Undying recollections: Nature there

Was with thee; she, who loved us both, she still
Was with thee; and even so didst thou become
A silent poet; from the solitude

Of the vast sea didst bring a watchful heart
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 winds blow troublesome and strong;
And there I sit at evening, when the steep
Of Silver-How, and Grasmere's peaceful lake,
And one green island, gleam between the stems
Of the dark firs, a visionary scene!

And, while I gaze upon the spectacle
Of clouded splendour, on this dream-like sight
Of solemn loveliness, I think on thee,

My brother, and on all which thou hast lost.
Nor seldom, if I rightly guess, while thou,
Muttering the verses which I muttered first
Among the mountains, through the midnight 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,
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

A second time, in Grasmere's happy vale.

RASH JUDGMENT.

A NARROW girdle of rough stones and crags,
A rude and natural causeway, interposed
Between the water and a winding slope

Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore
Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy.

And there, myself and two beloved friends,
One calm September morning, ere the mist
Had altogether yielded to the sun,

Sauntered on this retired and difficult way.
Ill suits the road with one in haste, but we
Played with our time; and, as we strolled along
It was our occupation to observe

Such objects as the waves had tossed ashore,
Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough,
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
Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard,

That skimmed the surface of the dead calm lake,
Suddenly halting now-a lifeless stand!

And starting off again with freak as sudden;
In all its sportive wanderings, all the while,
Making report of an invisible breeze

That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse,
Its playmate, rather say its moving soul.
And often, trifling with a privilege

Alike indulged to all, we paused, one now,
And now the other, to point out, perchance
To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fair
Either to be divided from the place

On which it grew, or to be left alone

To its own beauty. Many such there are,
Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall fern,

So stately, of the Queen Osmunda named;
Plant lovelier in its own retired abode
On Grasmere's beach, than naiad by the side
Of Grecian brook, or lady of the mere,
Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.

So fared we that bright morning: from the fields,
Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth
Of reapers, men and women, boys and girls.
Delighted much to listen to those sounds,
And feeding thus our fancies, we advanced
Along the indented shore; when suddenly,
Through a thin veil of glittering haze was seen
Before us, on a point of jutting land,

The tall and upright figure of a man
Attired in peasant's garb, who stood alone,
Angling beside the margin of the lake.
Improvident and reckless, we exclaimed,
The man must be, who thus can lose a day
Of the mid-harvest, when the labourer's hire
Is ample, and some little might be stored
Wherewith to cheer him in the winter time.
Thus talking of that peasant, we approached
Close to the spot where with his rod and line
He stood alone; whereat he turned his head
To greet us and we saw a man worn down
By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks
And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean
That for my single self I looked at them,
Forgetful of the body they sustained.
Too weak to labour in the harvest field,
The man was using his best skill to gain
A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake,
That knew not of his wants. I will not say
What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how
The happy idleness of that sweet mora,

With all its lovely images, was changed
To serious musing and to self-reproach.
Nor did we fail to see within ourselves
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

As e'er by mariner was given to bay

Or foreland, on a new-discovered coast;
And Point Rash Judgment is the name it bears.

DEVOTIONAL INCITEMENTS.
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:

Heaven will not tax our thoughts with pride
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 choir,
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,
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 solemn rites, the awful forms,

Founder amid fanatic storms;

The priests are from their altars thrust,

The temples levelled with the dust: