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THE RIVER DUDDON:

A SERIES OF SONNETS:

VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA;

AND OTHER POEMS,

TO WHICH IS ANNEXED A TOPOGRAPHICAL DESCRIPTION OF THE COUNTRY OF THE LAKES IN THE NORTH OF ENGLAND.

BY

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

LONDON : PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, & BROWN,

PATERNOSTER ROW.

1820.

Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2011 with funding from Brigham Young University

http://www.archive.org/details/riverduddonserieOOword

TO THE REV.

CHRISTOPHER WORDSWORTH, D. D.

&c. &c.

THESE SONNETS,

CALLED FORTH BY ONE OF THE MOST BEAUTIFUL STREAMS OF HIS NATIVE COUNTY,

ARE RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED,

HIS AFFECTIONATE BROTHER,

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

A ^

ADVERTISEMENT.

This Publication, together with " The Thanksgiving Ode," Jan. 18. 1816, " The Tale of Peter Bell," and ** The Waggoner," completes the third and last volume of the Author's Miscellaneous Poems.

CONTENTS.

'/.-u

Page

The River Duddon, &c. - - - - - 1

Vaudracour and Julia - - - - - 71

On the Longest Day ------. 87

Lament of Mary Queen of Scots - - - 92

To on her First Ascent to the Summit of Helvellyn 96

To Lycoris - - -"---99

To the same -_-_-- - 102

The Brownie's Cell 104

Composed at Cora Lynn - - - - - 110

To the Rev. Dr. W. with Sonnets to the River

Duddon, &c. 113

Repentance - - - - ---118

Song for the Spinning-Wheel - - - - 121

Hint from the Mountains - - - - - 123

Dion " - - 125

-Vt Mf^-' ^ ' The Pilgrim's Dream - . - . . 133

£./'.^\ Artegal and Elidure - - - - - -138

vri.^^- A Fact and an Imagination, or Canute and Alfred - 154

\V^m4 To " Those silver clouds," &c. - - 157

4'«m4>4 Sonnets - - 159 to 163

^^^ Inscriptions, supposed to be found in and near a

*ju, Hermit's Cell ----- . 154

/ '^ \^ The Prioress's Tale (from Chaucer) - - ^ - 175

September, 1819, - 187

Upon the same Occasion - - - - - 189

VIU CONTENTS.

Page Ode, composed upon an Evening of extraordinary

Splendor and Beauty - - - - 193

" A little onward," &c. - .^- - - - 198

Ode, The Pass of Kirkstone - - - - 201

Ode, 1817, - - - 208

Topographical Descriptiojj pf the Country of the

Lakes 215

THE

''RIVER DUDDON.

A SERIES OF

SONNETS.

B

A

The River Duddon rises upon Wrynose Tell, on the confines of Westmorland, Cumberland, and Lanca- shire ; ayid, serm7ig as a boundary to the tnsoo latter counties, for the space of about twenty-five miles, enters the Irish sea, between the isle of Walney and the lordship of Milium,

I.

Not envying shades which haply yet may throw

A grateful coolness round that rocky spring,

Bandusia, once responsive to the string

Of the Horatian lyre with babbling flow ;

Careless of flowers that in perennial blow

Round the moist marge of Persian fountains cling ;

Heedless of Alpine torrents thundering

Through icy portals radiant as heaven's bow ;

I seek the birth-place of a native Stream. —

All hail ye mountains, hail thou morning light !

Better to breathe upon this aery height

Than pass in needless sleep from dream to dream ;

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

For Duddon, long lov'd Duddon, is my theme !

B 2

THE RIVER DUDDON.

II,

»

Child of the clouds ! remote from every taint Of sordid industry thy lot is cast ; Thine are the honors of the lofty waste ; Not seldom, when with heat the valleys faint, Thy hand-maid Frost with spangled tissue quaint Thy cradle decks ; — to chaunt 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. Where stalk'd the huge deer to his shaggy lair * Through paths and alleys roofed with sombre green, Thousand of years before the silent air Was pierced by whizzing shaft of hunter keen I

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

THE RIVER DUDDON.

III.

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 grounds for hope to build upon. To dignify the spot that gives thee birth, No sign of hoar Antiquity's esteem Appears, and none of modern Fortune's care ; Yet thou thyself hast round thee shed a gleam Of brilliant moss, instinct with freshness rare ; Prompt offering to thy Foster-mother, Earth !

B 3

THE RIVER DUDDON.

IV.

Take, cradled Nursling of the mountain, take

This parting glance, no negligent adieu !

A Protean change seems wrought while I pursue

The curves, a loosely-scattered chain doth make ;

Or rather thou appear'st a glistering snake,

Silent, and to the gazer's eye untrue,

Thridding with sinuous lapse the rushes, through

Dwarf willows gliding, and by ferny brake.

Starts from a dizzy steep the undaunted Rill

Rob'd instantly in garb of snow-white foam ;

And laughing dares the Adventurer, who hath clomb

So high, a rival purpose to fulfil ;

Else let the Dastard backward wend, and roam,

Seeking less bold achievement, where he will !

THE RIVER DUDDON,

V.

Sole listener, Diiddon ! to the breeze that play'd With thy clear voice, I caught the fitful sound Wafted o'er sullen moss and craggy mound, Unfruitful solitudes, that seem'd to upbraid The sun in heaven ! — but now, to form a shade For Thee, green alders have together wound Their foliage ; ashes flung their arms around ; And birch-trees risen in silver colonnade. And thou hast also tempted here to rise, 'Mid sheltering pines, this Cottage rude and giey; Whose ruddy children, by the mother's eyes Carelessly watch'd, sport through the summer day, Thy pleas'd associates : — light as endless May On infant bosoms lonely Nature lies.

B 4

•t'

8 THE RIVER DUDDON.

VI.

* FLOWERS.

Ere yet our course was graced with social trees It lacked not old remains of hawthorn bowers. Where small birds warbled to their paramours ; And, earlier still, was heard the hum of bees; I saw them ply their harmless robberies, And caught the fragrance which the sundry flowers. Fed by the stream with soft perpetual showers, Plenteously yielded to the vagrant breeze. There bloomed the strawberry of the wilderness ; The trembling eye-bright showed her sapphire blue. The thyme her purple like the blush of even ; And, if the breath of some to no caress Invited, forth they peeped so fair to view. All kinds alike seemed favourites of Heaven.

%

^ THE RIVER DUDDON.

9-

VII.

" Change me, some God, into that breathing rose !"

The love-sick Stripling fancifully sighs.

The envied flower beholding, as it lies

On Laura's breast, in exquisite repose ;

Or he would pass into her Bird, that throws

The darts of song from out its wiry cage ;

Enraptured, — could he for himself engage

The thousandth part of what the Nymph bestows,

And what the little careless Innocent

Ungraciously receives. Too daring choice I

There are whose calmer mind it would content

To be an uncuUed flow'ret of the glen.

Fearless of plough and scythe ; or darkling wren,

That tunes on Duddon's banks her slender voice.

10 THE KIVEK DUDDON.

VIII.

What aspect bore the Man who roved or fled, First of his tribe, to this dark dell — who first In this pellucid Current slaked his thirst ? What hopes came with him ? what designs were spread Along his path ? His unprotected bed What dreams encompassed ? Was the Intruder nurs'd ^ In hideous usages, and rites accurs'd,

That thinned the living and disturbed the dead ?

No voice replies ; — the earth, the air is mute ;

And Thou, blue Streamlet, murmuring yield'st no more

Than a soft record that whatever fruit

Of ignorance thou might'st witness heretofore,

Thy function was to heal and to restore.

To soothe and cleanse, not madden and pollute !

THE RIVER DUDDON. Ill

IX.

THE STEPPING-STONES.

The struggling Rill insensibly is grown

Into a Brook of loud and stately march,

Cross'd ever and anon by plank and arch ;

And, for like use, lo ! what might seem a zone

Chosen for ornament ; stone match'd with stone

In studied symmetry, with interspace

For the clear waters to pursue their race

Without restraint. — How swiftly have they flown I

Succeeding — still succeeding ! Here the Child

Puts, when the high-swoln Flood runs fierce and wild,

His budding courage to the proof; — and here

Declining Manhood learns to note the sly

And sure encroachments of infirmity.

Thinking how fast time runs, life's end how near !

12 THE RIVER DUDDON.

X.

THE SAME SUBJECT.

Not so that Pair whose youthful spirits dance With prompt emotion, urging them to pass ; A sweet confusion checks the Shepherd-lass ; Blushing she eyes the dizzy flood askance, — To stop ashamed — too timid to advance; She ventures once again — another pause ! His outstretched hand He tauntingly withdraws — She sues for help with piteous utterance ! Chidden she chides again ; the thrilling touch Both feel when he renews the wish'd-for aid : Ah ! if their fluttering hearts should stir too much, Should beat too strongly, both may be betrayed. The frolic Loves who, from yon high rock, see The struggle, clap their wings for victory 1

THE RIVER DUDDON. 13

XL

THE FAERY CHASM.

No fiction was it of the antique age :

A sky-blue stone, within this sunless cleft,

Is of the very foot-marks unbereft

Which tiny Elves impressed ; — on that smooth stage

Dancing with all their brilliant equipage

In secret revels — haply after theft

Of some sweet babe, flower stolen, and coarse weed left,

For the distracted mother to assuage

Her grief with, as she might ! — But, where, oh where

Is traceable a vestige of the notes

That ruled those dances, wild in character ?

— Deep underground? — Or in the upper air,

On the shrill wind of midnight ? or where floats

O'er twilight fields the autumnal gossamer ?

U THE RIVER DUDDON.

XII.

HINTS FOR THE FANCY.

On, loitering Muse ! — The swift Stream chides us — on

Albeit his deep-worn channel doth immure

Objects immense, pourtray'd in miniature,

Wild shapes for many a strange comparison !

Niagaras, Alpine passes, and anon

Abodes of Naiads, calm abysses pure,

Bright liquid mansions, fashion'd to endure

When the broad Oak drops, a leafless skeleton.

And the solidities of mortal pride.

Palace and Tower, are crumbled into dust !

— The Bard who walks with Duddon for his guide,

Shall find such toys of Fancy thickly set : —

Turn from the sight, enamoured Muse — we must ;

Leave them — and, if thou canst, without regret !

THE RIVER DUDDON. 15

XIII.

OPEN PROSPECT.

Hail to the fields — with Dwellings sprinkled o'er.

And one small Hamlet, under a green hill,

Clustered with barn and byer, and spouting mill !

A glance suffices, — should we wish for more.

Gay June would scorn us ; — but when bleak winds roar

Through the stiff lance-like shoots of pollard ash,

Dread swell of sound ! loud as the gusts that lash

The matted forests of Ontario's shore

By wasteful steel unsmitten, then would I

Turn into port, — and, reckless of the gale,

Reckless of angry Duddon sweeping by,

While the warm hearth exalts the mantling ale,

Laugh with the generous household heartily,

At all the merry pranks of Donnerdale !

16 THE RIVER DUDDON.

i|

XIV.

O Mountain Stream ! the Shepherd and his Cot Are privileged Inmates of deep solitude ; Nor would the nicest Anchorite exclude A field or two of brighter green, or plot Of tillage-ground, that seemeth like a spot Of stationary sunshine : — thou hast viewed These only, Duddon ! with their paths renewed By fits and starts, yet this contents thee not. Thee hath some awful Spirit impelled to leave, Utterly to desert, the haunts of men, Though simple thy companions were and few ; And through this wilderness a passage cleave Attended but by thy own voice, save when The Clouds and Fowls of the air thy way pursue !

THE RIVER DUDDON. 17

XV.

From this deep chasm — where quivering sun-beams play

Upon its loftiest crags — mine eyes behold

A gloomy Niche, capacious, blank, and cold ;

A concave free from shrubs and mosses grey ;

In semblance fresh, as if, with dire affray.

Some Statue, placed amid these regions old

For tutelary service, thence had rolled.

Startling the flight of timid Yesterday !

Was it by mortals sculptured ? — weary slaves

Of slow endeavour ! or abruptly cast

Into rude shape by fire, with roaring blast

Tempestuously let loose from central caves ?

Or fashioned by the turbulence of waves.

Then, when o'er highest hills the Deluge past ?

€

18 THE RIVER DUDDON.

XVI.

AMERICAN TRADITION.

Such fruitless questions may not long beguile Or plague the fancy, mid the sculptured shows Conspicuous yet where Oroonoko flows ; There would the Indian answer with a smile Aim^d at the White Man's ignorance, the while Of the Great Waters telling, how they rose, Covered the plains, and wandering where they chose^ Mounted through every intricate defile. Triumphant, — Inundation wide and deep. O'er which his Fathers urged, to ridge and steep Else unapproachable, their buoyant way ; And carved, on mural cliff's undreaded side, Sun, moon, and stars, and beast of chase or prey ; Whatever they sought, shunn'd, loved, or deified ! *

* See Humboldt's Personal Narrative.

THE RIVER DUDDON. 19

XVII.

