But, as chanced, a Cottage-maiden
(Ten years scarcely had she told)
Seeing, plunged into the torrent,
Clasped the Lamb and kept her hold.

Whirled adown the rocky channel,
Sinking, rising, on they go,

Peace and rest, as seems, before them
Only in the lake below.

Oh! it was a frightful current

Whose fierce wrath the Girl had braved;
Clap your hands with joy, my Hearers,
Shout in triumph, both are saved;

Saved by courage that with danger
Grew, by strength the gift of love,
And belike a guardian angel

Came with succour from above.

PART II.

Now, to a maturer Audience,
Let me speak of this brave Child
Left among her native mountains
With wild Nature to run wild.

So, unwatched by love maternal,
Mother's care no more her guide,
Fared this little bright-eyed Orphan
Even while at her father's side.

moreland family for some hundred years. They belong to the "gentry of the soil," and have been parish clerks in Grasmere for generations. One of them was the tenant of the Swan Inn referred to in The Waggoner-the host who painted, with his own hand, the “famous swan," used as a sign. (See Vol. III., p. 80).

The story of The Blind Highland Boy, which gave rise to the poem bearing that name, was told to Wordsworth by one of these Mackereths of Grasmere. (See the Fenwick note, Vol. II., p. 368.)—ED.

Spare your blame,-remembrance makes him

Loth to rule by strict command;

Still upon his cheek are living
Touches of her infant hand,

Dear caresses given in pity,
Sympathy that soothed his grief,
As the dying mother witnessed
To her thankful mind's relief.

Time passed on; the Child was happy,
Like a Spirit of air she moved,
Wayward, yet by all who knew her
For her tender heart beloved.

Scarcely less than sacred passions,
Bred in house, in grove, and field,
Link her with the inferior creatures,
Urge her powers their rights to shield.

Anglers, bent on reckless pastime,
Learn how she can feel alike

Both for tiny harmless minnow

And the fierce and sharp-toothed pike.

Merciful protectress, kindling
Into anger or disdain;

Many a captive hath she rescued,
Others saved from lingering pain

Listen yet awhile;-with patience
Hear the homely truths I tell,
She in Grasmere's old church-steeple
Tolled this day the passing-bell.

Yes, the wild Girl of the mountains
To their echoes gave the sound,
Notice punctual as the minute,
Warning solemn and profound.

She, fulfilling her sire's office,
Rang alone the far-heard knell,
Tribute, by her hand, in sorrow,
Paid to One who loved her well.
When his spirit was departed
On that service she went forth;
Nor will fail the like to render
When his corse is laid in earth. 1

What then wants the Child to temper,
In her breast, unruly fire,

To control the froward impulse

And restrain the vague desire ?

Easily a pious training

And a stedfast outward power

Would supplant the weeds and cherish,
In their stead, each opening flower.

Thus the fearless Lamb-deliv'rer,
Woman-grown, meek-hearted, sage,
May become a blest example

Watchful as a wheeling eagle,

Constant as a soaring lark,

Should the country need a heroine,

She might prove our Maid of Arc.

Leave that thought; and here be uttered
Prayer that Grace divine may raise

Her humane courageous spirit

Up to heaven, thro' peaceful ways.

1

1845.

must lie in earth.

MS.

Compare Grace Darling, p. 136.-ED.

WELL have yon Railway Labourers to THIS ground
Withdrawn for noontide rest. They sit, they walk
Among the Ruins, but no idle talk

Is heard; to grave demeanour all are bound;
And from one voice a Hymn with tuneful sound
Hallows once more the long-deserted Quire,*
And thrills the old sepulchral earth, around.
Others look up, and with fixed eyes admire

That wide-spanned arch, wondering how it was raised,
To keep, so high in air, its strength and grace :
All seem to feel the spirit of the place,
And by the general reverence God is praised:
Profane Despoilers, stand ye not reproved,

While thus these simple-hearted men are moved?
June 21st, 1845.

Imagination needs must stir;

Dear Maid, this truth believe,
Minds that have nothing to confer
Find little to perceive.

Be pleased that nature made thee fit
To feed my heart's devotion,
By laws to which all Forms submit

In sky, air, earth, and ocean.

See the note to the previous sonnet on Furness Abbey, p. 547.—ED.

WHAT heavenly smiles! O Lady mine
Through my very heart they shine;
And, if my brow gives back their light,
Do thou look gladly on the sight;
As the clear Moon with modest pride
Beholds her own bright beams
Reflected from the mountain's side

And from the headlong streams.

TO A LADY,

IN ANSWER TO A REQUEST THAT I WOULD WRITE HER A POEM UPON SOME THAT SHE HAD MADE OF FLOWERS IN THE ISLAND OF

DRAWINGS

MADEIRA.

Comp. 1845.

Pub. 1845.

FAIR Lady! can I sing of flowers

That in Madeira bloom and fade,

I who ne'er sate within their bowers,

Nor through their sunny lawns have strayed?

How they in sprightly dance are worn

By Shepherd-groom or May-day queen,

Or holy festal pomps adorn,

These eyes have never seen.

Yet tho' to me the pencil's art

No like remembrances can give,
Your portraits still may reach the heart
And there for gentle pleasure live;
While Fancy ranging with free scope
Shall on some lovely Alien set
A name with us endeared to hope,
To peace, or fond regret.

Still as we look with nicer care,

Some new resemblance we may trace;
A Heart's-ease will perhaps be there,
A Speedwell may not want its place.