;
And "O beloved Nurse," she said,
"My thanks with silent tears

Have unto Heaven and You been paid:
Now listen to my fears!

"Have you forgot"-and here she smiled"The babbling flatteries

You lavished on me when a child
Disporting round your knees?

I was your lambkin, and your bird,
Your star, your gem, your flower;
Light words, that were more lightly heard
In many a cloudless hour!

"The blossom you so fondly praised
Is come to bitter fruit;

A mighty One upon me gazed;

I spurned his lawless suit,

And must be hidden from his wrath:
You, Foster-father dear,

Will guide me in my forward path;
I may not tarry here!

"I cannot bring to utter woe
Your proved fidelity."

"Dear Child, sweet Mistress, say not so!
For you we both would die."

“Nay, nay,

I come with semblance feigned And cheek embrowned by art; Yet, being inwardly unstained, With courage will depart."

could

you,

A poor Man's counsel take; The Holy Virgin gives to me

A thought for your dear sake;

Rest, shielded by our Lady's grace,
And soon shall you be led
Forth to a safe abiding-place,
Where never foot doth tread."

PART II.

THE dwelling of this faithful pair
In a straggling village stood,
For One who breathed unquiet air
A dangerous neighbourhood;
But wide around lay forest ground
With thickets rough and blind;
And pine-trees made a heavy shade
Impervious to the wind.

And there, sequestered from the sight,
Was spread a treacherous swamp,
On which the noonday sun shed light
As from a lonely lamp;

flec?

And midway in the unsafe morass,

A single Island rose

Of firm dry ground, with healthful grass
Adorned, and shady boughs.

The Woodman knew, for such the craft
This Russian vassal plied,

That never fowler's gun, nor shaf
Of archer, there was tried;
A sanctuary seemed the spot
From all intrusion free;

And there he planned an artful Cot
For perfect secrecy.

With earnest pains unchecked by dread
Of Power's far-stretching hand,
The bold good Man his labour sped,
At nature's pure command;
Heart-soothed, and busy as a wren,
While, in a hollow nook,

She moulds her sight-eluding den
Above a murmuring brook.
His task accomplished to his mind,
The twain ere break of day

Creep forth, and through the forest wind
Their solitary way;

Few words they speak, nor dare to slack
Their pace from mile to mile,

Till they have crossed the quaking marsh,
And reached the lonely Isle.

The sun above the pine-trees showed
A bright and cheerful face;
And Ina looked for her abode,

The promised hiding-place;

She sought in vain, the Woodman smiled;
No threshold could be seen,

Nor roof, nor window ;-all seemed wild
As it had ever been.

Advancing, you might guess an hour,
The front with such nice care
Is masked, "if house it be or bower,"
But in they entered are;

As shaggy as were wall and roof
With branches intertwined,

So smooth was all within, air-proof,
And delicately lined:

And hearth was there, and maple dish,
And cups in seemly rows,

And couch-all ready to a wish

For nurture or repose;

And Heaven doth to her virtue grant
That here she may abide

In solitude, with every want

By cautious love supplied.

No queen, before a shouting crowd,
Led on in bridal state,

E'er struggled with a heart so proud,
Entering her palace gate;
Rejoiced to bid the world farewell,
No saintly anchoress

E'er took possession of her cell
With deeper thankfulness.

"Father of all, upon thy care
And mercy am I thrown;

Be thou my safeguard !"-such her prayer
When she was left alone,
Kneeling amid the wilderness
When joy had passed away,
And smiles, fond efforts of distress
To hide what they betray!

The prayer is heard, the Saints have seen, Diffused through form and face, Resolves devotedly serene;

That monumental grace

Of Faith, which doth all passions tame
That Reason should control;

And shows in the untrembling frame
A statue of the soul.

PART III.

'Tis sung in ancient minstrelsy
That Phoebus wont to wear
The leaves of any pleasant tree
Around his golden hair;

Till Daphne, desperate with pursuit

Of his imperious love,

At her own prayer transformed, took root,

A laurel in the grove.

Then did the Penitent adorn

His brow with laurel green;

And 'mid his bright locks never shorn
No meaner leaf was seen.
And poets sage, through every age,
About their temples wound

The bay and conquerors thanked the Gods,
With laurel chaplets crowned.

Into the mists of fabling Time

So far runs back the praise

Of Beauty, that disdains to climb
Along forbidden ways;

That scorns temptation; power defies
Where mutual love is not;

And to the tomb for rescue flies
When life would be a blot.

To this fair Votaress, a fate

More mild doth Heaven ordain

Upon her Island desolate;

And words, not breathed in vain, Might tell what intercourse she found,

Her silence to endear;

What birds she tamed, what flowers the ground Sent forth her peace to cheer.

To one mute Presence, above all,

Her soothed affections clung,

A picture on the cabin wall

By Russian usage hung

The Mother-maid, whose countenance bright
With love abridged the day;
And, communed with by taper light,
Chased spectral fears away.

