Above, beneath, immensely spread,
Valleys and hoary rocks I view,
Heights over heights exalt their head
Of many a sombre hue;
No waving woods their flanks adorn,
No hedge-rows, gay with trees,
Encircled fields, where floods of corn
Roll to the breeze.
My soul this vast horizon fills,
Within whose undulated line
Thick stand the multitude of hills,
And clear the waters shine;
Gray mossy walls the slopes ascend;
While roads, that tire the eye,
Upward their winding course extend,
And touch the sky.
With rude diversity of form,
The insulated mountains tower;
Oft o'er these cliffs the transient storm
And partial darkness lower,
While yonder summits far away
Shine sweetly through the gloom,
Like glimpses of eternal day.
Beyond the tomb.
That one, the fairest of all rivers, loved
To blend his murmurs with my nurse's song,
And from his alder shades and rocky falls,
And from his fords and shallows, sent a voice
That flowed along my dreams? For this didst thou,
O Derwent! winding among grassy holms
Where I was looking on, a babe in arms,
Make ceaseless music that composed my thoughts
To more than infant softness, giving me
Amid the fretful dwellings of mankind
A foretaste, a dim earnest, of the calm
That Nature breathes among the hills and groves.
When he had left the mountains and received
On his smooth breast the shadow of those towers
That yet survive, a shattered monument
Of feudal sway, the bright blue river passed
Along the margin of our terrace walk;
A tempting playmate whom we dearly loved.
O, many a time have I, a five-years' child,
In a small mill-race severed from his stream
Made one long bathing of a summer's day;
Basked in the sun, and plunged and basked again
Alternate, all a summer's day, or scoured
The sandy fields, leaping through flowery groves
Of yellow ragwort; or when rock and hill,
The woods, and distant Skiddaw's lofty height,
Were bronzed with deepest radiance, stood alone
Beneath the sky, as if I had been born
On Indian plains, and from my mother's hut
Had run abroad in wantonness, to sport,
A naked savage, in the thunder-shower.
FOR THE SPOT WHERE THE HERMITAGE STOOD ON ST. HERBERT'S ISLAND, DERWENT WATER.
thou in the dear love of some one friend
Hast been so happy that thou know'st what thoughts
Will sometimes in the happiness of love
Make the heart sink, then wilt thou reverence
This quiet spot; and, Stranger! not unmoved
Wilt thou behold this shapeless heap of stones,
The desolate ruins of St. Herbert's cell.
Here stood his threshold; here was spread the roof
That sheltered him, a self-secluded man,
After long exercise in social cares
And offices humane, intent to adore
The Deity, with undistracted mind,
And meditate on everlasting things,
In utter solitude. But he had left
A fellow-laborer, whom the good man loved
As his own soul. And when, with eye upraised
To heaven, he knelt before the crucifix,
While o'er the lake the cataract of Lodore
Pealed to his orisons, and when he paced
Along the beach of this small isle and thought
Of his companion, he would pray that both
(Now that their earthly duties were fulfilled)
Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain
So prayed he; - as our chronicles report,
Though here the hermit numbered his last day
Far from St. Cuthbert, his beloved friend,
Those holy men both died in the same hour.
William Wordsworth.
MONG the mountains were we nursed, loved Stream!
Thou near the eagle's nest, within brief sail,
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
Nemaan 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!
ON THE CEMETERY AT DITCHLING.
The graves in the Dissenters' burial-ground at Ditchling have no monumental stones, but are covered with evergreens and flowering shrubs.
HAT though no marbles mark this hallowed spot, Where youth and age and worth and beauty sleep, Nor epitaphs declare the mortal lot
Of those who here eternal silence keep,
Yet o'er these mossy beds the willows weep,
And yew and cypress shed a solemn gloom,
And morning's mists with dew their tresses steep,
Diffusing freshness o'er the verdant tomb.
Mute but expressive emblems! well ye teach
The fate of those whose relics here repose;
More forcibly than moralist can preach,
Their present, past, and future state disclose.
For who that views yon fragrant blushing rose,
Shedding its sweetness through the balmy air,
Nor deems that loveliness from all its woes
And all its wrongs hath found a shelter there!
Yes, that fair flower blooms o'er a brother's boast,
A mother's joy, a doating father's pride;
Brief is the tale: her fondest hopes were crossed,
She loved, was slighted, - murmured not, but
died!
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