When magic lore abjured its might,
Ye did not forfeit one dear right,
One tender claim abate;

Witness this symbol of your sway,
Surviving near the public way,
The rustic Wishing-gate!

Inquire not if the faery race
Shed kindly influence on the place,
Ere northward they retired;
If here a warrior left a spell,
Panting for glory as he fell;
Or here a saint expired.

Enough that all around is fair,
Composed with Nature's finest care,
And in her fondest love;

Peace to embosom and content,

To overawe the turbulent,

The selfish to reprove.

Yea! even the Stranger from afar,
Reclining on this moss-grown bar,
Unknowing, and unknown,

The infection of the ground partakes,
Longing for his Beloved-who makes
All happiness her own.

Then why should conscious Spirits fear The mystic stirrings that are here,

The ancient faith disclaim?

The local Genius ne'er befriends
Desires whose course in folly ends,
Whose just reward is shame.

Smile if thou wilt, but not in scorn,

If some, by ceaseless pains outworn,
Here crave an easier lot;

If some have thirsted to renew

A broken vow, or bind a true,

With firmer, holier knot.

And not in vain, when thoughts are cast Upon the irrevocable past,

Some penitent sincere

May for a worthier future sigh,

While trickles from his downcast eye

No unavailing tear.

The Worldling, pining to be freed

From turmoil, who would turn or speed

The current of his fate,

Might stop before this favoured scene,

At Nature's call, nor blush to lean
Upon the Wishing-gate.

The Sage, who feels how blind, how weak Is man, though loth such help to seek,

Yet, passing, here might pause,

And yearn for insight to allay

Misgiving, while the crimson day

In quietness withdraws ;

Or when the church-clock's knell profound

To Time's first step across the bound

Of midnight makes reply;

Time pressing on with starry crest,

To filial sleep upon the breast

Of dread eternity!

TO THE LADY FLEMING,

ON SEEING THE FOUNDATION PREPARING FOR THE ERECTION OF RYDAL CHAPEL, WESTMORELAND.

BLEST is this Isle-our native Land;

Where battlement and moated gate

Are objects only for the hand

Of hoary Time to decorate;

Where shady hamlet, town that breathes
Its busy smoke in social wreaths,
No rampart's stern defence require,
Nought but the heaven-directed spire,
And steeple tower (with pealing bells
Far-heard)—our only citadels.

O Lady! from a noble line

Of chieftains sprung, who stoutly bore
The spear, yet gave to works divine
A bounteous help in days of yore
(As records mouldering in the Dell
Of Nightshade1 haply yet may tell);
Thee kindred aspirations moved
To build, within a vale beloved,
For Him upon whose high behests
All peace depends, all safety rests.

1 Bekangs Ghyll-or the dell of Nightshade-in which stands St Mary's Abbey in Low Furness.

How fondly will the woods embrace
This Daughter of thy pious care,
Lifting her front with modest grace
To make a fair recess more fair;
And to exalt the passing hour;
Or soothe it with a healing power
Drawn from the Sacrifice fulfilled
Before this rugged soil was tilled,
Or human habitation rose
To interrupt the deep repose!

Well may the villagers rejoice!
Nor heat, nor cold, nor weary ways,
Will be a hindrance to the voice

That would unite in prayer and praise;
More duly shall wild wandering Youth
Receive the curb of sacred truth,

Shall tottering Age, bent earthward, hear
The Promise, with uplifted ear;
And all shall welcome the new ray
Imparted to their Sabbath-day.

Nor deem the Poet's hope misplaced,
His fancy cheated—that can see
A shade upon the future cast
Of Time's pathetic sanctity;
Can hear the monitory clock

Sound o'er the lake with gentle shock
At evening, when the ground beneath
Is ruffled o'er with cells of death;
Where happy generations lie,
Here tutored for eternity.

Lives there a man whose sole delights
Are trivial pomp and city noise,
Hardening a heart that loathes or slights
What every natural heart enjoys?
Who never caught a noon-tide dream
From murmur of a running stream;
Could strip, for aught the prospect yields
To him, their verdure from the fields;
And take the radiance from the clouds
In which the sun his setting shrouds.

A soul so pitiably forlorn,

If such do on this earth abide,
May season apathy with scorn,
May turn indifference to pride;
And still be not unblest-compared
With him who grovels, self-debarred
From all that lies within the scope
Of holy faith and Christian hope;
Yea, strives for others to bedim

The glorious Light too pure for him.

Alas! that such perverted zeal

Should spread on Britain's favoured ground!

That public order, private weal,

Should e'er have felt or feared a wound

From champions of the desperate law

Which from their own blind hearts they draw;

Who tempt their reason to deny

God, whom their passions dare defy,

And boast that they alone are free

Who reach this dire extremity!