'Cross the calm lake's blue shades the cliffs aspire,
With towers and woods, a " prospect all on fire;"
The coves and secret hollows, through a ray
Of fainter gold, a purple gleam betray.
The gilded turf arrays in richer green
Each speck of lawn the broken rocks between
Deep yellow beams the scattered boles illume.
Far in the level forest's central gloom'
Waving his hat, the shepherd, in the vale,
Directs his winding dog the cliffs to scale,-
That barking, busy 'mid the glittering rocks,
Hunts, where he points, the intercepted flocks.
Where oaks o'erhang the road the radiance shoots
On tawny earth, wild weeds, and twisted roots;
The druid-stones their lighted fane unfold;
And all the babbling brooks are liquid gold;
Sunk to a curve, the day-star lessens still,
Gives one bright glance, and drops behind the hill.*
In these lone vales, if aught of faith may claim,
Their silver hairs, and ancient hamlet fame,
When up the hills, as now, retreats the light,
Strange apparitions mock the village sight.

A desperate form appears that spurs his steed
Along the midway cliffs with violent speed;
Unhurt pursues his lengthened flight, while all
Attend, at every stretch, his headlong fall.
Anon, in order mounts, a gorgeous show
Of horsemen-shadows moving to and fro;
And now the van is gilt with evening's beam;

The rear through iron brown betrays a sullen gleam,
While silent stands the admiring crowd below,
Lost gradual o'er the heights in pomp they go,
Till, but the lonely beacon, all is fled

That tips with eve's latest gleam his spiry head.

Now, while the solemn evening shadows sail, On red slow-waving pinions, down the vale; And, fronting the bright west, in stronger lines, The oak its darkening boughs and foliage twines; How pleasant near the tranquil lake to stray Where winds the road along a secret bay, Along the "wild meandering shore" to view, Obsequious grace the winding swan pursue; He swells his lifted chest and backward flings His bridling neck beneath his tow'ring wings; On as he floats, the silvered waters glow, Proud of the varying arch and moveless form of snow, While tender cares and mild domestic loves With furtive watch pursue her as she moves, The female with a meeker charm succeeds, And her brown little-ones around her leads, Nibbling the water lilies as they pass, Or plying wanton with the floating grass.

She, in a mother's care, her beauty's pride
Forgets, unwearied watching every side;
Alternately they mount her back, and rest
Close by her mantling wings' embraces prest.

Long may they roam these hermit waves, that sleep
In birch-besprinkled cliffs embosomed deep,
These fairy holms untrodden, still, and green,
Whose shades protect the hidden wave serene,
Whence fragrance scents the water's desert gale,
The violet and lily of the vale!

Where, though her far-off twilight ditty steal,
They not the trip of harmless milk-maid feel;
Yon tuft conceals their home, their cottage bower;
Fresh water-rushes strew the verdant floor;
Long grass and willows form the woven wall,
And swings above the roof the poplar tall.
Thence issuing oft unwieldy as they stalk,

They crush with broad black feet their flowery walk;
Safe from your door ye hear at breezy morn
The hound, the horse's tread, and mellow horn;
No ruder sound your desert haunts invades
Than waters dashing wild, or rocking shades,
Ye ne'er, like hapless human wanderers, throw
Your young on winter's winding-sheet of snow.

Fair Swan! by all a mother's joys caressed,
Haply some wretch has eyed, and called thee blessed
I see her now, denied to lay her head,

On cold blue nights, in hut or straw-built shed,
Turn to a silent smile their sleepy cry,

By pointing to a shooting star on high.

-When low-hung clouds each star of summer hide,
And fireless are the valleys far and wide,
Where the brook brawls along the public road
Dark with bat-haunted ashes stretching broad,
Oft has she taught them on her lap to play
Delighted with the glowworm's harmless ray,
Toss light from hand to hand, while on the ground
Small circles of green radiance gleam around.

Oh! when the bitter showers her path assail,
And roars between the hills the torrent gale;
No more her breath can thaw their fingers cold,
Their frozen arms her neck no more can fold;
Weak roof a cowering form two babes to shield,
And faint the fire a dying heart can yield!
Press the sad kiss, fond mother! vainly fears
Thy flooded cheek to wet them with its tears;
No tears can chill them, and no bosom warm
Thy breast their death-bed, coffined in thine arms?
Sweet are the sounds that mingle from afar,
Heard by calm-lakes, as peeps the folding star,
Where the duck dabbles 'mid the rustling sedge,
And feeding pike starts from the water's edge,

Or the swan stirs the reeds, his neck and bill
Wetting, that drip upon the water still;
And heron, as resounds the trodden shore,
Shoots upward, darting his long neck before.

Now, with religious awe, the farewell light
Blends with the solemn colouring of night;

'Mid groves of clouds that crest the mountain's brow, And round the west's proud lodge their shadows throw, Like Una shining on her gloomy way,

The half-seen form of Twilight roams astray;
Shedding, through paly loop-holes mild and small,
Gleams that upon the lake's still bosom fall;
Soft o'er the surface creep those lustres pale
Tracking the fitful motions of the gale.
With restless interchange at once the bright
Wins on the shade, the shade upon the light.
No favoured eye was e'er allowed to gaze
On lovelier spectacle in fairy days;
When gentle Spirits urged a sportive chase,
Brushing with lucid wands the water's face;

While music, stealing round the glimmering deeps,
Charmed the tall circle of the enchanted steeps.
-The lights are vanished from the watery plains:
No wreck of all the pageantry remains.
Unheeded night has overcome the vales:
On the dark earth the baffled vision fails;
The latest lingerer of the forest train,

The lone black fir, forsakes the faded plain;
Last evening sight, the cottage smoke, no more,
Lost in the thickened darkness, glimmers hoar;
And, towering from the sullen dark-brown mere,
Like a black wall, the mountain-steeps appear.
-Now o'er the soothed accordant heart we feel
A sympathetic twilight slowly steal,
And ever, as we fondly muse, we find
The soft gloom deepening on the tranquil mind.
Stay! pensive, sadly-pleasing visions, stay!
Ah no as fades the vale, they fade away:
Yet still the tender, vacant gloom remains;
Still the cold cheek its shuddering tear retains.

The bird, who ceased, with fading light, to thread
Silent the hedge or steamy rivulet's bed,
From his gray re-appearing tower shall soon
Salute with boding note the rising moon,
Frosting with hoary light the pearly ground,
And pouring deeper blue to Ether's bound;
And pleased, her solemn pomp of clouds to fold
In robes of azure, fleecy-white, and gold.

See o'er the eastern hill, where darkness broods O'er all its vanished dells, and lawns, and woods; Where but a mass of shade the sight can trace She lifts in silence up her lovely face:

Above the gloomy valley flings her light,
Far to the western slopes with hamlets white;
And gives, where woods the chequered upland strew,
To the green corn of summer, autumn's hue.

Thus Hope, first pouring from her blessed horn
Her dawn, far lovelier than the moon's own morn,
"Till higher mounted, strives in vain to cheer
The weary hills, impervious, blackening near;
Yet does she still, undaunted, throw the while
On darling spots remote her tempting smile.

Even now she decks for me a distant scene,
(For dark and broad the gulf of time between)
Gilding that cottage with her fondest ray,
(Sole bourn, sole wish, sole object of my way;
How fair its lawns and sheltering woods appear!
How sweet its streamlet murmurs in mine ear!)
Where we, my Friend, to happy days shall rise,
"Till our small share of hardly-paining sighs
(For sighs will ever trouble human breath)
Creep hushed into the tranquil breast of death.

But now the clear bright Moon her zenith gains,
And, rimy without speck, extend the plains:
The deepest cleft the mountain's front displays
Scarce hides a shadow from her searching rays;
From the dark-blue faint silvery threads divide
The hills, while gleams below the azure tide;
The scene is wakened, yet its peace unbroke
By silvered wreaths of quiet charcoal smoke
That o'er the ruins of the fallen wood,
Steal down the hill, and spread along the flood.

The song of mountain-streams, unheard by day.
Now hardly heard, beguiles my homeward way.
All air is like the sleeping water, still,
List'ning the aerial music of the hill,
Broke only by the slow clock tolling deep,
Or shout that wakes the ferry-man from sleep,
The echoed hoof approaching the far shore,
Soon followed by his hollow parting oar,
Sound of closed gate, across the water borne,
Hurrying the feeding hare through rustling corn;
The tremulous sob of the complaining owl;
And at long intervals the mill-dog's howl;
The distant forge's swinging thump profound
Or yell in the deep woods of lonely hound.

1789.

LINES

WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENING.

How richly glows the water's breast
Before us, tinged with Evening hues,
While, facing thus the crimson west,
The Boat her silent course pursues!
And see how dark the backward stream!
A little moment past so smiling!
And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam,
Some other loiterers beguiling.

Such views the youthful Bard allure;
But, heedless of the following gloom,
He deems their colours shall endure
Till peace go with him to the tomb.
-And let him nurse his fond deceit,
And what if he must die in sorrow!
Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,

Though grief and pain may come to-morrow i

REMEMBRANCE OF COLLINS.

WRITTEN UPON THE THAMES NEAR RICHMOND

GLIDE gently, thus for ever glide,

O Thames! that other Bards may see

As lovely visions by thy side
As now, fair river! come to me.
O glide, fair stream! for ever so,
Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,
Till all our minds for ever flow,
As thy deep waters now are flowing.

Vain thought!-Yet be as now thou art,
That in thy waters may be seen

The image of a Poet's heart,

How bright, how solemn, how serene!

Such as did once the Poet bless,

Who, murmuring here a later* ditty,

Could find no refuge from distress
But in the milder grief of pity.

Now let us, as we float along,
For him suspend the dashing oar;
And pray that never Child of Song
May know that Poet's sorrows more.
How calm! how still! the only sound,
The dripping of the oar suspended!
-The evening darkness gathers round
By virtue's holiest powers attended.

*Collins' Ode on the death of Thomson, the last written, I believe, of th poems which were published during his lifetime. This Ode is also alluded to in the next stanza.