Within our hearts, the love whose flower hath blown

Bright as if heaven were ever in its eye, Will pass so soon from human memory; And not by strangers to our blood alone, But by our best descendants be unknown, Unthought of this may surely claim a sigh. Yet, blessed Art, we yield not to dejection; Thou against Time so feelingly dost strive. Where'er, preserved in this most true reflection,

An image of her soul is kept alive, Some lingering fragrance of the pure affection,

Whose flower with us will vanish, must survive.

POOR ROBIN1

I often ask myself what will become of Rydal Mount after our day. Will the old walls and steps remain in front of the house and about the grounds, or will they be swept away with all the beautiful mosses and ferns and wild geraniums and other flowers which their rude construction suffered and encouraged to grow among them?This little wild flower-" Poor Robin "-is here constantly courting my attention, and exciting what may be called a domestic interest with the varying aspects of its stalks and leaves and flowers. Strangely do the tastes of men differ according to their employment and habits of life. "What a nice well would that be," said a labouring man to me one day, "if all that rubbish was cleared off." The "rubbish" was some of the most beautiful mosses and lichens and ferns and other wild growths that could possibly be seen. Defend us from the tyranny of trimness and neatness showing itself in this way! Chatterton says of freedom-"Upon her head wild weeds were spread;" and depend upon it if "the marvellous boy" had undertaken to give Flora a garland, he would have preferred what we are apt to call weeds to garden-flowers. True taste has an eye for both. Weeds have been called flowers out of place. I fear the place most people would assign to them is too limited. Let them come near to our abodes, as surely they may without impropriety or disorder.

But while a thousand pleasures come unsought,

Why fix upon his wealth or want a thought?
Is the string touched in prelude to a lay
Of pretty fancies that would round him play
When all the world acknowledged elfin
sway?

Or does it suit our humour to commend
Poor Robin as a sure and crafty friend,
Whose practice teaches, spite of names to
show

Bright colours whether they deceive or no?--Nay, we would simply praise the free goodwill

With which, though slighted, he, on naked hill

Or in warm valley, seeks his part to fill;
Cheerful alike if bare of flowers as now,
Or when his tiny gems shall deck his brow:
Yet more, we wish that men by men de-
spised,

And such as lift their foreheads overprized, Should sometimes think, where'er they chance to spy

This child of Nature's own humility,
What recompence is kept in store or left
For all that seem neglected or bereft ;
With what nice care equivalents are given,
How just, how bountiful, the hand of
Heaven.
March 1840.

ON A PORTRAIT OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON UPON THE FIELD OF WATERLOO, BY HAYDON

This was composed while I was ascending Helvellyn in company with my daughter and her husband. She was on horseback and rode to the top of the hill without once dismounting, a feat which it was scarcely possible to perform except during a season of dry weather; and a guide, with whom we fell in on the mountain, told us he believed it had never been accomplished before by any one.

By Art's bold privilege Warrior and Warhorse stand

On ground yet strewn with their last battle's wreck;

Let the Steed glory while his Master's hand Lies fixed for ages on his conscious neck; But by the Chieftain's look, though at his side

Hangs that day's treasured sword, how firm a check

Is given to triumph and all human pride!
Yon trophied Mound shrinks to a shadowy
speck
Him the mighty

In his calm presence!

deed

Elates not, brought far nearer the grave's

rest,

As shows that time-worn face, for he such seed

Has sown as yields, we trust, the fruit of fame

In Heaven; hence no one blushes for thy

name,

Conqueror, 'mid some sad thoughts, divinely blest! 1840.

TO A PAINTER

The picture which gave occasion to this and the following Sonnet was from the pencil of Miss M. Gillies, who resided for several weeks under our roof at Rydal Mount.

ALL praise the Likeness by thy skill portrayed;

But 'tis a fruitless task to paint for me, Who, yielding not to changes Time has made,

By the habitual light of memory see Eyes unbedimmed, see bloom that cannot fade,

And smiles that from their birth-place ne'er shall flee

Into the land where ghosts and phantoms be;

And, seeing this, own nothing in its stead. Couldst thou go back into far-distant years, Or share with me, fond thought! that inward eye,

Then, and then only, Painter ! could thy
Art

The visual powers of Nature satisfy,
Which hold, whate'er to common sight

And sympathy with man's substantial griefs

Will not be heard in vain? And in those days

When unforeseen distress spreads far and wide

Among a People mournfully cast down,
Or into anger roused by venal words
In recklessness flung out to overturn
The judgment, and divert the general heart
From mutual good-some strain of thine,
my Book!

Caught at propitious intervals, may win
Listeners who not unwillingly admit
Kindly emotion tending to console
And reconcile; and both with young and
old

Exalt the sense of thoughtful gratitude
For benefits that still survive, by faith
In progress, under laws divine, maintained.
RYDAL MOUNT,

March 26, 1842.

FLOATING ISLAND

My poor sister takes a pleasure in repeating these verses, which she composed not long before the beginning of her sad illness.

These lines are by the Author of the "Address to the Wind," etc., published heretofore along with my Poems.

HARMONIOUS Powers with Nature work On sky, earth, river, lake and sea; Sunshine and cloud, whirlwind and breeze, All in one duteous task agree.

Once did I see a slip of earth

(By throbbing waves long undermined) Loosed from its hold; how, no one knew, But all might see it float, obedient to the wind;

Might see it, from the mossy shore
Dissevered, float upon the Lake,
Float with its crest of trees adorned
On which the warbling birds their pastime
take.

Food, shelter, safety, there they find;
There berries ripen, flowerets bloom;
There insects live their lives, and die;
A peopled world it is; in size a tiny room.

MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS

1842

I

I was impelled to write this Sonnet by the disgusting frequency with which the word artistical, imported with other impertinences from the Germans, is employed by writers of the present day for artistical let them substitute artificial, and the poetry written on this system, both at home and abroad, will be for the most part much better characterised.

A POET! He hath put his heart to school, Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff

Which Art hath lodged within his handmust laugh

By precept only, and shed tears by rule. Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff, And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool, In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool

Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph.

How does the Meadow-flower its bloom un

fold?

Because the lovely little flower is free Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold;

And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree Comes not by casting in a formal mould, But from its own divine vitality.

II

Hundreds of times have I seen, hanging about and above the vale of Rydal, clouds that might have given birth to this Sonnet, which was thrown off on the impulse of the moment one evening when I was returning home from the favourite walk of ours, along the Rotha, under Loughrigg.

THE most alluring clouds that mount the sky

Owe to a troubled element their forms, Their hues to sunset. If with raptured eye We watch their splendour, shall we covet storms,

And wish the Lord of day his slow decline Would hasten, that such pomp may float on high?

Behold, already they forget to shine,