On the roadside between Penrith and Appleby, there stands a pillar with the following inscription:

"This Pillar was erected, in the year 1656, by Anne Countess Dowager of Pembroke, &c., for a memorial of her last parting with her pious mother, Margaret Countess Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d of April, 1616; in memory whereof she hath left an annuity of 47. to be distributed to the poor of the parish of Brougham, every 2d day of April for ever, upon the stone table placed hard by. Laus Deo!"

WHILE the Poor gather round, till the end of time

May this bright flower of Charity display Its bloom, unfolding at the appointed day; Flower than the loveliest of the vernal prime Lovelier-transplanted from heaven's purest clime !

Charity never faileth:" on that creed, More than on written testament or deed, The pious Lady built with hope sublime. Alms on this stone to be dealt out, for ever! "LAUS DEO." Many a Stranger passing by

Has with that Parting mixed a filial sigh, Blest its humane Memorial's fond endeavour; And, fastening on those lines an eye tearglazed,

Has ended, though no Clerk, with "God be praised!"

XXV

APOLOGY FOR THE FOREGOING POEMS

No more: the end is sudden and abrupt, Abrupt- —as without preconceived design Was the beginning; yet the several Lays Have moved in order, to each other bound By a continuous and acknowledged tie Though unapparent-like those Shapes

distinct

That yet survive ensculptured on the walls
Of palaces, or temples, 'mid the wreck
Of famed Persepolis; each following each,
As might beseem a stately embassy,
In set array; these bearing in their hands
Ensign of civil power, weapon of war,
Or gift to be presented at the throne
Of the Great King; and others, as they go
In priestly vest, with holy offerings charged,
Or leading victims drest for sacrifice.
Nor will the Power we serve, that sacred
Power,

The Spirit of humanity, disdain
A ministration humble but sincere,
That from a threshold loved by every Muse
Its impulse took-that sorrow-stricken door,
Whence, as a current from its fountain-head,
Our thoughts have issued, and our feelings
flowed,

Receiving, willingly or not, fresh strength From kindred sources; while around us sighed

(Life's three first seasons having passed away) Leaf-scattering winds; and hoar-frost sprinklings fell

(Foretaste of winter) on the moorland heights;

And every day brought with it tidings new
Of rash change, ominous for the public weal
Hence, if dejection has too oft encroached
Upon that sweet and tender melancholy
Which may itself be cherished and caressed
More than enough; a fault so natural
(Even with the young, the hopeful, or the
gay)

For prompt forgiveness will not sue in vain.

XXVI

THE HIGHLAND BROACH

On ascending a hill that leads from Loch Awe towards Inverary, I fell into conversation with a

woman of the humbler class who wore one of those Highland Broaches. I talked with her about it; and upon parting with her, when I said with a kindness I truly felt-"May that Broach continue in your family through many generations to come, as you have already possessed it "-she thanked me most becomingly, and seemed not a little moved.

The exact resemblance which the old Broach (still in use, though rarely met with, among the Highlanders) bears to the Roman Fibula must strike every one, and concurs, with the plaid and kilt, to recall to mind the communication which the ancient Romans had with this remote country.

IF to Tradition faith be due,

And echoes from old verse speak true,
Ere the meek Saint, Columba, bore
Glad tidings to Iona's shore,
No common light of nature blessed
The mountain region of the west,
A land where gentle manners ruled
O'er men in dauntless virtues schooled,
That raised, for centuries, a bar
Impervious to the tide of war:
Yet peaceful Arts did entrance gain
Where haughty Force had striven in vain ;
And, 'mid the works of skilful hands,
By wanderers brought from foreign lands
And various climes, was not unknown
The clasp that fixed the Roman Gown;
The Fibula, whose shape, I ween,
Still in the Highland Broach is seen,
The silver Broach of massy frame,
Worn at the breast of some grave Dame
On road or path, or at the door
Of fern-thatched hut on heathy moor:
But delicate of yore its mould,
And the material finest gold;
As might beseem the fairest Fair,
Whether she graced a royal chair,
Or shed, within a vaulted hall,
No fancied lustre on the wall
Where shields of mighty heroes hung,
While Fingal heard what Ossian sung.
The heroic Age expired-it slept
Deep in its tomb:-the bramble crept
O'er Fingal's hearth; the grassy sod
Grew on the floors his sons had trod:
Malvina where art thou? Their state
The noblest-born must abdicate;
The fairest, while with fire and sword
Come Spoilers-horde impelling horde,
Must walk the sorrowing mountains, drest
By ruder hands in homelier vest.

