A little daring would-be waterfall,

180

One chimney smoking and its azure wreath,
Associate all in the calm Pool beneath,
With here and there a faint imperfect gleam
Of water-lilies veiled in misty steam-
What wonder at this hour of stillness deep,
A shadowy link 'tween wakefulness and sleep,
When Nature's self, amid such blending, seems
To render visible her own soft dreams,

186

If, mixed with what appeared of rock, lawn, wood,

190

Fondly embosomed in the tranquil flood,
A glimpse I caught of that Abode, by Thee
Designed to rise in humble privacy,
A lowly Dwelling, here to be outspread,
Like a small Hamlet, with its bashful head
Half hid in native trees. Alas 'tis not,
Nor ever was; I sighed, and left the spot
Unconscious of its own untoward lot,
And thought in silence, with regret too keen,
Of unexperienced joys that might have been;
Of neighbourhood and intermingling arts,
And golden summer days uniting cheerful

hearts.

But time, irrevocable time, is flown,

195

200

And let us utter thanks for blessings sown
And reaped-what hath been, and what is, our

own.

Not far we travelled ere a shout of glee, Startling us all, dispersed my reverie; Such shout as many a sportive echo meeting 205 Oft-times from Alpine chalets sends a greeting. Whence the blithe hail? behold a Peasant stand On high, a kerchief waving in her hand! Not unexpectant that by early day

Our little Band would thrid this mountain way,

211

Before her cottage on the bright hill side
She hath advanced with hope to be descried.
Right gladly answering signals we displayed,
Moving along a tract of morning shade,
And vocal wishes sent of like good will
To our kind Friend high on the sunny hill-
Luminous region, fair as if the prime
Were tempting all astir to look aloft or climb;
Only the centre of the shining cot

215

With door left open makes a gloomy spot, 220 Emblem of those dark corners sometimes found Within the happiest breast on earthly ground.

Rich prospect left behind of stream and vale, And mountain-tops, a barren ridge we scale; Descend and reach, in Yewdale's depths, a plain With haycocks studded, striped with yellowing

grain

An area level as a Lake and spread

Under a rock too steep for man to tread,

226

Hot sunbeams fill the steaming vale; but hark, At our approach, a jealous watch-dog's bark, Noise that brings forth no liveried Page of state, But the whole household, that our coming

wait.

235

With Young and Old warm greetings we exchange,

And jocund smiles, and toward the lowly Grange Press forward by the teasing dogs unscared. Entering, we find the morning meal prepared : So down we sit, though not till each had cast 240 Pleased looks around the delicate repast—

Rich cream, and snow-white eggs fresh from

the nest,

With amber honey from the mountain's breast; Strawberries from lane or woodland, offering wild

245

Of children's industry, in hillocks piled;
Cakes for the nonce, and butter fit to lie
Upon a lordly dish; frank hospitality
Where simple art with bounteous nature vied,
And cottage comfort shunned not seemly pride.

Kind Hostess! Handmaid also of the feast,
If thou be lovelier than the kindling East, 251
Words by thy presence unrestrained may speak
Of a perpetual dawn from brow and cheek
Instinct with light whose sweetest promise lies,
Never retiring, in thy large dark eyes,
Dark but to every gentle feeling true,
As if their lustre flowed from ether's purest blue.

255

Let me not ask what tears may have been wept By those bright eyes, what weary vigils kept, Beside that hearth what sighs may have been heaved

For wounds inflicted, nor what toil relieved
By fortitude and patience, and the grace
Of heaven in pity visiting the place.
Not unadvisedly those secret springs

260

266

I leave unsearched : enough that memory clings,
Here as elsewhere, to notices that make
Their own significance for hearts awake,
To rural incidents, whose genial powers
Filled with delight three summer morning
hours.

More could my pen report of grave or gay 270 That through our gipsy travel cheered the way; But, bursting forth above the waves, the Sun

Laughs at my pains, and seems to say, "Be done."

Yet, Beaumont, thou wilt not, I trust, reprove This humble offering made by Truth to Love, Nor chide the Muse that stooped to break a spell

Which might have else been on me yet:

276

FAREWELL.

UPON PERUSING THE FOREGOING
EPISTLE THIRTY YEARS AFTER ITS
COMPOSITION.

SOON did the Almighty Giver of all rest
Take those dear young Ones to a fearless nest;
And in Death's arms has long reposed the Friend
For whom this simple Register was penned.
Thanks to the moth that spared it for our eyes;
And Strangers even the slighted Scroll may
prize,

6

Moved by the touch of kindred sympathies.
For-save the calm repentance sheds o'er strife
Raised by remembrances of misused life,
The light from past endeavours purely willed 10
And by Heaven's favour happily fulfilled;
Save hope that we, yet bound to Earth, may
share

The joys of the Departed-what so fair
As blameless pleasure, not without some tears,
Reviewed through Love's transparent veil of
years?

1841.

15

Note.-LOUGHRIGG TARN, alluded to in the foregoing Epistle, resembles, though much smaller in compass, the Lake Nemi, or Speculum Diana as it is often called, not only in its clear waters and circular

form, and the beauty immediately surrounding it, but also as being overlooked by the eminence of Langdale Pikes as Lake Nemi is by that of Monte Calvo. Since this Epistle was written Loughrigg Tarn has lost much of its beauty by the felling of many natural clumps of wood, relics of the old forest, particularly upon the farm called "The Oaks," from the abundance of that tree which grew there.

It is to be regretted, upon public grounds, that Sir George Beaumont did not carry into effect his intention of constructing here a Summer Retreat in the style I have described; as his taste would have set an example how buildings, with all the accommodations modern society requires, might be introduced even into the most secluded parts of this country without injuring their native character. The design was not abandoned from failure of inclination on his part, but in consequence of local untowardness which need not be particularised,

II.

GOLD AND SILVER FISHES IN A VASE.

THE soaring lark is blest as proud
When at heaven's gate she sings;
The roving bee proclaims aloud
Her flight by vocal wings;

While Ye, in lasting durance pent,
Your silent lives employ

For something more than dull content,
Though haply less than joy.

Yet might your glassy prison seem
A place where joy is known,
Where golden flash and silver gleam
Have meanings of their own;
While, high and low, and all about,
Your motions, glittering Elves!
Ye weave-no danger from without,
And peace among yourselves.

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