RETURN.

A DARK plume fetch me from yon blasted Yew Perched on whose top the Danish Raven croaks; Aloft, the imperial Bird of Rome invokes Departed ages, shedding where he flew Loose fragments of wild wailing that bestrew The clouds, and thrill the chambers of the rocks, And into silence hush the timorous flocks, That slept so calmly while the nightly dew Moisten'd each fleece, beneath the twinkling stars : These couch'd mid that lone Camp on Hardknot's height. Whose Guardians bent the knee to Jove and Mars : These near that mystic Round of Druid frame, Tardily sinking by its proper weight Deep into patient Earth, from whose smooth breast it came !

c 2

20 THE RIVER DUDDON.

XVIII.

SEATHWAITE CHAPEL.

Sacred Religion, " mother of form and fear/' Dread Arbitress of mutable respect, New rites ordaining when the old are wrecked. Or cease to please the fickle worshipper ; If one strong wish may be embosomed here. Mother of Love ! for this deep vale, protect Truth's holy lamp, pure source of bright effect. Gifted to purge the vapoury atmosphere That seeks to stifle it ; — as in those days W^hen this low Pile a Gospel Teacher knew. Whose good works formed an endless retinue : Such Priest as Chaucer sang in fervent lays ; Such as the heaven-taught skill of Herbert drew; And tender Goldsmith crown'd with deathless praise !

^'

THE RIVER DUDDON. 21

XIX.

TRIBUTARY STREAM.

My frame hath often trembled with delight

When hope presented some far-distant good.

That seemed from heaven descending, like the flood

Of yon pure waters, from their aery height.

Hurrying with lordly Duddon to unite ;

Who, mid a world of images imprest

On the calm depth of his transparent breast,

Appears to cherish most that Torrent white,

The fairest, softest, liveliest of them all !

And seldom hath ear listened to a tune

More lulling than the busy hum of Noon,

Swoln by that voice — whose murmur musical

Announces to the thirsty fields a boon

Dewy and fresh, till showers again shall fall.

C 3

22 THE RIVER DUDDOK

XX.

THE PLAIN OF DONNERDALE.

The old inventive Poets, had they seen,

Or rather felt, the entrancement that detains

Thy waters, Duddon I mid these flow'ry plains,

The still repose, the liquid lapse serene,

Transferr'd to bowers imperishably green.

Had beautified Elysium ! But these chains

Will soon be broken ; — a rough course remains,

Rough as the past ; where Thou, of placid mien,

Innocuous as a firstling of a flock.

And countenanced like a soft cerulean sky,

Shalt change thy temper ; and, with many a shock

Given and received in mutual jeopardy,

Dance like a Bacchanal from rock to rock,

Tossing her frantic thyrsus wide and high !

THE RIVER DUDDON. 23

XXI.

Whence that low voice ? — A whisper from the heart.

That told of days long past when here I roved

With friends and kindred tenderly beloved ;

Some who had early mandates to depart,

Yet are allowed to steal my path athwart

By Duddon's side ; once more do we unite,

Once more beneath the kind Earth's tranquil light ;

And smothered joys into new being start.

From her unworthy seat, the cloudy stall

Of Time, breaks forth triumphant Memory ;

Her glistening tresses bound, yet light and free

As golden locks of birch, that rise and fall

On gales that breathe too gently to recal

Aught of the fading year's inclemency !

c 4?

t

24? * THE RIVER DUDDON.

9

I

XXII.

TRADITION.

A LOVE-LORN Maid, at some far-distant time,

Came to this hidden pool, whose depths surpass

In crystal clearness Dian's looking-glass ;

And, gazing, saw that rose, which from the prime

Derives its name, reflected as the chime

Of echo doth reverberate some sweet sound :

The starry treasure from the blue profound

She long'd to ravish ; — shall she plunge, or climb

The humid precipice, and seize the guest

Of April, smiling high in upper air?

Desperate alternative ! what fiend could dare

To prompt the thought ? — Upon the steep rock's breast

The lonely Primrose yet renews its bloom,

Untouched memento of her hapless doom !

THE RIVER DUDDON. 25

XXIII.

SHEEP WASHING.

Sad thoughts, avaunt ! — the fervour of the year.

Poured on the fleece- encumbered flock, invites

To laving currents, for prelusive rites

Duly performed before the Dales-men shear

Their panting charge. The distant Mountains hear.

Hear and repeat, the turmoil that unites

Clamour of boys with innocent despites

Of barking dogs, and bleatings from strange fear.

Meanwhile, if Duddon's spotless breast receive

Unwelcome mixtures as the uncouth noise

Thickens, the pastoral River will forgive

Such wrong ; nor need we blame the licensed joys

Though false to Nature's quiet equipoise :

Frank are the sports, the stains are fugitive.

26 THE RIVER DUDDON.

XXIV.

THE RESTING-PLACE.

Mid-noon is past ; — upon the sultry mead

No zephyr breathes, no cloud its shadow throws:

If we advance unstrengthen'd by repose,

Farewell the solace of the vagrant reed.

This Nook, with woodbine hung and straggling weed.

Tempting recess as ever pilgrim chose,

Half grot, half arbour, proffers to enclose

Body and mind, from molestation freed.

In narrow compass — narrow as itself:

Or if the Fancy, too industrious Elf,

Be loth that we should breathe awhile exempt

From new incitements friendly to our task.

There wants not stealthy prospect, that may tempt

Loose Idless to forego her wily mask.

THE RIVER DUDDON. / 27

XXV.

Methinks 'twere no unprecedented feat

Should some benignant Minister of air

Lift, and encircle with a cloudy chair,

The One for whom my heart shall ever beat

V^ith tenderest love ; — or, if a safer seat

Atween his downy wings be furnished, there

Would lodge her, and the cherish'd burden bear

O'er hill and valley to this dim retreat !

Rough ways my steps have trod ; too rough and long

For her companionship ; here dwells soft ease :

With sweets which she partakes not some distaste

Mingles, and lurking consciousness of wrong ;

Languish the flowers ; the waters seem to waste

Their vocal charm ; their sparklings cease to please.

m THE RIVER DUDDON.

XXVI.

Return, Content ! for fondly I pursued, Even when a child, the Streams — unheard, unseen ; Through tangled woods, impending rocks between ; Or, free as air, with flying inquest viewed The sullen reservoirs whence their bold brood. Pure as the morning, fretful, boisterous, keen. Green as the salt-sea billows, white and green. Poured down the hills, a choral multitude I Nor have I tracked their course for scanty gains ; They taught me random cares and truant joys, That shield from mischief and preserve from stains Vague minds, while men are growing out of boys; Maturer Fancy owes to their rough noise Impetuous thoughts that brook not servile reins.

i

THE RIVER DUDDON. 29

XXVII.

JOURNEY RENEWED.

1 ROSE while yet the cattle, heat-opprest, Crowded together under rustling trees, Brushed by the current of the water-breeze ; And for their sakes, and love of all that rest, On Duddon's margin, in the sheltering nest ; For all the startled scaly tribes that slink Into his coverts, and each fearless link Of dancing insects forged upon his breast; For these, and hopes and recollections worn Close to the vital seat of human clay ; Glad meetings — tender partings — that upstay The drooping mind of absence, by vows sworn In his pure presence near the trysting thorn ; I thanked the Leader of my onward way.

30 THE RIVER DUDDON.

XXVIII.

No record tells of lance opposed to lance, Horse charging horse mid these retired domains ; Nor that their turf drank purple from the veinj» Of heroes falPn, or struggling to advance, Till doubtful combat issued in a trance Of victory, that struck through heart and reins. Even to the inmost seat of mortal pains, And lightened o'er the pallid countenance. Yet, to the loyal and the brave, who lie In the blank earth, neglected and forlorn, The passing V^inds memorial tribute pay ; The Torrents chaunt their praise, inspiring scorn Of power usurped, — with proclamation high. And glad acknowledgment of lawful sway.

THE RIVER DUDDON. M

XXIX.

Who swerves from innocence, who makes divorce

Of that serene companion — a good liame,

Recovers not his loss ; but walks with shame,

With doubt, with fear, and haply with remorse.

And oft-times he, who, yielding to the force

Of chance-temptation, ere his journey end,

From chosen comrade turns, or faithful friend,

In vain shall rue the broken intercourse.

Not so with such as loosely wear the chain

That binds them, pleasant River ! to thy side : —

Through the rough copse wheel Thou with hasty stride,

I choose to saunter o'er the grassy plain.

Sure, when the separation has been tried.

That we, who part in love, shall meet again.

32 THE RIVER DUDDON.

The Kirk of Ulpha to the Pilgrim's eye

Is welcome as a Star^ that doth present

Its shining forehead through the peaceful rent

Of a black cloud diffused o'er half the sky ;

Or as a fruitful palm-tree towering high

O'er the parched waste beside an Arab's tent ;

Or the Indian tree whose branches, downward bent,

Take root again, a boundless canopy.

How sweet were leisure ! could it yield no more

Than mid that wave-washed Church-yard to recline,

From pastoral graves extracting thoughts divine ;

Or there to pace, and mark the summits hoar

Of distant moon-lit mountains faintly shine,

Sooth'd by the unseen River's gentle roar.

THE RIVER DUDDON, 33

XXXI.

Not hurled precipitous from steep to steep ; Lingering no more mid flower-enamelled lands And blooming thickets ; nor by rocky bands Held; — but in radiant progress toward the Deep Where mightiest rivers into powerless sleep Sink, and forget their nature ; — 7iow expands Majestic Duddon, over smooth flat sands, Gliding in silence with unfettered sweep ! Beneath an ampler sky a region wide Is opened round him ; — hamlets, towers, and towns, And blue-topp'd hills, behold him from afar ; In stately mien to sovereign Thames allied. Spreading his bosom under Kentish downs. With Commerce freighted or triumphant War.

\

84 THE RIVER DUDDON.

XXXII.

But here no cannon thunders to the gale ; Upon the wave no haughty pendants cast A crimson splendour ; lowly is the mast That rises here, and humbly spread the sail ; While less disturbed than in the narrow Vale Through which with strange vicissitudes he pass'd, The Wanderer seeks that receptacle vast Where all his unambitious functions fail. And may thy Poet, cloud-born Stream ! be free. The sweets of earth contentedly resigned. And each tumultuous working left behind At seemly distance, to advance like Thee, Prepared, in peace of heart, in calm of mind And soul, to mingle with Eternity!

THE RIVER DUDDON, 35

XXXIIL

CONCLUSION.

I THOUGHT of Thee, my partner and my guide,

As being past away. — Vain sympathies !

For, backward, Duddon ! as I cast my eyes,

I see what was, and is, and will abide ;

Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide ;

The Form remains, the Function never dies ;

While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise,

We Men, who in our morn of youth defied

The elements, must vanish ; — be it so !

Enough, if something from our hands have power

To live, and act, and serve the future hour ;

And if, as tow'rd the silent tomb we go,

Thro' love, thro' hope, and faith's transcendant dower,

We feel that we are greater than we know.

D 2

POSTSCRIPT.

A Poet, whose works are not yet known as they deserve to be, thus enters upon his description of the " Ruins of Rome,"

" The rising Sun

Flames on the ruins in the purer air

Towering aloft ;"

and ends thus,

"The setting Sun displays

His visible great round, between yon towers.

As through two shady cliffs."

Mr. Crowe, in his excellent loco-descriptive Poem, " Lewesdon Hill," is still more expeditious, finishing the whole on a May-morning, before breakfast.

" To-morrow for severer thought, but now To breakfast, and keep festival to-day."

No one believes, or is desired to believe, that these Poems were actually composed within such limits of time, nor was

D 3

38 POSTSCRIPT.

there any reason why a prose statement should acquaint the Reader with the plain fact, to the disturbance of poetic cre- dibihty. But, in the present case, I am compelled to men- tion, that the above series of Sonnets was the growth of many years; — the one which stands the 14th was the first produced ; and others were added upon occasional visits to the Stream, or as recollections of the scenes upon its banks awakened a wish to describe them. In this manner I had proceeded insensibly, without perceiving that I was tres- passing upon ground pre-occupied, at least as far as inten- tion went, by Mr. Coleridge ; who, more than twenty years ago, used to speak of writing a rural Poem, to be entitled " The Brook," of which he has given a sketch in a recent publication. But a particular subject cannot, I think, much interfere with a general one ; and I have been further kept from encroaching upon any right Mr. C. may still wish to exercise, by the restriction which the frame of the Sonnet imposed upon me, narrowing unavoidably the range of thought, and precluding, though not without its advantages, many graces to which a freer movement of verse would na- turally have led.