Yet still the female bosom lent,
And loved to borrow, ornament;
Still was its inner world a place
Reached by the dews of heavenly grace;
Still pity to this last retreat
Clove fondly; to his favourite seat
Love wound his way by soft approach,
Beneath a massier Highland Broach.
When alternations came of rage
Yet fiercer, in a darker age;

And feuds, where, clan encountering clan,
The weaker perished to a man;

For maid and mother, when despair
Might else have triumphed, baffling prayer,
One small possession lacked not power,
Provided in a calmer hour,

To meet such need as might befall-
Roof, raiment, bread, or burial:
For woman, even of tears bereft,
The hidden silver Broach was left.

As generations come and go
Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow;
Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away,
And feeble, of themselves, decay;
What poor abodes the heir-loom hide,
In which the castle once took pride!
Tokens, once kept as boasted wealth,
If saved at all, are saved by stealth.
Lo ships, from seas by nature barred,
Mount along ways by man prepared;
And in far-stretching vales, whose streams
Seek other seas, their canvas gleams.
Lo busy towns spring up, on coasts
Thronged yesterday by airy ghosts;
Soon, like a lingering star forlorn
Among the novelties of morn,
While young delights on old encroach,
Will vanish the last Highland Broach.

But when, from out their viewless bed, Like vapours, years have rolled and spread; And this poor verse, and worthier lays, Shall yield no light of love or praise; Then, by the spade, or cleaving plough, Or torrent from the mountain's brow, Or whirlwind, reckless what his might Entombs, or forces into light; Blind Chance, a volunteer ally, That oft befriends Antiquity, And clears Oblivion from reproach, May render back the Highland Broach.1

1 How much the Broach is sometimes prized by persons in humble stations may be gathered from an occurrence mentioned to me by a female friend. She had had an opportunity of benefiting

DEVOTIONAL INCITEMENTS

Written at Rydal Mount.

"Not to the earth confined, Ascend to heaven."

WHERE will they stop, those breathing
Powers,

The Spirits of the new-born flowers?
They wander with the breeze, they wind
Where'er the streams a passage find;
Up from their native ground they rise
In mute aërial harmonies;

From humble violet--modest thyme-
Exhaled, the essential odours climb,
As if no space below the sky
Their subtle flight could satisfy:

And for no transient ecstasies!
What else can mean the visual plea
Of still or moving imagery-
The iterated summons loud,
Not wasted on the attendant crowd,
Nor wholly lost upon the throng
Hurrying the busy streets along?
Alas! the sanctities combined
By art to unsensualise the mind,
Decay and languish; or, as creeds
And humours change, are spurned like
weeds:

The priests are from their altars thrust;
Temples are levelled with the dust;
And solemn rites and awful forms
Founder amid fanatic storms.

Yet evermore, through years renewed
In undisturbed vicissitude

If like ambition be their guide.

Roused by this kindliest of May-showers,

The spirit-quickener of the flowers,
That with moist virtue softly cleaves

The buds, and freshens the young leaves,
The birds pour forth their souls in notes
Of rapture from a thousand throats-
Here checked by too impetuous haste,
While there the music runs to waste,
With bounty more and more enlarged,
Till the whole air is overcharged;
Give ear, O Man! to their appeal
And thirst for no inferior zeal,
Thou, who canst think, as well as feel.
Mount from the earth; aspire! aspire!
So pleads the town's cathedral quire,
In strains that from their solemn height
Sink, to attain a loftier flight;
While incense from the altar breathes
Rich fragrance in embodied wreaths;
Or, flung from swinging censer, shrouds
The taper-lights, and curls in clouds
Around angelic Forms, the still
Creation of the painter's skill,
That on the service wait concealed
One moment, and the next revealed
-Cast off your bonds, awake, arise,

a poor old woman in her own hut, who, wishing to make a return, said to her daughter, in Erse, in a tone of plaintive earnestness, "I would give anything I have, but I hope she does not wish for my Broach!" and, uttering these words, she put her hand upon the Broach which fastened her kerchief, and which, she imagined, had attracted the eye of her benefactress.

On the swift wings of day and night,
Kind Nature keeps a heavenly door
Wide open for the scattered Poor.

Where flower-breathed incense to the skies
Is wafted in mute harmonies;

And ground fresh-cloven by the plough
Is fragrant with a humbler vow;
Where birds and brooks from leafy dells
Chime forth unwearied canticles,
And vapours magnify and spread
The glory of the sun's bright head-
Still constant in her worship, still
Conforming to the eternal Will,
Whether men sow or reap the fields,
Divine monition Nature yields,
That not by bread alone we live,
Or what a hand of flesh can give;
That every day should leave some part
Free for a sabbath of the heart:
So,shall the seventh be truly blest,
From morn to eve, with hallowed rest.
1832.

"CALM IS THE FRAGRANT AIR" CALM is the fragrant air, and loth to lose Day's grateful warmth, tho' moist with falling dews.

Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none;

Look up a second time, and, one by one, You mark them twinkling out with silvery light,

And wonder how they could elude the sight!

Proved last year's leaves, pushed from the spray

To frolic on the breeze.

Maternal Flora! show thy face,
And let thy hand be seen,
Thy hand here sprinkling tiny flowers,
That, as they touch the green,
Take root (so seems it) and look up

In honour of their Queen.
Yet, sooth, those little starry specks,
That not in vain aspired

To be confounded with live growths,
Most dainty, most admired,
Were only blossoms dropt from twigs
Of their own offspring tired.

Not such the World's illusive shows;
Her wingless flutterings,

Her blossoms which, though shed, outbrave
The floweret as it springs,

For the undeceived, smile as they may,
Are melancholy things:

But gentle Nature plays her part
With ever-varying wiles,

And transient feignings with plain truth
So well she reconciles,

That those fond Idlers most are pleased
Whom oftenest she beguiles. 1832.

LOVING AND LIKING

IRREGULAR VERSES

ADDRESSED TO A CHILD

(BY MY SISTER)

Written at Rydal Mount. It arose, I believe, out of a casual expression of one of Mr. Swinburne's children.

THERE'S more in words than I can teach:
Yet listen, Child !-I would not preach;
But only give some plain directions
To guide your speech and your affections.
Say not you love a roasted fowl,
But you may love a screaming owl.
And, if you can, the unwieldy toad
That crawls from his secure abode
Within the mossy garden wall
When evening dews begin to fall.
Oh mark the beauty of his eye:
What wonders in that circle lie!
So clear, so bright, our fathers said
He wears a jewel in his head!

And when, upon some showery day,
Into a path or public way

A frog leaps out from bordering grass,
Startling the timid as they pass,
Do you observe him, and endeavour
To take the intruder into favour;
Learning from him to find a reason
For a light heart in a dull season.
And you may love him in the pool,
That is for him a happy school,
In which he swims as taught by nature,
Fit pattern for a human creature,
Glancing amid the water bright,
And sending upward sparkling light.

Nor blush if o'er your heart be stealing
A love for things that have no feeling:
The spring's first rose by you espied,
May fill your breast with joyful pride;
And you may love the strawberry-flower,
And love the strawberry in its bower;
But when the fruit, so often praised
For beauty, to your lip is raised,
Say not you love the delicate treat,
But like it, enjoy it, and thankfully eat.

Long may you love your pensioner mouse, Though one of a tribe that torment the house:

Nor dislike for her cruel sport the cat, Deadly foe both of mouse and rat; Remember she follows the law of her kind, And Instinct is neither wayward nor blind. Then think of her beautiful gliding form, Her tread that would scarcely crush a

worm,

And her soothing song by the winter fire, Soft as the dying throb of the lyre.

I would not circumscribe your love: It may soar with the eagle and brood with the dove,

May pierce the earth with the patient mole,
Or track the hedgehog to his hole.
Loving and liking are the solace of life,
Rock the cradle of joy, smooth the death-

bed of strife.

You love your father and your mother,
Your grown-up and your baby brother;
You love your sister, and your friends,
And countless blessings which God sends:
And while these right affections play,
You live each moment of your day;
They lead you on to full content,
And likings fresh and innocent,
That store the mind, the memory feed,
And prompt to many a gentle deed:

But likings come, and pass away; 'Tis love that remains till our latest day: Our heavenward guide is holy love, And will be our bliss with saints above. 1832.

UPON THE LATE GENERAL FAST

MARCH 1832

RELUCTANT call it was; the rite delayed; And in the Senate some there were who

doffed

The last of their humanity, and scoffed
At providential judgments, undismayed
By their own daring. But the People
prayed

As with one voice; their flinty heart grew

soft

With penitential sorrow, and aloft Their spirit mounted, crying, "God us aid!"

Oh that with aspirations more intense, Chastised by self-abasement more profound,

This People, once so happy, so renowned
For liberty, would seek from God defence
Against far heavier ill, the pestilence
Of revolution, impiously unbound!

FILIAL PIETY

ON THE WAYSIDE BETWEEN PRESTON AND LIVERPOOL

This was communicated to me by a coachman at whose side I sat while he was driving. In the course of my many coach rambles and journeys, which, during the daytime always and often in the night, were taken on the outside of the coach, I had good and frequent opportunities of learning the characteristics of this class of One remark I made that is worth recording; that whenever I had occasion especially to notice their well-ordered, respectful, and kind be haviour to women, of whatever age, I found them, I may say almost always, to be married men.

men.

UNTOUCHED through all severity of cold; Inviolate, whate'er the cottage hearth Might need for comfort, or for festal mirth; That Pile of Turf is half a century old: Yes, Traveller! fifty winters have been told