And oft, as either Guardian came,
The joy in that retreat

Might any common friendship shame,
So high their hearts would beat;
And to the lone Recluse, whate'er
They brought, each visiting
Was like the crowding of the year
With a new burst of spring.

But, when she of her Parents thought,
The pang was hard to bear;
And, if with all things not enwrought,
That trouble still is near.
Before her flight she had not dared
Their constancy to prove,

Too much the heroic Daughter feared
The weakness of their love.

Dark is the past to them, and dark
The future still must be,

Yet, when above the forest-glooms

The white swans southward passed, High as the pitch of their swift plumes Her fancy rode the blast;

And bore her toward the fields of France
Her Father's native land,
To mingle in the rustic dance,
The happiest of the band!

Of those beloved fields she oft
Had heard her Father tell

In phrase that now with echoes soft
Haunted her lonely cell;
She saw the hereditary bowers,

She heard the ancestral stream;
The Kremlin and its haughty towers
Forgotten like a dream!

PART IV.

THE ever-changing moon had traced
Twelve times her monthly round,
When through the unfrequented Waste
Was heard a startling sound;

A shout thrice sent from one who chased
At speed a wounded deer,
Bounding through branches interlaced,
And where the wood was clear.

The fainting creature took the marsh,
And toward the Island fled,

While plovers screamed with tumult harsh
Above his antlered head;

This, Ina saw; and, pale with fear,
Shrunk to her citadel;

The desperate deer rushed on, and near
The tangled covert fell.

Across the marsh, the game in view,

The Hunter followed fast,
For paused, till o'er the stag he blew
A death-proclaiming blast;
Then, testing on her upright mind,
Came forth the Maid-"In me
Behold," she said, "a stricken Hind
Pursued by destiny!

From

your deportment, Sir! I deem
That you have worn a sword,
And will not hold in light esteem
A suffering woman's word;
There is my covert, there perchance
I might have lain concealed,
My fortunes hid, my countenance
Not even to you revealed.
"Tears might be shed, and I might pray,
Crouching and terrified,

That what has been unveiled to-day,
You would in mystery hide;

But I will not defile with dust

The knee that bends to adore
The God in heaven;-attend, be just;
This ask I, and no more!

"I speak not of the winter's cold,
For summer's heat exchanged,
While I have lodged in this rough hold,
From social life estranged;

Nor yet of trouble and alarms:
High Heaven is my defence;
And every season has soft arms
For injured Innocence.

"From Moscow to the Wilderness
It was my choice to come,
Lest virtue should be harbourless,
And honour want a home;
And happy were I, if the Czar
Retain his lawless will,

To end life here like this poor deer,

Or a lamb on a green hill."

"Are you the Maid," the Stranger cried,
"From Gallic parents sprung,
Whose vanishing was rumoured wide
Sad theme for every tongue;
Who foiled an Emperor's eager quest?
You, Lady, forced to wear
These rude habiliments, and rest
Your head in this dark lair !"
But wonder, pity, soon were quelled;
And in her face and mien
The soul's pure brightness he beheld
Without a veil between:
He loved, he hoped,-a holy flame
Kindled 'mid rapturous tears;
The passion of a moment came
As on the wings of years.
"Such bounty is no gift of chance,"
Exclaimed he; "righteous Heaven,
Preparing your deliverance,

To me the charge hath given.
The Czar full oft in words and deeds
Is stormy and self-willed;

But, when the Lady Catherine pleads,
His violence is stilled.

"Leave open to my wish the course,
And I to her will go;

From that humane and heavenly source,
Good, only good, can flow."

Faint sanction given, the Cavalier
Was eager to depart

Though question followed question, dear
To the Maiden's filial heart.

Light was his step,-his hopes, more light,
Kept pace with his desires;

And the fifth morning gave him sight
Of Moscow's glittering spires.
He sued:-heart-smitten by the wrong,
To the lorn Fugitive

The Emperor sent a pledge as strong
As sovereign power could give.

O more than mighty change! If e'er
Amazement rose to pain,

331

And joy's excess produced a fear
Of something void and vain;
'Twas when the Parents, who had mourned
So long the lost as dead,
Beheld their only Child returned,

The household floor to tread.
Soon gratitude gave way to love
Within the Maiden's breast:
Delivered and Deliverer move
In bridal garments drest

Meek Catherine had her own reward;
The Czar bestowed a dower;
And universal Moscow shared
The triumph of that hour.

Flowers strewed the ground; the nuptial feast
Was held with costly state;

And there, 'mid many a noble guest,
The Foster-parents sate;
Encouraged by the imperial eye,
They shrank not into shade;
Great was their bliss, the honour high
To them and nature raid!
1830.

One wooed the silent Art with studious pains: These groves have heard the Other's pensive strains;

Devoted thus, their spirits did unite
By interchange of knowledge and delight.
May Nature's kindliest powers sustain the Tree,
And Love protect it from all injury !
And when its potent branches, wide out-thrown,
Darken the brow of this memorial Stone,
Here may some Painter sit in future days,
Some future Poet meditate his lays;
Not mindless of that distant age renowned
When Inspiration hovered o'er this ground,

BEAUMONT, BART., AND IN HIS NAME, FOR AN URN, PLACED BY HIM AT THE TERMINATION OF A NEWLY-PLANTED AVENUE, IN THE SAME GROUNDS.

