Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as we have here? Or gives a thing but small delight that never can be dear? The silver moon with all her vales, and hills of mightiest fame, Doth she betray us when they're seen? or are they but a name? Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is and strong, And bounty never yields so much but it seems to do her wrong ? Or is it, that when human Souls a journey long have had And are returned into themselves, they cannot but be sad? Or must we be constrained to think that these Spectators rude, Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude, Have souls which never yet have risen, and therefore prostrate lie? No, no, this cannot be;-men thirst for power and majesty! Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful mind employ Of him who gazes, or has gazed? a grave and steady joy, That doth reject all show of pride, admits no outward sign, Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine! Whatever be the cause, 'tis sure that they who pry and pore Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than before: One after One they take their turn, nor have I one espied That doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied. 1806. XVI. WRITTEN IN MARCH, WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF BROTHER'S WATER. [EXTEMPORE. This little poem was a favorite with Joanna Baillie.] THE Cock is crowing, The stream is flowing, The lake doth glitter, The green field sleeps in the sun; The oldest and youngest Are at work with the strongest ; The cattle are grazing, Their heads never raising; There are forty feeding like one! Like an army defeated On the top of the bare hill; LYRE! THOUGH SUCH POWER DO IN THY MAGIC LIVE. 117 The Ploughboy is whooping-anon-anon: Blue sky prevailing; The rain is over and gone! 1801. XVII. LYRE! though such power do in thy magic live Assist me to detain The lovely Fugitive: Check with thy notes the impulse which, betrayed But if no wish be hers that we should part, And, on or in, or near, the brook, espy Shade upon the sunshine lying Faint and somewhat pensively; And downward Image gaily vying Mid silver clouds, and openings of blue sky Nor less the joy with many a glance Cast up the Stream or down at her beseeching, Or watch, with mutual teaching, The current as it plays In flashing leaps and stealthy creeps Or note (translucent summer's happiest chance!) So vivid that they take from keenest sight XVIII. BEGGARS. [WRITTEN at Town-end, Grasmere. Met, and described to me by my Sister, near the quarry at the head of Rydal lake, a place still a chosen resort of vagrants travelling with their families.] SHE had a tall man's height or more; Her face from summer's noontide heat A mantle, to her very feet Descending with a graceful flow, And on her head a cap as white as new-fallen snow. Her skin was of Egyptian brown: To lead those ancient Amazonian files; Or ruling Bandit's wife among the Grecian isles. Advancing, forth she stretched her hand And yet a boon I gave her, for the creature I left her, and pursued my way; And soon before me did espy A pair of little Boys at play, The taller followed with his hat in hand, the land. The other wore a rimless crown Yet they, so blithe of heart, seemed fit Wings let them have, and they might flit |