May I not venture, then, to hope, that instead of being a hinderance, by anticipation of any part of the subject, these Sonnets may remind Mr. Coleridge of his own more comprehensive design, and induce him to fulfil it ? . There is a sympathy in streams, " one calleth to another ;" and, I would gladly believe, that " Tlie Brook" will, ere

POSTSCRIPT. 39

long, murmur in concert with " The Duddon." But, asking pardon for this fancy, I need not scruple to say, that those verses must indeed be ill-fated which can enter upon such pleasant walks of nature, without receiving and giving in- spiration. The power of waters over the minds of Poets has been acknowledged from the earliest ages ; — through the *' Flumina amem sylvas que inglorius" of Virgil, down to the sublime apostrophe to the great rivers of the earth, by Armstrong, and the simple ejaculation of Burns, (chosen, if I recollect right, by Mr. Coleridge, as a motto for his embryo " Brook")

" The Muse nae Poet ever fand her. Till by himsel' he learned to wander, Adown some trotting burn's meander,, And na* think lang."

D 4

NOTES.

Sonnet VI.

" There bloomed the strawberry of the wilderness, The trembling eye-bright showed her sapphire blue/'

These two lines are in a great measure taken from " The Beauties of Spring, a Juvenile Poem," by the Rev. Joseph Sympson, author of " The Vision of Alfred," &c. He was a native of Cumberland, and was educated in the vale of Grasmere, and at Hawkshead school : his poems are little known, but they contain passages of splendid description; and the versification of his " Vision of Alfred" is harmo- nious and animated. The present severe season, with its amusements, reminds me of some lines which I will trans- cribe as a favourable specimen. In describing the motions of the Sylphs, that constitute the strange machinery of his " Vision of Alfred," he uses the following illustrative simile: —

" glancing from their plumes A changeful light the azure vault illumes.

42 NOTES.

Less varying hues beneath the Pole adorn The streamy glories of the Boreal morn, That wavering to and fro their radiance shed On Bothnia's gulph with glassy ice o'erspread, Where the lone native, as he homeward glides, On polish'd sandals o'er the imprisoned tides, And still the balance of his frame preserves, ^Vheel'd on alternate foot in lengthening curves, Sees at a glance, above him and below, v

Two rival heav'ns with equal splendour glow. Sphered in the centre of the world he seems. For all around with soft effulgence gleams ; Stars, moons, and meteors ray oppose to ray. And solemn midnight pours the blaze of day."

He was a man of ardent feeling, and his faculties of mind, particularly his memory, were extraordinary. Brief notices of his life ought to find a place in the History of Westmorland.

Sonnet XVII.

The Eagle requires a large domain for its support ; but several pairs, not many years ago, were constantly resident in this country, building their nests in the steeps of Borrow- dale, Wastdale, Ennerdale, and on the eastern side of Helvellyn. Often have I heard anglers speak of the grandeur of their appearance, as they hovered over Red Tarn, in one

NOTES. 4S

of the coves of this mountain. The bird frequently returns, but is always destroyed. Not long since one visited Rydal Lake, and remained some hours near its banks ; the con- sternation which it occasioned among the different species of fowl, particularly the herons, was expressed by loud screams.

The horse also is naturally afraid of the eagle There were

several Roman stations among these mountains ; the most considerable seems to have been in a meadow at the head of Windermere, established, undoubtedly, as a check over the passes of Kirkstone, Dunmail-raise, and of Hardknot and Wrynose. On the margin of Rydal Lake, a coin of Trajan was discovered very lately. — The Roman Fort here alluded to, called by the country people ^^ Hardknot Castle^'' is most impressively situated half way down the hill on the right of the road that descends from Hardknot into Eskdale. It has escaped the notice of most antiquarians, and is but slightly mentioned by Lysons. — The Druidical Circle is about half a mile to the left of the road ascending Stone- side from the vale of Duddon : the country people call it ** Sunken Church"

The reader who may have been interested in the fore- going Sonnets, (which together may be considered as a Poem,) will not be displeased to find in this place a prose- account of the Duddon, extracted from Green's compre- hensive Guide to the Lakes, lately published. " The road leading from Coniston to Broughton is over high ground, and commands a view of the river Duddon ; which at high water

44 NOTES.

is a grand sight, having the beautiful and fertile lands of Lancashire and Cumberland stretching each way from its margin. In this extensive view, the face of nature is dis- played in a wonderful variety of hill and dale ; wooded grounds and buildings ; amongst the latter, Broughton Tower, seated on the crown of a hill, rising elegantly from the valley, is an object of extraordinary interest. Fertility on each side is gradually diminished, and lost in the superior heights of Blackcomb, in Cumberland, and the high lands between Kirkby and Ulverstone."

" The road from Broughton to Seathwaite is on the banks of the Duddon, and on its Lancashire side it is of various elevations. The river is an amusing companion, one while brawling and tumbling over rocky precipices, until the agi- tated water becomes again calm by arriving at a smoother and less precipitous bed, but its course is soon again ruffled, and the current thrown into every variety of form which the rocky channel of a river can give to water." (Vide Green's Guide to the Lakes, vol. i. pp. 98 — 100.)

After all, the traveller would be most gratified who should approach this beautiful Stream, neither at its source, as is done in the Sonnets, nor from its termination; but from Coniston over Walna Scar; first descending into a Httle circular valley, a collateral compartment of the long winding vale through which flows the Duddon. This recess, towards the close of September, when the after-grass of the meadows is still of a fresh green, with the leaves of many of the trees

NOTES. 45

faded, but perhaps none fallen, is truly enchanting. At a point elevated enough to shew the various objects in the valley, and not so high as to diminish their importance, the stranger will instinctively halt. On the fore-ground, a little below the most favourable station, a rude foot-bridge is thrown over the bed of the noisy brook, foaming by the way-side. Russet and craggy hills, of bold and varied outline, surround the level valley which is besprinkled with grey rocks plumed with birch trees. A few home-steads are interspersed in some places, peeping out from among the rocks like hermitages, whose scite has been chosen for the benefit of sun-shine as well as shelter ; in other instances, the dwelling-house, barn, and byer, compose together a cruciform structure, which, with its embowering trees and the ivy clothing part of the walls and roof, like a fleece, call to mind the remains of an ancient abbey. Time, in most cases, and nature every where, have given a sanctity to the humble works of man, that are scattered over this peaceful retirement. Hence a harmony of tone and colour, a per- fection and consummation of beauty, which would have been marred had aim or purpose interfered with the course of convenience, utility, or necessity. This unvitiated region stands in no need of the veil of twiHght to soften or disguise its features. As it glistens in the morning sunshine, it would fill the spectator's heart with gladsomeness. Looking from our chosen station, he would feel an impatience to rove among its pathways, to be greeted by the milk-maid, to

46 NOTES.

wander from house to house, exchanging " good-morrows'* as he passed the open doors ; but, at evening, when the sun is set, and a pearly light gleams from the western quarter of the sky, with an answering light from the smooth surface of the meadows ; when the trees are dusky, but each kind still distinguishable ; when the cool air has condensed the blue smoke rising from the cottage-chimneys ; when the dark mossy stones seem to sleep in the bed of the foaming Brook ; then, he would be unwiHing to move forward, not less from a reluctance to relinquish what he beholds, than from an apprehension of disturbing, by his approach, the quietness beneath him. Issuing from the plain of this valley, the Brook descends in a rapid torrent, passing by the church- yard of Seathwaite. The traveller is thus conducted at once into the midst of the wild and beautiful scenery which gave occasion to the Sonnets from the 14th to the 20th inclusive. From the point where the Seathwaite Brook joins the Duddon, is a view upwards, into the pass through which the River makes its way into the Plain of Donnerdale. The per- pendicular rock on the right bears the ancient British name of The Pen; the one opposite is called Walla-barrow Crag, a name that occurs in several places to designate rocks of the same character. The chaotic aspect of the scene is well marked by the expression of a stranger, who strolled out while dinner was preparing, and, at his return, being asked by his host, *' What way he had been wander- ing?" replied, " As far as it is finished T

NOTES. 47

The bed of the Duddon is here strewn with large frag- ments of rock fallen from aloft ; which, as Mr. Green truly says, " are happily adapted to the many-shaped water-falls," (or rather water-breaks, for none of them are high,) " dis- played in the short space of half a mile." That there is some hazard in frequenting these desolate places, I myself have had proof; for one night an immense mass of rock fell upon the very spot where, with a friend, I had lingered the day before. " The concussion," says Mr. Green, speaking of the event, (for he also, in the practice of his art, on that day sat exposed for a still longer time to the same peril) " was heard, not without alarm, by the neighbouring shep- herds." But to return to Seathwaite Church-yard : it con- tains the following inscription.

" In memory of the Reverend Robert Walker, who died the 25th of June, 1802, in the 93d year of his age, and 67th of his curacy at Seathwaite.

" Also, of Anne his wife, who died the 28th of January, in the 93d year of her age."

In the parish-register of Seathwaite Chapel, is this notice :

" Buried, June 28th, the Rev. Robert Walker. He was curate of Seathwaite sixty-six years. He was a man singu- lar for his temperance, industry, and integrity."

This individual is the Pastor alluded to, in the eighteenth Sonnet, as a worthy compeer of the Country Parson of Chaucer, &c. An abstract of his character is given in the

48 NOTES.

author's poem of The Excursion * ; and some account of his life, for it is worthy of being recorded, will not be out of place here.

MEMOIR OF THE REV. ROBERT WALKER.

In the year 1709, Robert Walker was born at Under- Crag, in Seathwaite ; he was the youngest of twelve children. His eldest brother, who inherited the small family-estate, died at Under-crag, aged ninety-four, being twenty -four years older than the subject of this Memoir, who was born of the same mother. Robert was a sickly infant ; and, through his boyhood and youth continuing to be of delicate frame and tender health, it was deemed best, according to the country phrase, to breed him a scholar; for it was not likely that he would be able to earn a livelihood by bodily labour. At that period few of these Dales were furnished with school- houses ; the children being taught to read and write in the chapel ; and in the same consecrated building, where he officiated for so many years both as preacher and school- master, he himself received the rudiments of his education. In his youth he became schoolmaster at Lowes-water ; not being called upon, probably, in that situation, to teach more than reading, writing, and arithmetic. But, by the assist-

* Page 326.

NOTES. 49

ance of a " Gentleman" in the neighbourhood, he acquired, at leisure hours, a knowledge of the classics, and became qualified for taking holy orders. Upon his ordination, he had the offer of two curacies ; the one, Torver, in the vale of Coniston, — the other, Seathwaite, in his native vale. The value of each was the same, viz. five pounds per annum : but the cure of Seathwaite having a cottage attached to it, as he wished to marry, he chose it in preference. The young person on whom his affections were fixed, though in the condition of a domestic servant, had given promise, by her serious and modest deportment, and by her virtuous dispositions, that she was worthy to become the help-mate of a man entering upon a plan of life such as he had marked out for himself. By her frugality she had stored up a small sum of money, with which they began housekeeping. In 1735 or 1736, he entered upon his curacy ; and, nineteen years afterwards, his situation is thus described, in some letters to be found in the Annual Register for 1760, from which the following is extracted :

To Mr. — .

** Sir, Coniston, July 26. 1754.

" I was the other day upon a party of pleasure, about five or six miles from this place, where I met with a very striking object, and of a nature not very common. Going into a clergyman's house (of whom I had frequently heard) I found him sitting at the head of a long square table, such as is commonly used in this country by the lower class of people,

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50 NOTES.

dressed in a coarse blue frock, trimmed with black horn buttons; a checked shirt, a leathern strap about his neck for a stock, a coarse apron, and a pair of great wooden- soled shoes, plated with iron to preserve them, (what we call clogs in these parts,) with a child upon his knee eating his breakfast ; his wife, and the remainder of his children, were some of them employed in waiting on each other, the rest in teazing and spinning wool, at which trade he is a great proficient ; and moreover, when it is made ready for sale, will lay it by sixteen, or thirty -two pounds weight, upon his back, and on foot, seven or eight miles will carry it to the market, even in the depth of winter. I was not much surprised at all this, as you may possibly be, having heard a great deal of it related before. But I must confess myself" astonished with the alacrity and the good humour that ap- peared both in the clergyman and his wife, and more so, at the sense and ingenuity of the clergyman himself." * *

Then follows a letter, from another person, dated 1755, from which an extract shall be given.

" By his frugality and good management, he keeps the wolf from the door, as we say ; and if he advances a little in the world, it is owing more to his own care, than to any thing else he has to rely upon. I don't find his inclination is running after further preferment. He is settled among the people, that are happy among themselves ; and lives in the greatest unanimity and friendship with them ; and, I believe,

NOTES. 51

the minister and people are exceedingly satisfied with each other; and indeed how should they be dissatisfied, when they have a person of so much worth and probity for their pastor? A man, who, for his candour and meekness, his sober, chaste, and virtuous conversation, his soundness in principle and practice, is an ornament to his profession, and an honour to the country he Is in ; and bear with me if I say, the plainness of his dress, the sanctity of his manners, the simplicity of his doctrine, and the vehemence of his expres- sion, have a sort of resemblance to the pure practice of pri- mitive Christianity."

We will now give his own account of himself, to be found in the same place.

