Was rescued by the Bard: 1880. IX. [THE walk is what we call the Far-terrace, beyond the summerhouse at Rydal Mount. The lines were written when we were afraid of being obliged to quit the place to which we were so much attached.] THE massy Ways, carried across these heights Shall he frequent these precincts; locked no more Here will he gather stores of ready bliss, As from the beds and borders of a garden Than kindred wishes mated suitably 1826. X. INSCRIPTIONS SUPPOSED TO BE FOUND IN AND NEAR A HERMIT'S CELL. 1818. I. HOPES what are they ?-Beads of morning Strung on slender blades of grass; Or a spider's web adorning In a strait and treacherous pass. What are fears but voices airy ? Till the fatal bolt is shot! What is glory ?-in the socket See how dying tapers fare! What is pride ?-a whizzing rocket That would emulate a star. What is friendship ?-do not trust her, What is truth ?- —a staff rejected; Bright, as if through ether steering, Such is Joy-as quickly hidden, What is youth ?-a dancing billow, (Winds behind, and rocks before!) Age ?—a drooping, tottering willow On a flat and lazy shore. What is peace?-when pain is over, XI. INSCRIBED UPON A ROCK. [THE monument of ice here spoken of I observed while ascending the middle road of the three ways that lead from Rydal to Grasmere. It was on my right hand, and my eyes were upon it when it fell, as told in these lines.] II. PAUSE, Traveller! whosoe'er thou be Give voice to what my hand shall trace, I saw this Rock, while vernal air Unsullied did it meet the day, My fancy kindled as I gazed; But frost had reared the gorgeous Pile And, while I gazed, with sudden shock XII. [WHERE the second quarry now is, as you pass from Rydal to Grasmere, there was formerly a length of smooth rock that sloped towards the road, on the right hand. I used to call it Tadpole Slope, from having frequently observed there the water-bubbles gliding under the ice, exactly in the shape of that creature.] III. HAST thou seen, with flash incessant, Bubbles gliding under ice, Bodied forth and evanescent, No one knows by what device? Such are thoughts!-A wind-swept meadow Mimicking a troubled sea, Such is life; and death a shadow From the rock eternity! |