The magpie chatters with delight;
The mountain raven's youngling brood
Have left the mother and the nest;
And they go rambling east and west
In search of their own food;

Or through the glittering vapours dart
In very wantonness of heart.

II.

Beneath a rock, upon the grass,
Two boys are sitting in the sun;
It seems they have no work to do,
Or that their work is done.

On pipes of sycamore they play
The fragments of a Christmas hymn;
Or with that plant which in our dale
We call stag-horn, or fox's tail,
Their rusty hats they trim:
And thus, as happy as the day,
Those shepherds wear the time away.

III.

Along the river's stony marge
The sand-lark chants a joyous song;
The thrush is busy in the wood,
And carols loud and strong.

A thousand lambs are on the rocks,
All newly born! both earth and sky
Keep jubilee; and more than all,
Those boys with their green coronal;
They never hear the cry,

That plaintive cry! which up the hill
Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll.

IV.

Said Walter, leaping from the ground, "Down to the stump of yon old yew We'll for our whistles run a race.'

-Away the shepherds flew.

They leapt they ran-and when they carr

Right opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll,

Seeing that he should lose the prize,

"Stop!" to his comrade Walter cries

James stopp'd with no good will:

Said Walter then, "Your task is here, "Twill keep you working half a year.

V.

"Now cross where I shall cross-come on,

And follow me where I shall lead "

The other took him at his word;

But did not like the deed.

It was a spot, which you may see
If ever you to Langdale go:
Into a chasm a mighty block

Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock:

The gulf is deep below;

And in a basin black and small

Receives a lofty waterfall.

VI.

With staff in hand across the cleft
The challenger began his march;
And now, all eyes and feet, hath gain'd
The middle of the arch.

When list! he hears a piteous moan→
Again!-his heart within him dies-
His pulse is stopp'd, his breath is lost,
He totters, pale as any ghost,
And, looking down, he spies
A lamb, that in the pool is pent
Within that black and frightful rent.

VII.

The lamb had slipp'd into the stream,
And safe without a bruise or wound
The cataract had borne him down

Into the gulf profound.

His dam had seen him when he fell,

She saw him down the torrent borne ;

And, while with all a mother's love

She from the lofty rocks above

Sent forth a cry forlorn,

The lamb, still swimming round and round

Made answer to that plaintive sound.

VIII.

When he had learnt what thing it was,

That sent this rueful cry, I ween,
The boy recover'd heart, and told
The sight which he had seen.
Both gladly now deferr'd their task;
Nor was there wanting other aid ;-
A Poet, one who loves the brooks
Far better than the sages' books,
By chance had thither stray'd;
And there the helpless lamb he found,
By those huge rocks encompass'd round.

IX.

He drew it gently from the pool,

And brought it forth into the light:

The shepherds met him with his charge,

An unexpected sight!

Into their arms the lamb they took,

Said they, "He's neither maim'd nor scarr'd."
Then up the steep ascent they hied,

And placed him at his mother's side;

And gently did the Bard

Those idle shepherd-boys upbraid,

And bade them better mind their trade.

TO H. C.

SIX YEARS OLD.

THOU! whose fancies from afar are brought;
Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel,
And fittest to unutterable thought

The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol;
Thou fairy voyager! that dost float

In such clear water, that thy boat

May rather scem

To brood on air than on an earthly stream;
Suspended in a stream as clear as sky,

Where earth and heaven do make one imagery;

O blessed vision! happy child!

That art so exquisitely wild,

I think of thee with many fears

For what may be thy lot in future years.

I thought of times when pain might be thy guest,

Lord of thy house and hospitality;

And grief, uneasy lover! never rest

But when she sate within the touch of thee.

Oh! too industrious folly!

Oh! vain and causeless melancholy!

Nature will either end thee quite ;

Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,

Preserve for thee, by individual right,

A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks.
What hast thou to do with sorrow,

Or the injuries of to-morrow?

Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth,

Not framed to undergo unkindly shocks;

Or to be trail'd along the soiling earth;

A

gem that glitters while it lives;

And no forewarning gives;

But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife

Slips in a moment out of life.

INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS

IN CALLING FORTH AND STRENGTHENING THE IMAGINATION IN BOYHOOD AND EARLY YOUTH:

FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.*

WISDOM and spirit of the universe!
Thou soul, that art the eternity of thought!
And giv'st to forms and images a breath
And everlasting motion! not in vain,

By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn
Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me
The passions that build up our human soul;
Not with the mean and vulgar works of man,-
But with high objects, with enduring things,
With life and nature; purifying thus
The elements of feeling and of thought,
And sanctifying by such discipline
Both pain and fear,-until we recognize
A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.

Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me
With stinted kindness. In November days,
When vapours, rolling down the valleys, made
A lonely scene more lonesome; among woods
At noon; and 'mid the calm of summer nights,
When, by the margin of the trembling lake,
Beneath the gloomy hills, I homeward went
In solitude, such intercourse was mine:
"Twas mine among the fields both day and night,
And by the waters all the summer long.

And in the frosty season, when the sun
Was set, and, visible for many a mile,

The cottage windows through the twilight blazed,
I heeded not the summons ;-happy time

It was indeed for all of us; for me

It was a time of rapture !-Clear and loud
The village clock toll'd six-1 wheel'd about,
Proud and exulting, like an untired horse
That cares not for its home.-All shod with steel,
We hiss'd along the polish'd ice, in games
Confederate, imitative of the chase

And woodland pleasures,-the resounding horn,
The pack loud-bellowing, and the hunted hare.
So through the darkness and the cold wo flew,
And not a voice was idle: with the din
Meanwhile the precipices rang aloud;
The leafless trees and every icy crag
Tingled like iron; while the distant hills
Into the tumult sent an alien sound

This extract is reprinted from "THE FRIEND."

Of melancholy, not unnoticed, while the stars,
Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west
The orange sky of evening died away.

Not seldom from the uproar I retired
Into a silent bay,-or sportively

Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng,
To cut across the image of a star,

That gleam'd upon the ice; and oftentimes,
When we had given our bodies to the wind,
And all the shadowy banks on either side

Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning sti?!
The rapid line of motion, then at once
Have I, reclining back upon my heels,
Stopp'd short; yet still the solitary cliffs
Wheel'd by me-even as if the earth had roll'd
With visible motion her diurnal round!
Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,
Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watch'd
Till all was tranquil as a summer sea.

THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY.

A TALE TOLD BY THE FIRESIDE.

Now we are tired of boisterous joy,
We've romp'd enough, my little Boy!
Jane hangs her head upon my breast,
And you shall bring your stool and rest;
This corner is your own.

There! take your seat, and let me see
That you can listen quietly;
And, as I promised, I will tell
That strange adventure which befell
A poor Blind Highland Boy.

A Highland Boy!-why call him so?
Because, my darlings, ye must know,
In land where many a mountain towers,
Far higher hills than these of ours!
He from his birth had lived.

He ne'er had seen one earthly sight;
the day; the stars, the night:

The sun,

Or tree, or butterfly, or flower,
Or fish in stream, or bird in bower,
Or woman, man, or child.

And yet he neither droop'd nor pined,
Nor had a melancholy mind;

For God took pity on the Boy,

And was his friend, and gave him joy
Of which we nothing know.

G