From the Rev. Robert Walker. " Sir, " Yours of the 26th instant was communicated to me by Mr. C — , and I should have returned an immediate answer, but the hand of Providence then lying heavy upon an amiable pledge of conjugal endearment, hath since taken from me a promising girl, which the disconsolate mother too pensively laments the loss of; though we have yet eight living, all healthful, hopeful children, whose names and ages are as follows : Zaccheus, aged almost eighteen years ; Elizabeth, sixteen years and ten months ; Mary, fifteen ; Moses, thir- teen years and three months; Sarah, ten years and three months; Mabel, eight years and three months; William

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52 NOTES.

Tyson, three years and eight months ; and Anne Esther, one year and three months : besides Anne who died two years and six months ago, and was then aged between nine and ten; and Eleanor, who died the 23d inst., January, aged six years and ten months. Zaccheus, the eldest child, is now learning the trade of tanner, and has two years and a half of his apprenticeship to serve. The annual income of my chapel at present, as near as I can compute it, may amount to about 171' lOs. of which is paid in cash, viz. 5L from the bounty of Queen Anne, and 51. from W. P. Esq. of P — , out of the annual rents, he being lord of the manor, and Si. from the several inhabitants of L — , settled upon the tenements as a rent-charge ; the house and gardens I value at 4/. yearly, and not worth more ; and, I believe the surplice fees and volun- tary contributions, one year with another, may be worth Si. ; but, as the inhabitants are few in number, and the fees very low, this last-mentioned sum consists merely in free-will offerings.

" I am situated greatly to my satisfaction with regard to the conduct and behaviour of my auditory, who not only live in the happy ignorance of the follies and vices of the age, but in mutual peace and good-will with one another, and are seemingly (I hope really too) sincere Christians, and sound members of the established church, not one dissenter of any denomination being amongst them all. I got to the value of 40/. for my wife's fortune, but had no real estate of my own, being the youngest son of twelve children, born of obscure

NOTES. 5$

parents ; and though my income has been but small, and my family large, yet, by a providential blessing upon my own diligent endeavours, the kindness of friends, and a cheap country to live in, we have always had the necessaries of life. By what I have written (which is a true and exact account to the best of my knowledge) I hope you will not think your favour to me, out of the late worthy Dr. Stratford's effects, quite mis-bestowed, for which I must ever gratefully own myself. Sir,

*' Your much obliged and most obedient humble Servant,

" R. W., Curate of S — " To Mr. C, of Lancaster."

About the time when this letter was written, the Bishop of Chester recommended the scheme of joining the curacy of Ulpha to the contiguous one of Seathwaite, and the nomin- ation was offered to Mr. Walker ; but an unexpected difficulty arising, Mr. W. in a letter to the Bishop, (a copy of which, in his own beautiful hand-writing, now lies before me,) thus expresses himself: "If he," meaning the person in whom the difficulty originated, " had suggested any such objection before, I should utterly have declined any attempt to the curacy of Ulpha ; indeed, I was always apprehensive it might be disagreeable to my auditory at Seathwaite, as they have been always accustomed to double duty, and the in- habitants of Ulpha despair of being able to support a school- master who is not curate there also ; which suppressed all

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thoughts in «ie of serving them both.'* And in a second letter to the Bishop he writes :

" My Lord, " I have the favour of yours of the 1st inst., and am exceedingly obliged on account of the Ulpha affair : if that curacy should lapse into your Lordship's hands, I would beg leave rather to decline than embrace it ; for the chapels of Seathwaite and Ulpha annexed together, would be apt to cause a general discontent among the inhabitants of both places ; by either thinking themselves slighted, being only served alternately, or neglected in the duty, or attributing it to covetousness in me ; all which occasions of murmuring T would willingly avoid." And in concluding his former letter, he expresses a similar sentiment upon the same oc- casion, " desiring, if it be possible, however, as much as in me lieth, to live peaceably with all men.*'

The year following, the curacy of Seathwaite was again augmented ; and to effect this augmentation, fifty pounds had been advanced by himself ; and in 1760, lands were pur- chased with eight hundred 'pounds. Scanty as was his in- come, the frequent offer of much better benefices could not tempt Mr. W. to quit a situation where he had been so long happy, with a consciousness of being useful. Among his papers I find the following copy of a letter, dated 1775, twenty years after his refusal of the curacy of Ulpha, which will show what exertions had been made for one of his sons.

NOTES. 55

" May it please your Grace,

« Our remote situation here makes it difficult to get the necessary information for transacting business regularly : such is the reason of my giving your Grace the present trouble.

" The bearer (my son) is desirous of offering himself candi- date for deacon's orders, at your Grace's ensuing ordination ; the first, on the 25th inst. so that his papers could not be transmitted in due time. As he is now fully at age, and I have afforded him education to the utmost of my ability, it would give me great satisfaction (if your Grace would take him, and find him qualified) to have him ordained. His constitution has been tender for some years; he entered the college of Dublin, but his health would not permit him to continue there, or I would have supported him much longer. He has been with me at home above a year, in which time he has gained great strength of body, sufficient, I hope, to enable him for performing the function. Divine Providence, assisted by liberal benefactors, has blest my endeavours, from a small income, to rear a numerous family ; and as my time of life renders me now unfit for much future expectancy from this world, I should be glad to see my son settled in a promising way to acquire an honest livelihood for himself. His behaviour, so far in life, has been irre- proachable ; and I hope he will not degenerate, in principles or practice, from the precepts and pattern of an indulgent parent. Your Grace's favourable reception of this, from a

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distant corner of the diocese, and an obscure hand, will excite filial gratitude, and a due use shall be made of the obligation vouchsafed thereby to

" Your Grace's very dutiful and most obedient ** Son and Servant,

«' Robert Walker/'

The same man, ^ho tvas thus liberal in the education of his numerous family, was even munificent in hospitality as a parish priest. Every Sunday, were served, upon the long table, at which he has been described sitting with a child upon his knee, messes of broth, for the refreshment of those of his congregation who came from a distance, and usually took their seats as parts of his own household. It seems scarcely possible that this custom could have commenced before the augmentation of his cure; and, what would to many have been a high price of self-denial, was paid, by the pastor and his family, for this gratification ; as the treat could only be provided by dressing at one time the whole, perhaps, of their weekly allowance of fresh animal food ; consequently, for a succession of days, the table was covered with cold victuals only. His generosity in old age may be still further illustrated by a little circumstance relating to an orphan grandson, then ten years of age, which I find in a copy of a letter to one of his sons ; he requests that half-a-guinea may be left for " little Robert's pocket-money," who was then at school ; entrusting it to the care of a lady^ who, as he says.

NOTES. *V ^ 57

<• may sometimes frustrate his squandering it away foolishly," and promising to send him an equal allowance annually for the same purpose. The conclusion of the same letter is so characteristic, that I cannot forbear to transcribe it. " We,'* meaning his wife and himself, " are in our wonted state of health, allowing for the hasty strides of old age knocking daily at our door, and threateningly telling us, we are not only mortal, but must expect ere long to take our leave of our ancient cottage, and lie down in our last dormitory. Pray pardon my neglect to answer yours : let us hear sooner from you, to augment the mirth of the Christmas holidays. Wishing you all the pleasures of the approaching season, I am, dear Son, with lasting sincerity, yours affectionately,

" Robert Walker." He loved old customs and usages, and in some instances stuck to them to his own loss ; for, having had a sum of money lodged in the hands of a neighbouring tradesman, when long course of time had raised the rate of interest ; and more was offered, he refused to accept it ; an act not difficult to one, who, while he was drawing seventeen pounds a-year from his curacy, declined, as we have seen, to add the profits of another small benefice to his own, lest he should be suspected of cupidity. — From this vice he was utterly free ; he made no charge for teaching school ; such as could afford to pay, gave him Vhat they pleased. When very young, having kept a diary of his expenses however trifling, the large amount, at the end of the year, surprised him ;

58 ♦ NOTES.

and from that time the rule of his life was to be ceconomical, not avaricious. At his decease he left behind him no less a sum than £2000. and such a sense of his various excel- lences was prevalent in the country, that the epithet of WONDERFUL is to this day attached to his name.

There is in the above sketch something so extraordinary as to require further explanatory details. — And to begin with his industry ; eight hours in each day, during five days in the week, and half of Saturday, except when the labours of husbandry were urgent, he was occupied in teaching. His seat was within the rails of the altar ; the communion- table was his desk ; and, like Shenstone's school-mistress, the master employed himself at the spinning-wheel, while the children were repeating their lessons by his side. Every evening, after school hours, if not more profitably engaged, he continued the same kind of labour, exchanging, for the benefit of exercise, the small wheel, at which he had sate, for the large one on which wool is spun, the spinner stepping to and fro. — Thus, was the wheel constantly in readiness to prevent the waste of a moment's time. Nor was his industry with the pen, when occasion called for it, less eager. Entrusted with extensive management of public and private affairs, he acted in his rustic neighbour- hood as scrivener, writing out petitions, deeds of convey- ance, wills, covenants, &c. with pecuniary gain to himself,^ and to the great benefit of his employers. These labours (at all times considerable) at one period of the year, viz. be-

NOTES. 59

tween Christmas and Candlemas, when money transactions are settled in this country, were often so intense, that he passed great part of the night, and sometimes whole nights, at his desk. His garden also was tilled by his own hand ; he had a right of pasturage upon the mountains for a few sheep and a couple of cows, which required his attendance; with this pastoral occupation, he joined the labours of hus- bandry upon a small scale, renting two or three acres in addition to his own less than one acre of glebe ; and the humblest drudgery which the cultivation of these fields required was performed by himself.

He also assisted his neighbours in hay -making and shear- ing their flocks, and in the performance of this latter ser- vice he was eminently dexterous. They, in their turn, com- plimented him with a present of a hay-cock, or a fleece; less as a recompence for this particular service than as a ge- neral acknowledgment. The Sabbath was in a strict sense kept holy ; the Sunday evenings being devoted to reading the Scripture and family prayer. The principal festivals appointed by the Church were also duly observed ; but through every other day in the week, through every week in the year, he was incessantly occupied in work of hand or mind ; not allowing a moment for recreation, except upon a Saturday afternoon, when he indulged himself with a Newspaper, or sometimes with a Magazine. The frugality and temperance established in his house, were as admirable as the industry. Nothing to which the name of luxury*

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60 ^* NOTES.

could be given was there known ; in the latter part of his life, indeed, when tea had been brought into almost general use, it was provided for visitors, and for such of his own fa- mily as returned occasionally to his roof, and had been accustomed to this refreshment elsewhere ; but neither he nor his wife ever partook of it. The raiment worn by his family was comely and decent, but as simple as their diet ; the home-spun materials were made up into apparel by their own hands. At the time of the decease of this thrifty pair, their cottage contained a large store of webs of woollen and linen cloth, woven from thread of their own spinning. And it is remarkable, that the pew in the chapel in which the family used to sit, remained a few years ago neatly lined with woollen cloth spun by the pastor's own hands. It is the only pew in the chapel so distinguished ; and I know of no other instance of his conformity to the delicate accommoda- tions of modern times. The fuel of the house, like that of their neighbours, consisted of peat, procured from the mosses by their own labour. The lights by which in the winter evenings their work was performed, were of their own manufacture, such as still continue to be used in these cottages ; they are made of the pith of rushes dipped in any unctuous substance that the house affords. White candles, as tallow candles are here called, were reserved to honour the Christmas festivals, and were perhaps produced upon no other occasions. Once a month, during the proper season, ti sheep was drawn from their small mountain flock, and

NOTES. 61

killed for the use of the family ; and a cow, towards the close of the year, was salted and dried, for winter provision :

the hide was tanned to furnish them with shoes By these

various resources, this venerable clergyman reared a numer- ous family, not only preserving them, as he affectingly says, " from wanting the necessaries of life ;" but afforded them an unstinted education, and the means of raising themselves in society.

It might have been concluded that no one could thus, as it were, have converted his body into a machine of industry for the humblest uses, and kept his thoughts so frequently bent upon secular concerns, without grievous injury to the more precious parts of his nature. How could the powers of intellect thrive, or its graces be displayed, in the midst of circumstances apparently so unfavourable, and where, to the direct cultivation of the mind, so small a portion of time was allotted ? But, in this extraordinary man, things in their na- ture adverse were reconciled ; his conversation was remark- able, not only for being chaste and pure, but for the degree in which it was fervent and eloquent ; his written style was correct, simple, and animated. Nor did his affections suffer more than his intellect ; he was tenderly alive to all the duties of his pastoral office : the poor and needy " he never sent empty away," — the stranger was fed and refreshed in passing that unfrequented vale, — the sick were visited ; gifd the feelings of humanity found further exercise among the distresses and embarrassments in the worldly estate of his

62 NOTES.

neighbours, with which his talents for business made him acquainted ; and the disinterestedness, impartiality, and up- rightness which he maintained in the management of all af- fairs confided to him, were virtues seldom separated in his own conscience from religious obligations. Nor could such conduct fail to remind those who witnessed it of a spirit nobler than law or custom ; they felt convictions which, but for such intercourse, could not have been afforded, that, as in the practice of their pastor, there was no guile, so in his faith there was nothing hollow ; and we are warranted in believing that, upon these occasions, selfishness, obstinacy, and discord would often give way before the breathings of his good-will and saintly integrity. It may be presumed also, while his humble congregation were listening to the moral precepts which he delivered from the pulpit, and to the Christian exhortations that they should love their neigh- bour as themselves, and do as they would be done unto, that peculiar efficacy tv^as given to the preacher's labours by recollections in the minds of his congregation, that they were called upon to do no more than his own actions were daily setting before their eyes.

