XL.

TO THE CUCKOO.

Nor the whole warbling grove in concert heard
When sunshine follows shower, the breast can thrill
Like the first summons, Cuckoo! of thy bill,
With its twin notes inseparably paired.

The Captive, 'mid damp vaults unsunned, unaired,
Measuring the periods of his lonely doom,

That cry can reach; and to the sick man's room Sends gladness, by no languid smile declared. The lordly Eagle-race through hostile search May perish; time may come when never more The wilderness shall hear the Lion roar ;

1

But, long as Cock shall crow from household perch To rouse the dawn, soft gales shall speed thy wing, And thy erratic voice be faithful to the Spring!

UNQUIET Childhood here by special grace
Forgets her nature, opening like a flower
That neither feeds nor wastes its vital power
In painful struggles. Months each other chase,
And nought untunes that Infant's voice; a trace
Of fretful temper sullies not her cheek ;
Prompt, lively, self-sufficing, yet so meek
That one enrapt with gazing on her face,
(Which even the placid innocence of Death
Could scarcelymake more placid, Heaven more bright,)
Might learn to picture, for the eye of faith,
The Virgin, as she shone with kindred light ;
A Nursling couched upon her Mother's knee,
Beneath some shady Palm of Galilee.

XLII.

TO ROTHA Q

ROTHA, my Spiritual Child! this head was grey
When at the sacred Font for Thee I stood;
Pledged till thou reached the verge of womanhood,
And shalt become thy own sufficient stay:

Too late, I feel, sweet Orphan! was the day
For stedfast hope the contract to fulfil;

Yet shall my blessing hover o'er thee still,
Embodied in the music of this Lay,

Breathed forth beside the peaceful mountain Stream*
Whose murmur soothed thy languid Mother's ear
After her throes, this Stream of name more dear

Since thou dost bear it, a memorial theme

For others; for thy future self a spell

To summon fancies out of Time's dark cell.

*The River Rotha, that flows into Windermere from the Lakes of Grasmere and Rydal.

XLIII.

TO

SUCH age how beautiful! O Lady bright,
Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined
By favouring Nature and a saintly Mind
To something purer and more exquisite

Than flesh and blood; whene'er thou meet'st my sight,
When I behold thy blanched unwithered cheek,
Thy temples fringed with locks of gleaming white,
And head that droops because the soul is meek,
Thee with the welcome Snowdrop I compare;
That Child of Winter, prompting thoughts that climb
From desolation tow'rds the genial prime;
Or with the Moon conquering earth's misty air,
And filling more and more with crystal light
As pensive Evening deepens into night.

XLIV.

IN

In my mind's eye a Temple, like a cloud
Slowly surmounting some invidious hill,

Rose out of darkness: the bright Work stood still,
And might of its own beauty have been proud,

But it was fashioned and to God was vowed
By virtues that diffused, in every part,

Spirit divine through forms of human art:

Faith had her arch-her arch, when winds blow loud, Into the consciousness of safety thrilled;

And Love her towers of dread foundation laid

Under the grave of things; Hope had her spire Star-high, and pointing still to something higher; Trembling I gazed, but heard a voice- it said,

Hell-gates are powerless Phantoms when we build.