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By magic domination,
The Heaven-permitted vent
Of purblind mortal passion,
Was wrought her punishment.

The Flower, the Form within it,
What served they in her need?
Her port she could not win it,
Nor from mishap be freed.

The tempest overcame her,
And she was seen no more;

But gently, gently blame her-
She cast a Pearl ashore.

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Blest Pair! whate'er befall
Your faith in Him approve
Who from frail earth can call you
To bowers of endless love!

you,

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1830.

THE RIVER DUDDON.

A SERIES OF SONNETS.

THE River Duddon rises upon Wrynose Fell, on the confines of Westmoreland, Cumberland, and Lancashire; and, having served as a boundary to the two last Counties for the space of about twenty-five miles, enters the Irish Sea, between the Isle of Walney and the Lordship of Millum.

TO THE REV. DR. WORDSWORTH

(WITH THE SONNETS TO THE RIVER DUDDON, AND OTHER POEMS IN THIS COLLECTION, 1820.)

The Minstrels played their Christmas tune
To-night beneath my cottage-eaves;
While, smitten by a lofty moon,

The encircling laurels, thick with leaves,
Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen,
That overpowered their natural green.

Through hill and valley every breeze
Had sunk to rest with folded wings :
Keen was the air, but could not freeze,
Nor check, the music of the strings;
So stout and hardy were the band

That scraped the chords with strenuous hand!

And who but listened?-till was paid
Respect to every Inmate's claim:
The greeting given, the music played,
In honour of each household name,
Duly pronounced with lusty call,

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And Merry Christmas" wished to all!

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O Brother! I revere the choice

That took thee from thy native hills;
And it is given thee to rejoice:
Though public care full often tills
(Heaven only witness of the toil)
A barren and ungrateful soil.

Yet, would that Thou, with me and mine,
Hadst heard this never-failing rite;
And seen on other faces shine

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A true revival of the light

Which Nature and these rustic Powers,

In simple childhood, spread through ours!

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For pleasure hath not ceased to wait
On these expected annual rounds;

Whether the rich man's sumptuous gate
Call forth the unelaborate sounds,
Or they are offered at the door

That guards the lowliest of the poor.

How touching, when, at midnight, sweep
Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark,

To hear-and sink again to sleep!

Or, at an earlier call, to mark,

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By blazing fire, the still suspense

Of self-complacent innocence;

The mutual nod, the grave disguise

Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er ;

And some unbidden tears that rise

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For names once heard, and heard no more;

Tears brightened by the serenade

For infant in the cradle laid.

Ah! not for emerald fields alone,

With ambient streams more pure and bright
Than fabled Cytherea's zone

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Glittering before the Thunderer's sight,
Is to my heart of hearts endeared

The ground where we were born and reared!

Hail, ancient Manners! sure defence,
Where they survive, of wholesome laws;
Remnants of love whose modest sense
Thus into narrow room withdraws;
Hail, Usages of pristine mould,

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And ye that guard them, Mountains old!

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Bear with me, Brother! quench the thought
That slights this passion, or condemns ;
If thee fond Fancy ever brought
From the proud margin of the Thames,
And Lambeth's venerable towers,

To humbler streams, and greener bowers.

Yes, they can make, who fail to find,
Short leisure even in busiest days;
Moments, to cast a look behind,
And profit by those kindly rays

That through the clouds do sometimes steal,
And all the far-off past reveal.

Hence, while the imperial City's din
Beats frequent on thy satiate ear,

A pleased attention I

may win

To agitations less severe,

That neither overwhelm nor cloy,
But fill the hollow vale with joy !

I.

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NOT envying Latian shades—if yet they throw A grateful coolness round that crystal Spring, Bandusia, prattling as when long ago

The Sabine Bard was moved her praise to sing; Careless of flowers that in perennial blow Round the moist marge of Persian fountains

cling;

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Heedless of Alpine torrents thundering Through ice-built arches radiant as heaven's bow;

I seek the birth-place of a native Stream.—
All hail, ye mountains! hail, thou morning

light!

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Better to breathe at large on this clear height Than toil in needless sleep from dream to

dream:

Pure flow the verse, pure, vigorous, free, and bright,

For Duddon, long-loved Duddon, is my theme!

II.

CHILD of the clouds! remote from every taint
Of sordid industry thy lot is cast;

Thine are the honours of the lofty waste;
Not seldom, when with heat the valleys faint,
Thy handmaid Frost with spangled tissue

quaint

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Thy cradle decks;-to chant thy birth, thou

hast

No meaner Poet than the whistling Blast,
And Desolation is thy Patron-saint!

She guards thee, ruthless Power! who would

not spare

Those mighty forests, once the bison's screen, 10 Where stalked the huge deer to his shaggy lair' Through paths and alleys roofed with darkest

green;

Thousands of years before the silent air

Was pierced by whizzing shaft of hunter keen!

III.

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How shall I paint thee?-Be this naked stone
My seat, while I give way to such intent;
Pleased could my verse, a speaking monument,
Make to the eyes of men thy features known.
But as of all those tripping lambs not one
Outruns his fellows, so hath Nature lent
To thy beginning nought that doth present
Peculiar ground for hope to build upon.
To dignify the spot that gives thee birth
No sign of hoar Antiquity's esteem

10

The deer alluded to is the Leigh, a gigantic species long since extinct.

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