The afternoon service in the chapel was less numerously attended than that of the morning, but by a more serious au- ditory ; the lesson from the New Testament, on those occa- sions, was accompanied by Birkett's Commentaries, These les- sons he read with impassioned emphasis, frequently drawing tears from his hearers, and leaving a lasting impression upon

^'

NOTES. 63

their minds. His devotional feelings and the powers of his own mind were further exercised, along with those of his family, in perusing the Scriptures ; not only on the Sunday evenings, but on every other evening, while the rest of the household were at work, some one of the children, and in her turn the ser- vant, for the sake of practice in reading, or for instruction, read the Bible aloud ; and in this manner the whole was re- peatedly gone through. That no common importance was attached to the observance of religious ordinances by his family, appears from the following memorandum by one of his descendants, which I am tempted to insert at length, as it is characteristic, and somewhat curious. " There is a small chapel, in the county palatine of Lancaster, where a certain clergyman has regularly officiated above sixty years, and a few months ago administered the sacrament of the Lord's Supper in the same, to a decent number of devout communicants. After the clergyman had received himself, the first company out of the assembly who approached the altar, and kneeled down to be partakers of the sacred ele- ments, consisted of the parson's wife, to whom he had been married upwards of sixty years : one son and his wife ; four daughters, each with her husband ; whose ages all added to- gether amount to above 714 years. The several and respec- tive distances from the place of each of their abodes to the chapel where they all communicated, will measure more than 1000 English miles. Though the narration will appear surprising, it is without doubt a fact, that the same persons,

64. NOTES.

exactly four years before, met at the same place, and all joined in performance of the same venerable duty."

He was indeed most zealously attached to the doctrine and frame of the Established Church. We have seen him congratulating himself that he had no dissenters in his cure of any denomination. Some allowance must be made for the state of opinion when his first religious impressions were received, before the reader will acquit him of bigotry, when I mention, that at the time of the augmentation of the cure, he refused to invest part of the money in the purchase of an estate offered to him upon advantageous terms, because the proprietor was a Quaker; — whether from scrupulous appre- hension that a blessing would not attend a contract framed for the benefit of the Church between persons not in religious sympathy with each other ; or, as a seeker of peace, he was afraid of the uncomplying disposition which at one time was too frequently conspicuous in that sect. Of this an instance had fallen under his own notice ; for, while he taught school at Loweswater, certain persons of that denomination had re- fused to pay, or be distrained upon, for the accustomed an- nual interest due from them, among others, under the title of church stock ; a great hardship upon the incumbent, for the curacy of Loweswater was then scarcely less poor than that of Seathwaite. To what degree this prejudice of his was blameable need not be determined ; — certain it is, that he was not only desirous, as he himself says, to live in peace, but in love, with all men. He was placable, and

NOTES. 65

charitable in his judgments ; and, however correct in con- duct and rigorous to himself, he was ever ready to forgive the trespasses of others, and to soften the censure that was cast upon their frailties. — It would be unpardonable to omit that, in the maintenance of his virtues, he received due sup- port from the Partner of his long life. She was equally strict in attending to her share of their joint cares, nor less diligent in her appropriate occupations. A person who had been some time their servant in the latter part of their lives, concluded the panegyric of her mistress by saying to me, " she was no less excellent than her husband; she was good to the poor, she was good to every thing !" He survived for a short time this virtuous companion. When she died, he ordered that her body should be borne to the grave by three of her daughters and one grandaughter ; and, when the corpse was lifted from the threshold, he insisted upon lend- ing his aid, and feehng about, for he was then almost blind, took hold of a napkin fixed to the coffin ; and, as a bearer of the body, entered the Chapel, a few steps from the lowly Parsonage.

What a contrast does the life of this obscurely-seated, and, in point of worldly wealth, poorly-repaid Churchman, pre- sent to that of a Cardinal Wolsey !

" O 'tis a burthen, Cromwell, 'tis a burthen Too heavy for a man who hopes for heaven ! "

66 NOTES.

We have been dwelling upon images of peace in the moral world, that have brought us again to the quiet enclosure of consecrated ground, in which this venerable pair lie interred. The sounding brook, that rolls close by the church-yard without disturbing feeling or meditation, is now unfortu- nately laid bare ; but not long ago it participated, with the chapel, the shade of some stately ash-trees, which will not spring again. While the spectator from this spot is looking round upon the girdle of stony mountains that encompasses the vale, — masses of rock, out of which monuments for all men that ever existed might have been hewn, it would sur- prise him to be told, as with truth he might be, that the plain blue slab dedicated to the memory of this aged pair, is a production of a quarry in North Wales. It was sent as a mark of respect by one of their descendants from the vale of Festiniog, a region almost as beautiful as that in which it now lies !

Upon the Seathwaite Brook, at a small distance from the Parsonage, has been erected a mill for spinning yarn ; it is a mean and disagreeable object, though not unimportant to the spectator, as calling to mind the momentous changes wrought by such inventions in the frame of society — changes which have proved especially unfavourable to these moun^ tain solitudes. So much had been effected by those new powers, before the subject of the preceding biographical sketch closed his life, that their operation could not escape his notice, and doubtless excited touching reflections upon

NOTES. 67

the comparatively insignificant results of his own manual industry. But Robert Walker was not a man of times and circumstances ; had he lived at a later period, the principle of duty would have produced application as unremitting; the same energy of character would have been displayed, though in many instances with widely-different effects.

Having mentioned in this narrative the vale of Lowes- water as a place where Mr. Walker taught school, I will add a few memorandums from its parish register, respecting a person apparently of desires as moderate, with whom he must have been intimate during his residence there.

" Let him that would, ascend the tottering seat Of courtly grandeur, and become as great As are his mounting wishes ; but for me, Let sweet repose and rest my portion be.

Henry J'oREST, Curate.

Honour, the idol which the most adore, Receives no homage from my knee ; Content in privacy I value more Than all uneasy dignity.

Henry Forest came to Lowes-water, 1708, being 25 years of age."

" This Curacy was twice augmented by Queen Anne's bounty. The first payment, with great difficulty, was paid

F 2

68 NOTES.

to Mr. John Curwen of London, on the 9th of May, 1724, deposited by me, Henry Forest, Curate of Lowes-water. Y*^ said 9th of May, y^ said Mr. Curwen went to the office and saw my name registered there, &c. This, by the Pro- vidence of God, came by lot to this poor place.

Haec testor H. Forest."

In another place he records, that the sycamore trees were planted in the church -yard in 1710.

He died in 1741, having been curate thirty-four years. It is not improbable that H. Forest was the gentleman who assisted Robert Walker in his classical studies at Lowes- water.

To this parish register is prefixed a motto, of which the following verses are a part.

" Invigilate viri, tacito nam tempora gressu DifFugiunt, nulloque sono convertitur annus ; Utendum est etate, cito pede praeterit aetas."

Sonnet XXXIII. " We feel that we are greater than we know."

" And feel that I am happier than I know." — Milton.

The allusion to the Greek Poet will be obvious to the classical reader.

VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA.

«t

F 3

The Jbllotving tvas written as an Episode, in a work from which its length may perhaps exclude it. The facts are true ; no inverition as to these has been exercised, as none was needed.

VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA.

O liappy time of youthful lovers, (thus My story may begin) O balmy time, In which a love-knot on a lady's brow Is fairer than the fairest star in heaven ! To such inheritance of blessed fancy (Fancy that sports more desperately with minds Than ever fortune hath been known to do) The high-born Vaudracour was brought, by years Whose progress had a little overstepped His stripling prime. A town of small repute, Among the vine-clad mountains of Auvergne, Was the Youth's birth-place. There he woo'd a Maid Who heard the heart-felt music of his suit With answering vows. Plebeian was the stock,

F 4<

72 VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA.

Plebeian, though ingenuous, the stock, From which her graces and her honours sprung; And hence the father of the enamoured Youth, With haughty indignation, spurn'd the thought Of such alliance. — From their cradles up, With but a step between their several homes, Twins had they been in. pleasure; after strife And petty quarrels, had grown fond again ; Each other's advocate, each other's stay;

And strangers to content if long apart. Or more divided than a sportive pair

Of sea-fowl, conscious both that they are hovering

Within the eddy of a common blast.

Or hidden only by the concave depth

Of neighbouring billows from each other's sight. Thus, not without concurrence of an age

Unknown to memory, was an earnest given,

By ready nature, for a life of love.

For endless constancy and placid truth ;

But whatsoe'er of such rare treasure lay

Reserved, had fate permitted, for support

v VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA. 73

Of their maturer years, his present mind

Was under fascination ; — he beheld

A vision, and adored the thing he saw.

Arabian fiction never filled the world

With half the wonders that were wrought for him.

Earth breathed in one great presence of the spring;

Life turn'd the meanest of her implements,

Before his eyes, to price above all gold ;

The house she dwelt in was a sainted shrine ;

Her chamber window did surpass in glory

The portals of the dawn ; all paradise

Could, by the simple opening of a door,

Let itself in upon him ; pathways, walks,

Swarm'd with enchantment, till his spirit sank

Surcharged within him, — overblest to move

Beneath a sun that wakes a weary world

To its dull round of ordinary cares ;

A man too happy for mortality! '

So passed the time, till, whether through effect Of some unguarded moment that dissolved Virtuous restraint — ah, speak it, think it not 1

74 VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA.

Deem rather that the fervent Youth, who saw

So many bars between his present state

And the dear haven where he wished to be

In honourable wedlock with his Love,

Was inwardly prepared to turn aside

From law and custom, and entrust his cause

To nature for a happy end of all ;

Deem that by such fond hope the Youth was swayed,

And bear with their transgression, when I add

That Julia, wanting yet the name of wife,

Carried about her for a secret grief

The promise of a mother.

To conceal The threatened shame, the parents of the Maid Found means to hurry her away by night And unforewarned, that in some distant spot She might remain shrouded in privacy. Until the babe was born. When morning came The Lover, thus bereft, stung with his loss, And all uncertain whither he should turn, Chaf 'd like a wild beast in the toils ; but soon

VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA. 75

Discovering traces of the fugitives, Their steps he followed to the Maid^s retreat. The sequel may be easily divined, — Walks to and fro — watchings at every hour ; And the fair Captive, who, whene'er she may, Is busy at her casement as the swallow Fluttering its pinions, almost within reach, About the pendant nest ; did thus espy Her Lover ; — thence a stolen interview, Accomplished under friendly shade of night.

I pass the raptures of the Pair ; — such theme Is, by innumerable poets, touched In more delightful verse than skill of mine Could fashion, chiefly by that darling bard Who told of Juliet and her Romeo, And of the lark's note heard before its time, And of the streaks that laced the severing clouds In the unrelenting east. — Through all her courts The vacant City slept ; the busy winds, That keep no certain intervals of rest, Mov'd not ; meanwhile the galaxy displayed

76 VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA.

Her fires, that like mysterious pulses beat Aloft ; — momentous but uneasy bliss ! To their full hearts the universe seemed hung On that brief meeting's slender filament !

They parted ; and the generous Vaudracour Reached speedily the native threshold, bent On making (so the Lovers had agreed) A sacrifice of birth-right^ to attain A final portion from his Father's hand ; Which granted, Bride and Bridegroom then would flee To some remote and solitary place, Shady as night and beautiful as heaven, Where they may live, with no one to behold Their happiness, or to disturb their love. But no*m of this no whisper ; not the less, If ever an obtrusive word were dropped Touching the matter of his passion, still. In his stern Father's hearing, Vaudracour Persisted openly that death alone Should abrogate his human privilege Divine, of swearing everlasting truth, Upon the altar, to the Maid he loved.

VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA. 77

" You shall be baffled in your mad intent ^ If there be justice in the Court of France," Muttered the Father. — From this time the Youth Conceived a terror, — and, by night or day, Stirred no where without arms. To their rural seatj Meanwhile, his Parents artfully withdrew Upon some feigned occasion, and the Son Remained with one attendant. At midnight When to his chamber he retired, attempt Was made to seize him by three armed men. Acting, in furtherance of the Father's will. Under a private signet of the State. One, did the Youth's ungovernable hand Assault and slay; — and to a second gave A perilous wound, — he shuddered to behold The breathless corse ; then peacefully resigned His person to the law, was lodged in prison. And wore the fetters of a criminal.

Have you beheld a tuft of winged seed That, from the dandelion's naked stalk Mounted aloft, is suffered not to use

78 VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA.

Its natural gifts for purposes of rest,

Driven by the autumnal whirlwind to and fro

Through the wide element ? or have you marked

The heavier substance of a leaf-clad bough,

Within the vortex of a foaming flood.

