Farewell! no Minstrels now with harp new-strung

For summer wandering quiet their household bowers;

Yet not for this wants Poesy a tongue

To cheer the Itinerant on whom she pours
Her spirit, while he crosses lonely moors
Or, musing, sits forsaken halls among.

II.

WHY should the Enthusiast, journeying through this Isle,

Repine as if his hour were come too late?
Not unprotected in her mouldering state,
Antiquity salutes him with a smile,

'Mid fruitful fields that ring with jocund toil,
And pleasure-grounds where Taste, refined Co-

mate

Of Truth and Beauty, strives to imitate,.
Far as she may, primeval Nature's style.
Fair land! by Time's parental love made free,
By Social Order's watchful arms embraced,
With unexampled union meet in thee,
For eye and mind, the present and the past;
With golden prospect for futurity,

If that be reverenced which ought to last.

III.

THEY called thee MERRY ENGLAND, in old time;

A happy people won for thee that name,

With envy heard in many a distant clime;
And, spite of change, for me thou keep'st the same
Endearing title, a responsive chime

To the heart's fond belief; though some there are
Whose sterner judgments deem that word a snare
For inattentive Fancy, like the lime

Which foolish birds are caught with. Can, I ask,
This face of rural beauty be a mask

For discontent, and poverty, and crime;
These spreading towns a cloak for lawless will?
Forbid it, Heaven! and MERRY ENGLAND still
Shall be thy rightful name, in prose and rhyme!

IV.

TO THE RIVER GRETA, NEAR KESWICK.

GRETA, what fearful listening! when huge stones
Rumble along thy bed, block after block:
Or, whirling with reiterated shock,

:

Combat, while darkness aggravates the groans
But if thou (like Cocytus from the moans
Heard on his rueful margin) thence wert named
The Mourner, thy true nature was defamed,
And the habitual murmur that atones
For thy worst rage, forgotten. Oft as Spring
Decks, on thy sinuous banks, her thousand thrones,
Seats of glad instinct and love's carolling,
The concert, for the happy, then may vie
With liveliest peals of birthday harmony;
To a grieved heart, the notes are benisons.

I, of his bold wing floating on the gale,

Where thy deep voice could lull me! Faint the

beam

Of human life when first allowed to gleam
On mortal notice. Glory of the vale,

Such thy meek outset, with a crown, though frail,
Kept in perpetual verdure by the steam

Of thy soft breath! Less vivid wreath entwined
Nemæan victor's brow; less bright was worn
Meed of some Roman chief, in triumph borne
With captives chained, and shedding from his car
The sunset splendors of a finished war
Upon the proud enslavers of mankind!

VI.

IN SIGHT OF THE TOWN OF COCKERMOUTH.

(Where the Author was born, and his Father's remains are laid.)

A POINT of life between my Parents' dust
And yours, my buried Little-ones! am I;
And to those graves looking habitually,
In kindred quiet I repose my trust.
Death to the innocent is more than just,

And, to the sinner, mercifully bent ;
So may I hope, if truly I repent

And meekly bear the ills which bear I must:
And you, my Offspring! that do still remain,
Yet may outstrip me in the appointed race,
If e'er, through fault of mine, in mutual pain
We breathed together for a moment's space,
The wrong, by love provoked, let love arraign,
And only love keep in your hearts a place.

VII.

ADDRESS FROM THE SPIRIT OF COCKERMOUTH CASTLE.

"THOU look'st upon me, and dost fondly think,
Poet! that, stricken as both are by years,
We, differing once so much, are now Compeers,
Prepared, when each has stood his time, to sink
Into the dust. Erewhile a sterner link
United us; when thou, in boyish play,
Entering my dungeon, didst become a prey
To soul-appalling darkness. Not a blink

Of light was there ; - and thus did I, thy Tutor, Make thy young thoughts acquainted with the

grave;

While thou wert chasing the winged butterfly Through my green courts; or climbing, a bold suitor,

Up to the flowers whose golden progeny

Still round my shattered brow in beauty wave."

VIII.

NUN'S WELL, BRIGHAM.

THE cattle, crowding round this beverage clear To slake their thirst, with reckless hoofs have trod The encircling turf into a barren clod,

Through which the waters creep, then disappear, Born to be lost in Derwent, flowing near;

Yet, o'er the brink, and round the limestone cell Of the pure spring, (they call it the "Nun's Well," Name that first struck by chance my startled ear,)

A tender Spirit broods,

the pensive Shade

Of ritual honors to this Fountain paid

By hooded Votaresses with saintly cheer;
Albeit oft the Virgin-mother mild

Looked down with pity upon eyes beguiled
Into the shedding of "too soft a tear."

IX.

TO A FRIEND.

(On the Banks of the Derwent.)

PASTOR and Patriot! at whose bidding rise These modest walls, amid a flock that need, For one who comes to watch them and to feed, A fixed abode, keep down presageful sighs. Threats, which the unthinking only can despise, - Perplex the Church; but be thou firm, — be true