YE Lime-trees, ranged before this hallowed Urn,

Shoot forth with lively power at Spring's re

turn;

And be not slow a stately growth to rear
Of pillars, branching off from year to year,
Till they have learned to frame a darksome
aisle ;-

That may recal to mind that awful Pile Where Reynolds, 'mid our country's noblest dead,

In the last sanctity of fame is laid.

shield

In civil conflict met on Bosworth-field;
And of that famous Youth, full soon removed
From earth, perhaps by Shakspeare's self
approved,

Fletcher's Associate, Jonson's Friend beloved.

II.

IN A GARDEN OF THE SAME.
OFT is the medal faithful to its trust
When temples, columns, towers, are laid in
dust;

And 'tis a common ordinance of fate
That things obscure and small outlive the great:
Hence, when yon mansion and the flowery trim
Of this fair garden, and its alleys dim,
And all its stately trees, are passed away,
This little Niche, unconscious of decay,
Perchance may still survive. And be it known
That it was scooped within the living stone,-
Not by the sluggish and ungrateful pains
Of labourer plodding for his daily gains,
But by an industry that wrought in love;
With help from female hands, that proudly

strove

sleep

Where Death and Glory a joint sabbath keep,
Yet not the less his Spirit would hold dear
Self-hidden praise, and Friendship's private

tear:

Hence, on my patrimonial grounds, have I
Raised this frail tribute to his memory;
From youth a zealous follower of the Art
That he professed; attached to him in heart;
Admiring, loving, and with grief and pride
Feeling what England lost when Reynolds died.

IV.

FOR A SEAT IN THE GROVES OF COLEORTON.

BENEATH yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound,
Rugged and high, of Charnwood's forest ground,
Stand yet, but, Stranger! hidden from thy view,
The ivied Ruins of forlorn GRACE DIEU;
Erst a religious House, which day and night
With hymns resounded, and the chanted rite:
And when those rites had ceased, the Spot gave
birth

To honourable Men of various worth:
There, on the margin of a streamlet wild,
Did Francis Beaumont sport, an eager child;

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL UPON A STONE IN

THE WALL OF THE HOUSE (AN OUT-HOUSE),

ON THE ISLAND AT GRASMERE.

RUDE is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen
Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained
Proportions more harmonious, and approached
To closer fellowship with ideal grace.
But take it in good part:-alas! the poor
Vitruvius of our village had no help
From the great City; never, upon leaves
Of red Morocco folio saw displayed,
In long succession, pre-existing ghosts
Of Beauties yet unborn-the rustic Lodge
Antique, and Cottage with verandah graced,
Nor lacking, for fit company, alcove,
Green-house, shell-grot, and moss-lined hermi
tage.

Thou see'st a homely Pile, yet to these walls
The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here
The new-dropped lamb finds shelter from the
wind.

And hither does one Poet sometimes row
His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled
With plenteous store of heath and withered
fern,

(A lading which he with his sickle cuts,
Among the mountains) and beneath this roof
He makes his summer couch, and here at noon
Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unshorn, the
Sheep,

Panting beneath the burthen of their wool,
Lie round him, even as if they were a part
Of his own Household: nor, while from his bed
He looks, through the open door-place, toward
the lake

And to the stirring breezes, does he want
Creations lovely as the work of sleep-
Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy!

VI.

WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL ON A STONE,
ON THE SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN OF BLACK
COMB.

STAY, bold Adventurer; rest awhile thy limbs
On this commodious Seat! for much remains
Of hard ascent before thou reach the top
Of this huge Eminence,-from blackness
named,

And, to far-travelled storms of sea and land,
A favourite spot of tournament and war!
But thee may no such boisterous visitants
Molest may gentle breezes fan thy brow:
And neither cloud conceal, nor misty air

wade,

And make himself a freeman of this spot
At any hour he chose, the prudent Knight
Desisted, and the quarry and the mound
Are monuments of his unfinished task.
The block on which these lines are traced,
perhaps,

Was once selected as the corner-stone

Of that intended Pile, which would have been
Some quaint odd plaything of elaborate skill,
So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush,
And other little builders who dwell here,
Had wondered at the work. But blame him
not,

For old Sir William was a gentle Knight,
Bred in this vale, to which he appertained
With all his ancestry. Then peace to him,
And for the outrage which he had devised
Entire forgiveness !-But if thou art one
On fire with thy impatience to become
An inmate of these mountains,-if, disturbed
By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn
Out of the quiet rock the elements

Of thy trim Mansion destined soon to blaze
In snow-white splendour,-think again; and,
taught

quarry,

leave

By old Sir William and his
Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose;
There let the vernal slow-worm sun himself,
And let the redbreast hop from stone to stone.

1800.