Tormented ? by such aid you may conceive

The perturbation of each mind ; — ah, no !

Desperate the Maid, — the Youth is stained with blood !

But as the troubled seed and tortured bough

Is man, subjected to despotic sway.

For him, by private influence with the Court, Was pardon gained, and liberty procured ; But not without exaction of a pledge Which liberty and love dispersed in air. He flew to her from whom they would divide him — He clove to her who could not give him peace — Yea, his first word of greeting was, — " All right Is gone from me ; my lately-towering hopes, To the least fibre of their lowest root, Are withered ; — thou no longer canst be mine.

VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA. 79

I thine — the conscience-stricken must not woo The unruffled Innocent, — I see thy face, -Behold thee, and my misery is complete !"

" One, are we not?" exclaimed the Maiden — " One, For innocence and youth, for weal and woe ?" Then, with the Father's name she coupled words Of vehement indignation ; but the Youth Checked her with filial meekness ; for no thought Uncharitable, no presumptuous rising Of hasty censure, modelled in the eclipse Of true domestic loyalty, did e'er Find place within his bosom. — Once again The persevering wedge of tyranny Achieved their separation ; — and once more Were they united, — to be yet again . Disparted — pitiable lot ! But here A portion of the Tale may well be left In silence, though my memory could add Much how the Youth, in scanty space of time. Was traversed from without ; much, too, of thoughts

80 VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA.

That occupied his days in solitude Under privation and restraint ; and what, Through dark and shapeless fear of things to come, And what, through strong compunction for the past, He suffered ■ — breaking down in heart and mind !

Doomed to a third and last captivity. His freedom he recovered on the eve Of Julia's travail. When the babe was born Its presence tempted him to cherish schemes Of future happiness. " You shall return, Julia," said he, " and to your Father's house Go with the Child. — You have been wretched, yet The silver shower, whose reckless burthen weighs Too heavily upon the lily's head, Oft leaves a saving moisture at its root. Malice, beholding you,^will melt away. Go ! — 'tis a Town where both of us were born ; None will reproach you, for our truth is known ; And if, amid those once-bright bowers, our fate Remain unpitied , pity is not in man. With ornaments — the prettiest, nature yields

VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA. 81

Or art can fashion, shall you deck your Boy,

And feed his countenance with your own sweet looks

Till no one can resist him. — Now, even now,

I see him sporting on the sunny lawn ;

My Father from the window sees him too;

Startled, as if some new-created Thing

Enriched the earth, or Faery of the woods

Bounded before him; — but the unweeting Child

Shall by his beauty win his Grandsire's heart

So that it shall be softened, and our loves

End happily — as they began!" These gleams

Appeared but seldom: oftener was he seen

Propping a pale and melancholy face

Upon the Mother's bosom ; resting thus

His head upon one breast, w^hile from the other

The Babe was drawing in its quiet food.

— That pillow is no longer to be thine,

Fond Youth ! that mournful solace now must pass

Into the list of things that cannot be !

Unwedded Julia, terror-smitten, hears

The sentence, by her Mother's lip pronounced,

G

82 VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA.

That dooms her tc a Convent. — Who shall tell, Who dares report, the tidings to the Lord Of her affections? So they blindly asked Who knew not to what quiet depths a weight Of agony had press'd the sufferer down ; — The word, by others dreaded, he can hear Composed and silent, without visible sign Of even the least emotion. Noting this When the impatient Object of his love Upbraided him with slackness, he returned No answer, only took the Mother's hand And kissed it — seemingly devoid of pain, Or care, that what so tenderly he pressed, Was a dependant upon the obdurate heart Of One who came to disunite their lives For ever — sad alternative I preferred, By the unbending Parents of the Maid, To secret 'spousal s meanly disavowed. — — So be it !

In the city he remained A season after Julia had withdrawn

VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA. 83

To those religious walls. He, too, departs — Who with him? — even the senseless Little-one! With that sole Charge he pass'd the city-gates For the last time, attendant by the side Of a close chair, a litter, or sedan. In which the Babe was carried. To a hill. That rose a brief league distant from the town, The Dwellers in that house where he had lodged Accompanied his steps, by anxious love Impell'd : — they parted from him there, and stood Watching below, till he had disappeared On the hill-top. His eyes he scarcely took. Throughout that journey, from the vehicle (Slow-moving ark of all his hopes !) that veiled The tender Infant: and at every inn, And under every hospitable tree At which the Bearers halted or reposed. Laid him with timid care upon his knees. And looked, as mothers ne'er were known to look, Upon the Nursling which his arms embraced. — This was the manner in which Vaudracour

G 2

84 VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA.

Departed with his Infant; and thus reached

His Father's house, where to the innocent Child

Admittance was denied. The young Man spake

No words of indignation or reproof.

But of his Father begged, a last request,

That a retreat might be assigned to him

Where in forgotten quiet he might dwell.

With such allowance as his wants required;

For wishes he had none. To a Lodge that stood

Deep in a forest, with leave given, at the age

Of four-and-twenty summers he withdrew ;

And thither took with him his infant Babe,

And one Domestic, for their common needs,

An aged Woman. It consoled him here

To attend upon the Orphan, and perform

Obsequious service to the precious Child,

Which, after a short time, by some mistake,

Or indiscretion of the Father, died. —

The Tale I follow to its last recess

Of suffering or of peace, I know not which ;

Theirs be the blame who caused the woe, not mine

VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA. 85

From this time forth he never shared a smile

With mortal creature. An Inhabitant

Of that same Town, in which the Pair had left

So lively a remembrance of their griefs,

By chance of business, coming within reach

Of his retirement, to the spot repaired

With an intent to visit him. He reached

The house, and only found the Matron there,

Who told him that his pains were thrown away,

For that her Master never uttered word

To living Thing — not even to her. — Behold !

While they were speaking, Vaudracour a})proached ;

But, seeing some one near, even as his hand

Was stretched towards the garden gate, he shrunk —

And, like a shadow, glided out of view.

Shocked at his savage aspect, from the place

The Visitor retired.

Thus lived the Youth

Cut off from all intelligence with man,

And shunning even the light of common day;

Nor could the voice of Freedom, which through France

G 3

86 VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA.

Full speedily resounded, public hope, Or personal memory of his own deep wrongs. Rouse him : but in those solitary shades His days he wasted, an imbecile mind !

ADDRESSED TO ,

ON THE LONGEST DAY.

Let us quit the leafy Arbour, And the torrent murmuring by ; X Sol has dropped into his harbour, Weary of the open sky.

Evening now unbinds the fetters Fashioned by the glowing light ; All that breathe are thankful debtors To the harbinger of night.

Yet by some grave thoughts attended Eve renews her calm career ; For the day that now is ended, Is the Longest of the Year.

Laura ! sport, as now thou sportesty On this platform, light and free ; Take thy bliss, while longest, shortest. Are indifferent to thee 1

Who would check the happy feeling That inspires the linnet's song ? Who would stop the swallow wheeling On her pinions swift and strong ?

Yet, at this impressive season, Words, which tenderness can speak From the truths of homely reason^ Might exalt the loveliest cheek ;

And, while shades to shades succeeding Steal the landscape from the sight, I would urge this moral pleading. Last forerunner of " Good night !"

89

Summer ebbs ; — each day that follows Is a reflux jfrom on high, Tending to the darksome hollows Where the frosts of winter lie.

He who governs the creation. In his providence assigned Such a gradual declination To the life of human kind.

Yet we mark it not; — fruits redden. Fresh flowers blow as flowers have blown. And the heart is loth to deaden Hopes that she so long hath known.

Be thou wiser, youthful Maiden ! And, when thy decline shall come, Let not flowers, or boughs fruit-laden. Hide the knowledge of thy doom.

90

Now, even now, ere wrapped in slumber, Fix thine eyes upon the sea That absorbs time, space, and number, Look towards Eternity !

Follow thou the flowing River On whose breast are thither borne All Deceiv'd, and each Deceiver, Through the gates of night and morn ;

Through the years' successive portals ; Through the bounds which many a star Marks, not mindless of frail mortals When his light returns from far.

Thus, when Thou with Time hast travelPd Towards the mighty gulph of things. And the mazy Stream unravelPd With thy best imaginings ;

91

Think, if thou on beauty leanest, Think how pitiful that stay, Did not virtue give the meanest Charms superior to decay.

Duty, like a strict preceptor. Sometimes frowns, or seems to frown ; Choose her thistle for thy sceptre. While thy brow youth's roses crown.

Grasp it, — if thou shrink and tremble, Fairest Damsel of the green ! Thou wilt lack the only symbol That proclaims a genuine Queen ;

And ensures those palms of honour Which selected spirits wear. Bending low before the Donor, Lord of Heaven's unchanging Year !

LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS,

ON THE EVE OF A NEW YEAR.

'^ Smile of the Moon ! — for so I name

That silent greeting from above ;

A gentle flash of light that came

From Her whom drooping Captives love ;

Or art thou of still higher birth ?

Thou that didst part the clouds of earth,

My torpor to reprove !

" Bright boon of pitying Heaven — alas, I may not trust thy placid cheer ! Pondering that Time to-night will pass The threshold of another year ; For years to me are sad and dull ; My very moments are too full Of hopelessness and fear.

LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 93

" — And yet, the soul-awakening gleam, That struck perchance the farthest cone Of Scotland's rockv wilds, did seem To visit me, and me alone ; Me, unapproach'd by any friend, Save those who to my sorrows lend Tears due unto their own,

" To-night, the church-tower bells shall ring,

Through these wide realms, a festive peal ;

To the new year a welcoming ;

A tuneful offering for the weal

Of happy millions lulled in sleep ;

While I am forced to watch and weep,

By wounds that may not heal.

'' Born all too high, by wedlock raised Still higher — to be cast thus low ! Would that mine eyes had never gaz'd On aught of more ambitious show Than the sweet flow'rets of the fields ! — It is my royal state that yields This bitterness of woe.

94 LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.

" Yet how ? — for I, if there be truth In the world's voice, was passing fair ; And beauty, for confiding youth, Those shocks of passion can prepare That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the Owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.

" Unblest distinctions ! showered on me To bind a lingering life in chains ; All that could quit my grasp, or flee, Is gone ; — but not the subtle stains Fixed in the spirit ; — for even here Can I be proud that jealous f^ar Of what I was remains.

" A woman rules my prison's key ; A sister Queen, against the bent Of law and holiest sympathy. Detains me — doubtful of the event ; Great God, who feel'st for my distress. My thoughts are all that I possess, O keep them innocent !

LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 95

" Farewell for ever human aid. Which abject mortals vainly court ! By friends deceived, by foes betrayed. Of fears the prey, of hopes the sport, Nought but the world-redeeming Cross Is able to supply my loss. My burthen to support.

" Hark ! the death-note of the year. Sounded by the castle-clock ! " — From her sunk eyes a stagnant tear Stole forth, unsettled by the shock ; But oft the woods renewed their green, Ere the tir'd head of Scotland's Queen Repos'd upon the block !

TO ,

ON HER FIRST ASCENT TO THE SUMMIT OF HELVELLYN.

Inmate of a mountain Dwelling, Thou hast clomb aloft, and gaz'd. From the watch-towers of Helvellyn ; Awed, delighted, and amazed!

Potent was the spell that bound thee

In the moment of dismay,

While blue Ether's arms, flung round thee,

Stiird the pantings of dismay.

Lo ! the dwindled woods and meadows ! What a vast abyss is there ! Lo ! the clouds, the solemn shadows. And the glistenings — heavenly fair !

TO ^ 97

And a record of commotion Which a thousand ridges yield ; Ridge, and gulph, and distant ocean Gleaming like a silver shield !

— Take thy flight; — possess, inherit Alps or Andes — they are thine ! With the morning's roseate spirit, Sweep their length of snowy line ;

Or survey the bright dominions In the gorgeous colours drest, Flung from off the purple pinions, Evening spreads throughout the west !

Thine are all the choral fountains Warbling in each sparry vault Of the untrodden lunar mountains ; Listen to their songs ! — or halt,

H

98 TO

To Niphate*s top invited, Whither spiteful Satan steer'd ; Or descend where the ark alighted When the green earth re-appeared^

For the power of hills is on thee, As was witnessed through thine eye Then, when old Helvellyn won thee To confess their majesty 1

1^

ODE

TO LYCORIS,

MAY, 1817.

An age hath been when Earth was proud Of lustre too intense To be sustained ; and Mortals bowed The front in self-defence. Who tlien^ if Dian's crescent gleamed^ Or Cupid's sparkling arrow streamed While on the wing the Urchin play'd, Ck)uld fearlessly approach the shade ? — Enough for one soft vernal day, If I, a Bard of ebbing time And nurtured in a fickle clime, May haunt this horned bay ; Whose amorous water multiplies The flitting halcyon's vivid dyes ; And smoothes its liquid breast — to show These swan-lik^ specks of mountain snow,

H 2

iOO TO LYCORIS.

