Bard of the Fleece, whose skilful genius made,
Beaumont it was thy wish that I should rear,
Before I see another day,

Before the world had passed her time of youth,
Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf,
Beguiled into forgetfulness of care,

Behold an emblem of our human mind,

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Behold a pupil of the monkish gown,
Behold her, single in the field, .
Behold, within the leafy shade,
Beloved Vale! I said, when I shall con,
Beneath the concave of an April sky,
Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed,
Beneath yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound,
Be this the chosen site; the virgin sod,
Between two sister moorland rills,
Bishops and Priests, blessed are ye, if deep,
Black Demons hovering o'er his mitred head, .
Bleak Season was it, turbulent and wild,
Blest is this Isle-ou
-our native Land,

Blest Statesman He, whose Mind's unselfish will,
Bold words affirmed, in days when faith was strong, .
Brave Schill! by death delivered, take thy flight,
Bright Flower! whose home is everywhere, .

Bright was the summer's noon when quickening steps,
Broken in fortune, but in mind entire,

But what if One, through grove or flowery mead,

But whence came they who for the Saviour Lord,
By a blest Husband guided, Mary came,

By antique Fancy trimmed-though lowly, bred,

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By Art's bold privilege Warrior and War-Horse stand,
By chain yet stronger must the Soul be tied,

By such examples moved to unbought pains, .
By their floating mill, .

By vain affections unenthralled,

VIII.

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Call not the royal Swede unfortunate,

Calm as an under-current, strong to draw,

Calm is all nature as a resting wheel,
Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to lose,
Calvert it must not be unheard by them,
Change me, some God, into that breathing rose,
Chatsworth thy stately mansion, and the pride,
Child of loud-throated War! the mountain Stream,
Child of the clouds ! remote from every taint,
Clarkson! it was an obstinate hill to climb,
Closing the sacred Book which long has fed,
Clouds, lingering yet, extend in solid bars,
Coldly we spake. The Saxons, overpowered,
Come ye-who, if (which Heaven avert !) the Land,
Companion! by whose buoyant Spirit cheered,
Complacent Fictions were they, yet the same,

Dark and more dark the shades of evening fell,
Darkness surrounds us; seeking, we are lost,
Days passed-and Monte Calvo would not clear,
Days undefiled by luxury or sloth,

Dear be the Church, that, watching o'er the needs,
Dear Child of Nature, let them rail, .

Dear fellow-travellers! think not that the Muse,

Dear native regions, I foretell,

i

Dear native regions, I foretell,

Dear Reliques! from a pit of vilest mould,

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Dear to the Loves, and to the Graces vowed, .
Deep is the lamentation! Not alone,
Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy Lord,
Departed Child! I could forget thee once,

114

Departing summer hath assumed,

Deplorable his lot who tills the ground,
Desire we past illusions to recal,

Desponding Father! mark this altered bough,
Despond who will-I heard a voice exclaim,
Destined to war from very infancy,
Did pangs of grief for lenient time too keen,
Discourse was deemed Man's noblest attribute,
Dishonoured Rock and Ruin! that, by law,
Dogmatic Teachers, of the snow-white fur,
Doomed as we are our native dust,

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Dread hour! when, upheaved by war's sulphurous blast,

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Emperors and Kings, how oft have temples rung,
England the time is come when thou should'st wean,

Ere yet our course was graced with social trees,

Even such the contrast that, where'er we move,

Even while I speak, the sacred roofs of France,

Fair Land! Thee all men greet with joy; how few,

Fair Prime of life! were it enough to gild,

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Fair Star of evening, Splendour of the west,
Fallen, and diffused into a shapeless heap,
Fame tells of groves-from England far away,
Fancy, who leads the pastimes of the glad,
Farewell, deep Valley, with thy one rude House,
Farewell, thou little nook of mountain-ground,
Far from my dearest friend, 'tis mine to rove,
Far from our home by Grasmere's quiet Lake,
Father! to God himself we cannot give,
Fear hath a hundred eyes, that all agree,
Feel for the wrongs to universal ken,

Festivals have I seen that were not names,

Five years have past; five summers, with the length,
Flattered with promise of escape,

Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale,
Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep,
For action born, existing to be tried,

Forbear to deem the Chronicler unwise,
For ever hallowed be this morning fair,
For gentlest uses, oft-times Nature takes,
Forgive, illustrious Country! these deep sighs,
Forth from a jutting ridge, around whose base,
For thirst of power that Heaven disowns,
Forth rushed from Envy sprung and Self-conceit,
For what contend the wise ?-for nothing less,
Four fiery steeds impatient of the rein,
From Bolton's old monastic tower,

From early youth I ploughed the restless Main,
From false assumption rose, and, fondly hailed,
From Little down to Least, in due degree,
From low to high doth dissolution climb,
From Nature doth emotion come, and moods,
From Rite and Ordinance abused they fled,
From Stirling Castle we had seen,
From that time forth, authority in France,
From the Baptismal hour, thro' weal and woe,
From the dark chambers of dejection freed,
From the fierce aspect of this River, throwing,
From the Pier's head, musing, and with increase,
From this deep chasm, where quivering sunbeams play,

Go, faithful Portrait ! and where long hath knelt,

Great men have been among us; hands that penned,

Greta, what fearful listening! when huge stones,
Grief, thou hast lost an ever-ready friend,
Grieve for the Man who hither came bereft, .

Had this effulgence disappeared,

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Hail, orient Conqueror of gloomy Night,
Hail to the crown by Freedom shaped-to gird,
Hail to the fields-with Dwellings sprinkled o'er,
Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour,
Hail, Virgin Queen! o'er many an envious bar,

Vol.

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Hail, Zaragoza! If with unwet eye,

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Happy the feeling from the bosom thrown,
Hard task! exclaim the undisciplined, to lean,
Hark! 'tis the Thrush, undaunted, undeprest,
Harmonious Powers with Nature work,

Harp! couldst thou venture, on thy boldest string,
Hast thou seen, with flash incessant,
Hast thou then survived,

Haydon! let worthier judges praise the skill,
Here closed the Tenant of that lonely vale,

Here Man more purely lives, less oft doth fall,
Here might I pause, and bend in reverence,
Here, on our native soil, we breathe once more,
Here on their knees men swore the stones were black,
Here pause the poet claims at least this praise,

Here stood an Oak, that long had borne affixed,
Here, where, of havoc tired and rash undoing,
Her eyes are wild, her head is bare,
Her only pilot the soft breeze, the boat,
"High bliss is only for a higher state,"

High deeds, O Germans, are to come from you,

High in the breathless hall the Minstrel sate,
High is our calling, Friend!-Creative Art,

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High on a broad unfertile tract of forest-skirted Down,

Homeward we turn. Isle of Columba's Cell, .

How art thou named? In search of what strange land,

How blest the Maid whose heart-yet free,
How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright,
How disappeared he? Ask the newt and toad,
How fast the Marian death-list is unrolled,

How shall I paint thee?-Be this naked stone,