When I had gazed perhaps two minutes space, Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld That ancient woman seated on Helm-Crag The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished To shelter from some object of her fear. And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone Rock." *** THERE is an eminence,—of these our hills The last that parleys with the setting sun. We can behold it from our orchard-seat; * In Cumberland and Westmoreland are several inscriptions, upon the native rock, which, from the wasting of time, and the rudeness of the workmanship, have been mistaken for Runic. They are, without doubt, Roman. The Rotha, mentioned in this poem, is the river which, flowing through the lakes of Grasmere and Rydal, falls into Wynander.-On Helm-Crag, that impressive single mountain at And when at evening we pursue our walk shore Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy. Each on the other heaped, along the line Of the dry wreck. And, in our vacant mood, Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft Suddenly halting now-a lifeless stand! And starting off again with freak as sudden; In all its sportive wanderings, all the while, the head of the vale of Grasmere, is a rock which from most points of view bears a striking resemblance to an old woman cowering. Close by this rock is one of those fissures of caverns, which in the language of the country are called dungeons. Most of the mountains here mentioned immediately surround the vale of Grasmere; of the others, some are at a considerable distance, but they belong to the same cluster. Its playmate, rather say its moving soul. To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too So stately, of the Queen Osmunda named; Before us, on a point of jutting land, Close to the spot where with his rod and The happy idleness of that sweet morn, What need there is to be reserved in speech, And temper all our thoughts with charity. Therefore, unwilling to forget that day, My friend, myself, and she who then received The same admonishment, have called the place By a memorial name, uncouth indeed bears. TO M. H. OUR walk was far among the ancient trees; There was no road, nor any woodman's path; But the thick umbrage, checking the wild growth Of weed and sapling, along soft green turf On its firm margin, even as from a well, The spot was made by nature for herself, The travellers know it not, and 'twill remain Unknown to them but it is beautiful; And if a man should plant his cottage near, Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees, And blend its waters with his daily meal, He would so love it, that in his death hour Its image would survive among his thoughts; And therefore, my sweet Mary, this still nook, [you. With all its beeches, we have named from WHEN, to the attractions of the busy world, Preferring studious leisure, I had chosen Pathway, and lane, and public road, were clogged [hill With frequent showers of snow. Upon a At a short distance from my cottage stands A stately fir-grove, whither I was wont To hasten, for I found beneath the roof Of that perennial shade, a cloistral place Of refuge, with an unincumbered floor. Here, in safe covert, on the shallow snow, And, sometimes, on a speck of visible earth, [loth The redbreast near me hopped; nor was I To sympathise with vulgar coppice birds That, for protection from the nipping blast, Hither repaired.-A single becch-tree grew A last year's nest, conspicuously built Of nature and of love had made their home Would watch my motions with suspicious stare, From the remotest outskirts of the grove,Some nook where they had made their final stand, Huddling together from two fears-the fear Of me and of the storm. Full many And winding on with such an easy line Along a natural opening, that I stood Much wondering how I could have sought in vain To abide, For what was now so obvious. Begun and ended, in the shady grove, By pacing here, unwearied and alone, sea. When thou hadst quitted Esthwaite's pleasant shore, And taken thy first leave of those green hills youth, And rocks that were the play-ground of thy Year followed year, my brother! and we two, Conversing not, knew little in what mould Each other's minds were fashioned; and at length, When once again we met in Grasmere vale, Between us there was little other bond Than common feelings of fraternal love. But thou, a school-boy, to the sea hadst carried Undying recollections: nature there Was with thee; she, who loved us both, she still [become Was with thee; and even so didst thou A silent poet; from the solitude [heart Of the vast sea didst bring a watchful Still couchant, an inevitable ear, And an eye practised like a blind man's touch. Back to the joyless ocean thou art gone; Nor from this vestige of thy musing hours Could I withhold thy honoured name, and now I love the fir-grove with a perfect love. Thither do I withdraw when cloudless suns Shine hot, or wind blows troublesome and strong: And there I sit at evening, when the steep Of Silver-how, and Grasmere's peaceful lake, [stems And one green island, gleam between the Of the dark firs, a visionary scene! Of solemn loveliness, I think on thee, The fir-grove murmurs with a sea-like sound, Alone I tread this path ;-for aught I know, Timing my steps to thine; and, with a store Of undistinguishable sympathies, Mingling most earnest wishes for the day When we, and others whom we love, shall meet Nor seldom, if I rightly guess, while thou, night watch Art pacing thoughtfully the vessel's deck In some far region, here, while o'er my head, At every impulse of the moving breeze, Note. This wish was not granted; the shipwreck, in discharge of his duty as comlamented person, not long after, perished by mander of the Honourable East India Company's vessel, the Earl of Abergavenny. Inscriptions. IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON, THE SEAT OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART., LEICESTERSHIRE. THE embowering rose, the acacia, and the pine, Will not unwillingly their place resign; If but the cedar thrive that near them stands, Planted by Beaumont's and by Words worth's hands. One wooed the silent art with studious pains, These groves have heard the other's pensive strains; Devoted thus, their spirits did unite Darken the brow of this memorial stone, Not mindless of that distant age renowned When inspiration hovered o'er this ground, The haunt of him who sang how spear and shield In civil conflict met on Bosworth field; And of that famous youth, full soon removed From earth, perhaps by Shakspeare's self approved, Fletcher's associate, Jonson's friend beloved. And be not slow a stately growth to rear Of pillars, branching off from year to year, Till they have learned to frame a darksome aisle : That may recall to mind that awful pile WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL UPON A STONE IN THE WALL OF THE HOUSE (AN OUT-HOUSE) ON THE ISLAND AT GRASMERE. Where Reynolds, 'mid our country's noblest | RUDE is this edifice, and thou hast seen dead, And when those rites had ceased, the spot gave birth To honourable men of various worth : There, on the margin of a streamlet wild, Did Francis Beaumont sport, an eager child; Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained Proportions more harmonious, and approached To somewhat of a closer fellowship Thou see'st a homely pile, yet to these walls The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and [the wind. here The new-dropped lamb finds shelter from And hither does one poet sometimes row His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled With plenteous store of heath and withered fern, (A lading which he with his sickle cuts Among the mountains) and beneath this roof He makes his summer couch, and here at [the sheep, noon Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unshorn, Panting beneath the burthen of their wool, Lie round him, even as if they were a part Of his own household; nor, while from his bed [lake He through that door-place looks toward the There, under shadow of the neighbouring WRITTEN WITH A SLATE-PENCIL ON A rocks, [flocks; Sang youthful tales of shepherds and their Unconscious prelude to heroic themes, Heart-breaking tears, and melancholy dreams Of slighted love, and scorn, and jealous rage, With which his genius shook the buskined stage. Communities are lost, and empires die, And things of holy use unhallowed lie; They perish ;-but the intellect can raise, From airy words alone, a pile that ne'er decays. STONE, ON THE SIDE OF THE MOUN- STAY, bold adventurer; rest a while thy And, to far-travelled storms of sea and land, A favourite spot of tournament and war! But thee may no such boisterous visitants Molest; may gentle breezes fan thy brow; And neither cloud conceal, nor misty air Bedim, the grand terraqueous spectacle, From centre to circumference, unveiled! |