White, as the pair that sHd along the plains Of Heaven, when Venus held the reins !

li.

In youth we love the darksome lawn

Brush'd by the owlef s wing ;

Then, Twilight is preferred to Dawn,

And Autumn to the Spring.

Sad fancies do we then affect.

In luxury of disrespect

To our own prodigal excess

Of too familiar happiness.

Lycoris (if such name befit

Thee, thee my life's celestial sign !)

When Nature marks the year's decline

Be ours to welcome it ;

Pleased with the soil's requited cares ;

Pleased with the blue that ether wears ;

Pleased while the Sylvan world displays

Its ripeness to the feeding gaze ;

Pleased when the sullen winds resound the knell

Of the resplendent miracle.

TO LYCORIS. 101

III.

But something whispers to my heart

That, as we downward tend,

Lycoris ! life requires an art

To which our souls must bend ;

A skill — to balance and supply ;

And, ere the flowing fount be dry,

As soon it must, a sense to sip.

Or drink, with no fastidious lip.

Frank greeting, then, to that blithe Guest

Diffusing smiles o'er land and sea,

To aid the vernal Deity

Whose home is in the breast !

May pensive Autumn ne'er present

A claim to her disparagement !

While blossoms and the budding spray

Inspire us in our own decay ;

Still, as we nearer draw to life's dark goal,

Be hopefiil Spring the favourite of the Soul !

H 3

TO THE SAME.

Enough of climbing toil ! — Ambition treads

Here, as in busier scenes, ground steep and rough.

Oft perilous, always tiresome ; and each step,

As we for most uncertain gain ascend

Toward the clouds, dwarfing the world below,

Induces, for its old familiar sights.

Unacceptable feelings of contempt,

With wonder mixed — that Man could e'er be tied.

In anxious bondage, to such nice array

And formal fellowship of petty things !

Oh, 'tis the heart that magnifies this life.

Making a truth and beauty of her own !

And moss-grown alleys, circumscribing shades.

And gurgling rills, assist her in the work

More efficaciously than realms outspread,

As in a map, before the adventurer's gaze.

TO THE SAME. 103

Ocean and earth contending for regard ! Lo ! there a dim Egerian grotto fringed With ivy-twine, profusely from its brows Dependant, — enter without further aim ; And let me see thee sink into a mood Of quiet thought — protracted till thine eye Be calm as water when the winds are gone And no one can tell whither. Dearest Friend ! We two have known such happy hours together That, were power granted to replace them (fetched From out the pensive shadows where they lie) In the first warmth of their original sunshine, Loth should I be to use it ; passing sweet Are the domains of tender memory !

H 4

SUGGESTED BY A BEAUTIFUL RUIN UPON ONE OF THE ISLANDS OF LOCH LOMOND, A PLACE CHOSEN FOR THE RETREAT OF A SOLITARY INDIVIDUAL, FROM WHOM THIS HABITATION ACQUIRED THE NAME OF

fHE BROWNIE'S CELL.

To barren heath, and quaking fen.

Or depth of labyrinthine glen ;

Or into trackless forest set

With trees, whose lofty umbrage met ;

World-wearied Men withdrew of yore, —

(Penance their trust, and Prayer their store;]

And in the wilderness were bound

To such apartments as they found ;

Or with a new ambition raised ;

That God might suitably be praised.

THE BROWNIE'S CELL. 105

High lodged the Warrior, like a bird of prey ;

Or where broad waters round him lay:

But this wild Ruin is no ghost

Of his devices — buried, lost !

Within this little lonely Isle

There stood a consecrated Pile ;

Where tapers burn'd, and mass was sung,

For them whose timid spirits clung

To mortal succour, though the tomb

Had fixed, for ever fixed, their doom]!

Upon those servants of another world When madding Power her bolts had hurled, Their habitation shook ; — it fell, And perish'd — save one narrow Cell ; Whither, at length, a Wretch retired Who neither grovelPd nor aspir'd : He, struggling in the net of pride, The future scorned, the past defied ; Still tempering, from the unguilty forge Of vain conceit, an iron scourge !

106 THE BROWNIE'S CELL.

Proud Remnant was he of a fearless Race, Who stood and flourished face to face With their perennial hills ; — but Crime Hastening the stern decrees of Time, Brought low a Power, which from its home Burst, when repose grew wearisome ; And, taking impulse from the sword. And mocking its own plighted word. Had found, in ravage widely dealt, Its warfare's bourn, its travel's belt !

All, all were dispossessed, save Him whose smile

Shot lightning through this lonely Isle !

No right had he but what he made

To this small spot, his leafy shade ;

But the ground lay within that ring

To which he only dared to cling ;

Renouncing here, as worse than dead,

The craven few who bowed the head

Beneath the change, who heard a claim

How loud ! yet liv'd in peace with shame.

THE BROWNIE'S CELL. 107

From year to year this shaggy Mortal went (So seem'd it) down a strange descent: Till they, who saw his outward frame, Fix'd on him an unhallowed name ; Him — free from all malicious taint. And guiding, like the Patmos Saint, A pen unwearied — to indite. In his lone Isle, the dreams of night ; Impassioned dreams, that strove to span The faded glories of his Clan !

Suns that through blood their western harbour sought,

And stars that in their courses fought, —

Towers rent, winds combating with woods —

Lands delug'd by unbridled floods, —

And beast and bird that from the spell

Of sleep took import terrible, —

These types mysterious (if the show

Of battle and the routed foe

Had failed) would furnish an array

Of matter for the dawning day !

108 THE BROWNIE'S CELL.

How disappeared He ? — ask the Newt and Toad,

Inheritors of his abode ;

The Otter crouching undisturbed,

In her dank cleft ; — but be thou curbed

O froward Fancy ! mid a scene

Of aspect winning and serene ;

For those offensive creatures shun

The inquisition of the sun !

And in this region flowers delight.

And all is lovely to the sight.

Spring finds not here a melancholy breast, When she applies her annual test To dead and living ; when her breath Quickens, as now, the withered heath ; — Nor flaunting Summer — when he throws His soul into the briar-rose ; Or calls the lily from her sleep Prolonged beneath the bordering deep; Nor Autumn, when the viewless wren Is warbling near the Brownie's Den.

THE BROWNIE'S CELL. 109

Wild Relique ! beauteous as the chosen spot In Nysa's isle, the embellish'd Grot ; Whither, by care of Lybian Jove, (High Servant of paternal Love) Young Bacchus was conveyed — to lie Safe from his step-dame Rhea's eye ; Where bud, and bloom, and fruitage, glowed, Close-crowding round the Infant God ; All colours, and the liveliest streak A foil to his celestial cheek !

COMPOSED AT CORA LINN,

IN SIGHT OF Wallace's tower.

" — How Wallace fought for Scotland, left the name

Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower,

All over his dear Country; left^the deeds

Of Wallace, like a family of ghosts,

To people the steep rocks and river banks

Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul

Of independence and stern liberty." MS,

Lord of the Vale ! astounding Flood ! The dullest leaf, in this thick wood, Quakes — conscious of thy power ; The caves reply with hollow moan ; And vibrates, to its central stone. Yon time-cemented Tower !

And yet how fair the rural scene ! For thou, O Clyde, hast ever been Beneficent as strong ; Pleased in refreshing dews to steep The little trembling flowers that peep Thy shelving rocks among.

COMPOSED AT CORA LINN. Ill

Hence all who love their country, love To look on thee — delight to rove Where they thy voice can hear ; And, to the patriot-warrior's Shade, Lord of the vale ! to Heroes laid In dust, that voice is dear !

Along thy banks, at dead of night, , Sweeps visibly the Wallace Wight ; Or stands, in warlike vest. Aloft, beneath the moon's pale beam, A Champion worthy of the Stream, Yon grey tower's living crest !

But clouds and envious darkness hide A Form not doubtfully descried : — Their transient mission o'er, O say to what blind region flee These Shapes of awful phantasy ? To what untrodden shore ?

112 COMPOSED AT CORA LINN.

Less than divine command they spurn ; But this we from the mountains learn, And this the valleys show, That never will they deign to hold Communion where the heart is cold To human weal and woe.

The man of abject soul in vain Shall walk the Marathonian Plain ; Or thrid the shadowy gloom, That still invests the guardian Pass, Where stood sublime Leonidas, Devoted to the tomb.

Nor deem that it can aught avail For such to glide with oar or sail Beneath the piny wood. Where Tell once drew, by Uri's lake. His vengeful shafts — prepared to slake Their thirst in Tyrants' blood !

TO THE REV. DR. W .

(with the sonnets to the river duddon, and other poems in this collection.)

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 breezie

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 scrap'd the chords with strenuous hand.

114 TO THE REV. DR. W-

And who but listen'd ? — till was paid Respect to every Inmate's claim ; The greeting given, the music played In honour of each household name, Duly pronounc'd with lusty call. And " merry Christmas" wish'd to all 1

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

A true revival of the light ;

Which Nature, and these rustic Fowlers,

In simple childhood, spread through ours !

♦

TO THE REV. DR. W . 115

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, 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

For names once heard, and heard no more;

Tears brighten'd by the serenade

For infant in the cradle laid !

I 2

116 TO THE REV. DR. W-

Ah ! not for emerald fields alone.

With ambient streams more pure and bright

Than fabled Cytherea's zone

Glittering before the Thunderer's sight,

Is to my heart of hearts endeared,

The ground where we were born and rear'd 1

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, And ye, that guard them, Mountains old !

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.

TO THE REV. DR. W . 117

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 pleas'd attention I may win To agitations less severe. That neither overwhelm nor cloy. But fill the hollow vale with joy !

I 3

REPENTANCE.

A BALLAD.

The fields which with covetous spirit we sold.

Those beautiful fields, the delight of our day,

Would have brought us more good than a burthen of

gold, Could we but have been as contented as they.

When the troublesome Tempter beset us, said I,

" Let him come, with his purse proudly grasp'd in his

hand ; But, Allan, be true to me, Allan, — we'll die Before he shall go with an inch of the land !"

9

There dwelt we, as happy as birds in their bowers ; Unfettered as bees that in gardens abide ; We could do what we chose with the land, it was ours ; And for us the brook murmur'd that ran bv its side.

REPENTANCE. 119

But now we are strangers, go early or late ; And often, like one overburthen'd with sin, With my hand on the latch of the half-open'd gate, I look at the fields — and I cannot go in !

When I walk by the hedge on a bright summer's day,

Or sit in the shade of my grandfather's tree,

A stern face it puts on, as if ready to say,

" What ails you, that you must come creeping to me !"

With our pastures about us, we could not be sad ; Our comfort was near if we ever were cross'd ; But the blessings, and comfort, and wealth that we had. We slighted them all, — and our birth-right was lost.

Oh, ill-judging sire of an innocent son.

Who must now be a wanderer ! — but peace to that

strain ! Think of evening's repose when our labour was done, The Sabbath's return — and its leisure's soft chain !

I 4

120 REPENTANCE,

And in sickness, if night had been sparing of sleep. How cheer fill, at sunrise, the hill where I stood. Looking down on the kine, and our treasure of sheep That besprinkled the field — 'twas like youth in my blood !

Now I cleave to the house, and am dull as a snail ; And, oftentimes, hear the church-bell with a sigh. That follows the thought — We've no land in the vale, Save six feet of earth where our forefathers lie !

SONG FOR THE SPINNING WHEEL.

FOUNDED UPON A BELIEF PREVALENT AMONG THE PAS- TORAL VALES OF WESTMORLAND.

Swiftly turn the murmuring wheel ! Night has brought the welcome hour, When the weary fingers feel Help, as if from fairy power ; Dewy night o'ershades the ground ; Turn the swift wheel round and round !

Now, beneath the starry sky, Rest the widely-scatter*d sheep ; — Ply, the pleasant labour, ply ! — For the spindle, while they sleep, With a motion smooth and fine Gathers up a trustier line.

1^2 SONG FOR THE SPINNING WHEEL.

Short-liv'd likings may be bred By a glance from fickle eyes ; But true love is like the thread Which the kindly wool supplies, When the flocks are all at rest, Sleeping on the mountain's breast.

HINT FROM THE MOUNTAINS

FOR CERTAIN POLITICAL ASPIRANTS.

Stranger, 'tis a sight of pleasure When the wings of genius rise, Their ability to measure

With great enterprise; But in man was ne'er such darinor As yon Hawk exhibits, pairing His brave spirit with the war in

The stormy skies I

Mark him, how his power he uses,

Lays it by, at will resumes !

Mark, ere for his haunt he chooses

Clouds and utter glooms ! There, he wheels in downward mazes ; Sunward now his flight he raises. Catches fire, as seems, and blazes

With uninjur'd plumes ! —

124 HINT FROM THE MOUNTAINS.

ANSWER.

Traveller, 'tis no act of courage Which aloft thou dost discern ; No bold bird gone forth to forage

Mid the tempest stern ; But such mockery as the Nations See, when Commonwealth- vexations Lift men from their native stations.

Like yon tuft of fern ;

Such it is, and not a Haggard Soaring on undaunted wing; 'Tis by nature dull and laggard,

A poor helpless Thing, Dry, and withered, light and yellow ; — That to be the tempest's fellow ! Wait — and you shall see how hollow

Its endeavouring !

DION.

"(see PLUTARCH )

1

x AIR is the Swan, whose majesty, prevaiHng

O^er breezeless water, on Locarno's lake,

Bears him on while proudly sailing

He leaves behind a moon-illumined wake :

Behold ! the mantling spirit of reserve

Fashions his neck into a goodly curve ;

An arch thrown back between luxuriant wings

Of whitest garniture, like fir-tree boughs

To which, on some unruffl'd morning, clings

A flaky weight of winter's purest snows !

— Behold ! — as with a gushing impulse heaves

That downy prow, and softly cleaves

The mirror of the crystal flood.

Vanish inverted hill, and shadowy wood.

And pendant rocks, where'er, in gliding state,

Winds the mute Creature without visible Mate

126 DION.

Or rival, save the Queen of night

Showering down a silver light,

From heaven, upon her chosen favourite I

2 So pure, so bright, so fitted to embrace, Where'er he turn'd, a natural grace Of haughtiness without pretence, And to unfold a stiU magnificence, Was princely Dion, in the power And beauty of his happier hour. Nor less the homage that was seen to wait On Dion's virtues, when the lunar beam Of Plato's genius, from its lofty sphere, Fell round him in the grove of Academe, Softening their inbred dignity austere ; —

That he, not too elate

With self-sufficing solitude. But with majestic lowliness endued,

Might in the universal bosom reign,

DION. m

And from affectionate observance gain. Help, under every change of adverse fate.

S

Five thousand warriors — O the rapturous day !

Each crown'd with flowers, and arm'd with spear and

shield, Or ruder weapon which their course might yield, To Syracuse advance in bright array. Who leads them on ? — The anxious People see Long-exil'd Dion marching at their head, He also crown'd with flowers of Sicily, And in a white, far-beaming, corslet clad ! Pure transport undisturbed by doubt or fear The Gazers feel ; and, rushing to the plain. Salute those Strangers as a holy train Or blest procession (to the Immortals dear) That brought their precious liberty again. Lo ! when the gates are entered, on each hand, Down the long street, rich goblets filFd with wine In seemly order stand.

128 DIOK.

On tables set, as if for rites divine ; — - And, wheresoe'er the great Deliverer pass'd^

Fruits were strewn before his eye, ' And flowers upon his person cast

In boundless prodigality; Nor did the general voice abstain from prayer^ Invoking Dion's tutelary care, As if a very Deity he were !

Mourn, hills and groves of Attica ! and mourn

Illyssus, bending o'er thy classic urn !

Mourn, and lament for him whose spirit dreads

Your once-sweet memory, studious walks and shades 1

For him who to divinity aspir'd.

Hot on the breath of popular applause,

But through dependance on the sacred laws

Framed in the schools where Wisdom dwelt retir'd,

Intent to trace the ideal path of right

(More fair than heaven's broad causeway pav'd with stars)

DION. 129

Which Dion learn'd to measure with deh'ght ;

But he hath overleap'd the eternal bars ;

And, following guides whose craft holds no consent

With aught that breathes the ethereal element,

Hath stained the robes of civil power with blood.

Unjustly shed, though for the public good.

Whence doubts that came too late, and wishes vain,

Hollow excuses — and triumphant pain ;

And oft his cogitations sink as low

As, through the abysses of a joyless heart,

The heaviest plummet of despair can go —

But whence that sudden check ? — that fearful start !

He hears an uncouth sound —

Anon his lifted eyes Saw at a long-drawn gallery's dusky bound, A Shape, of more than mortal size And hideous aspect, stalking round and round !

A woman's garb the Phantom wore.

And fiercely swept the marble floor, —

Like Auster whirling to and fro,

His force on Caspian foam to try ;

K

130 DION.

Or Boreas when he scours the snow That skins the plains of Thessaly, Or when aloft on Maenalus he stops His flight, mid eddying pine-tree tops I

V.

So, but from toil less sign of profit reaping. The sullen Spectre to her purpose bowed,

Sweeping — vehemently sweeping — No pause admitted — no design avowed ! " Avaunt, inexplicable Guest ! — avaunt Intrusive Presence ! — Let me rather see The coronal that coiling vipers make; The torch that flames with many a lurid flake. And the long train of doleful pageantry Which they behold, whom vengeful Furies haunt, Who, while they struggle from the scourge to flee, Move where the blasted soil is not unworn. And, in their anguish, bear what other minds have borne I

DION. 131

VI.

But Shapes that come not at an earthly call, Will not depart when mortal voices bid ; Lords of the visionary Eye whose lid, Once raised, remains aghast and will not fall ! Ye Gods, thought He, that servile Implement Obeys a mystical intent ! Your Minister would brush away The spots that to my soul adhere ; But should she labour night and day. They wiU not, cannot disappear. — Whence angry perturbations, — and that look Which no Philosophy can brook !

VII.

Ill-fated Chief ! there are whose hopes are built Upon the ruins of thy glorious name ; Who, through the portal of one moment's guilt, Pursue thee with their deadly aim !

K 2

132 DION.

O matchless perfidy ! portentous lust

Of monstrous crime ! — that horror-striking blade,

Drawn in defiance of the Gods, hath laid

The noble Syracusan low in dust !

Shudder the walls — the marble city wept —

And sylvan places heaved a pensive sigh ;

But in calm peace the appointed Victim slept.

As he had fallen in magnanimity :

Of spirit too capacious to require

That Destiny her course should change ; too just

To his own native greatness to desire

That wretched boon, days lengthened by mistrust.

So were the hopeless troubles, that involved

The soul of Dion, instantly dissolved.

Released firom life and cares of princely state.

He left this moral grafted on his Fate,

" Him only pleasure leads, and peace attends ;

Him, only him, the shield of Jove defends.

Whose means are fair and spotless as his ends."

THE PILGRIM'S DREAM,

OR, THE STAR AND THE GLOW-WORM.

A Pilgrim, when the summer day

Had closed upon his weary way,

A lodging begg'd beneath a castle's roof ;

But him the haughty Warder spurn'd ;

And from the gate the Pilgrim turn'd.

To seek such covert as the field

Or heath-besprinkled copse might yield.

Or lofty wood, shower-proof.

*

He paced along ; and, pensively Halting beneath a shady tree.

Whose moss-grown root might serve for couch or seat,

K 3

134- THE PILGRIM'S DREAM.

Fixed on a Star his upward eye ;

Then, from the tenant of the sky

He turned, and watch'd with kindred look,

A glow-worm, in a dusky nook.

Apparent at his feet.

The murmur of a neighbouring stream

Induced a soft and slumbVous dream,

A pregnant dream within whose shadowy bounds

He recognised the earth-born Star,'

And That whose radiance gleam'd from far ;

And (strange to witness !) from the frame

Of the ethereal Orb there came

Intelligible sounds.

Much did it taunt the humbler Light That now, when day was fled, and night Hushed the dark earth — fast closing weary eyes, A very Reptile could presume To show her taper in tlie gloom,

THE PILGRIM'S DREAM. 135

As if in rivalship with One Who sate a Ruler on his throne Erected in the skies.

<' Exalted Star !" the Worm replied, ^^ Abate this unbecoming pride, Or with a less uneasy lustre shine ; Thou shrink'st as momently thy rays Are mastered by the breathing haze ; While neither mist, nor thickest cloud That shapes in heaven its murky shroud, Hath power to injure mine.

Yet not for this do I aspire

To match the spark of local fire,

That at my will burns on the dewy lawn,

With thy acknowledged glories ; — No !

But it behoves that thou shouldst know

WHiat favours do attend me here.

Till, like thyself, I disappear

Before the purple dawn."

K 4

136 THE PILGRIM'S DREAM.

When this in modest guise was said, Across the welkin seem'd to spread A boding sound — for aught but sleep unfit ! Hills quaked — the rivers backward ran — That Star, so proud of late, looked wan; And reeled with visionary stir In the blue depth, like Lucifer Cast headlong to the pit !

Fire raged, — and when the spangled floor

Of ancient ether was no more,

New heavens succeeded, by the dream brought forth :

And all the happy souls that rode

Transfigured through that fresh abode.

Had heretofore, in humble trust.

Shone meekly mid their native dust,

The Glow-worms of the earth !

This knowledge, from an AngeFs voice Proceeding, made the heart rejoice Of Him who slept upon the open lea :

THE PILGRIM'S DREAM. 137

Waking at morn he murmur'd not; And, till life's journey closed, the spot Was to the Pilgrim's soul endeared, Where by that dream he had been cheered Beneath the shady tree.

ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE.

(see the chronicle of GEOFFRY of MONMOUTH, AND

Milton's history of England.)

Where be the Temples which, in Britain's Isle, For his paternal Gods, the Trojan raised ? Gone like a morning dream, or like a pile Of clouds — that in cerulean ether blazed ! Ere Julius landed on her white-clifF'd shore,

They sank, delivered o'er To fatal dissolution ; and, I ween. No vestige then was left that such had ever been.

ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE, 139

"Nathless, a British record (long concealed In old Armorica, whose secret springs No Gothic conqueror ever drank) revealed The wond'roiis current of forgotten things ; How Brutus came, by oracles impell'dj

An Albion's giants quell'd, — A brood whom no civility could melt, Who never tasted grace, and goodness ne'er had felt."

((

By brave Corineus aided, he subdued And rooted out the intolerable kind ; x

And this too-long-polluted land imbued With goodly arts and usages refined ; Whence golden harvests, cities, warlike towers,

And Pleasure's sumptuous bowers ; Whence all the fix'd delights of house and home, Friendships thatwill not break, and love that cannot roam.

140 ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE.

O, happy Britain ! region all too fair For self-delighting fancy to endure That silence only should inhabit there, Wild beasts, or uncouth savages impure ! But, intermingled with the generous seed,

Grew many a poisonous weed ; Thus fares it still with all that takes its birth From human care, or grows upon the breast of earth.

Hence, and how soon ! that war of vengeance wag'd

By Guendolen against her faithless lord ;

Till she, in jealous fiiry unassuag'd.

Had slain his Paramour with ruthless sword :

Then, into Severn hideously defiled.

She flung her blameless child, Sabrina, — vowing that the stream should bear , That name through every age, her hatred to declare.

ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE. 14.1

So speaks the Chronicle, and tells of Lear

By his ungrateful daughters turn'd adrift.

Ye lightnings, hear his voice ! — they cannot hear

Nor can the winds restore his simple gift.

But one there is. a child of nature meek,

Who comes her sire to seek ; And he, recovering sense, upon her breast Leans smilingly, and sinks into a perfect rest.

There too we read of Spenser's fairy themes. And those that Milton lov'd in youthful years ; The sage enchanter Merlin's subtle schemes ; The feats of Arthur and his knightly peers ; Of Arthur, — who, to upper light restored

With that terrific sword Which yet he wields in subterranean war, Shall lift his country's fame above the polar star !

142 ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE.

What wonder, then, if in such ample field Of old tradition, one particular flower Doth seemingly in vain its fragrance yield, And bloom unnoticed even to this late hour. Now, gentle Muses, your assistance grant,

While I this flower transplant Into a garden stor'd with Poesy ;

Where flowers and herbs unite, and haply some weeds be. That, wanting not wild grace, are from all mischief free !

ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE. 143

A King more worthy of respect and love Than wise Gorbonian, ruled not in his day ; And grateful Britain prospered far above All neighbouring countries through his righteous sway; He poured rewards and honours on the good ;

The Oppressor he withstood ; And, while he served the gods with reverence due, Fields smiled, and temples rose, and towns and cities grew.

He died, whom Artegal succeeds — his son ;

But how unworthy of such sire was he !

A hopeful reign, auspiciously begun,

Was darkened soon by foul iniquity.

From crime to crime he mounted, till at length

The nobles leagued their strength With a vexed people, and the tyrant chased ; And, on the vacant throne, his worthier brother placed.

IH ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE.

From realm to realm the humbled Exile went, Suppliant for aid his kingdom to regain ; In many a court, and many a warrior's tent, He urged his persevering suit in vain. Him, in whose wretched heart ambition failed,

Dire poverty assailed ; And, tired with slights which he no more could brook, Towards his native soil he cast a longing look.

Fair blew the wish'd-for wind — the voyage sped ;

He landed ; and, by many dangers scared,

" Poorly provided, poorly followed,"

To Calaterium's forest he repaired.

How changed from him who, born to highest place,

Had swayed the royal mace, Flattered and feared, despised yet deified. In Troynovant, his seat by silver Thames's side !

ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE. 145

From that wild region where the crownless king Lay in concealment with his scanty train, Supporting life by water from the spring, And such chance food as outlaws can obtain, Unto the few whom he esteems his friends

A messenger he sends ; And from their secret loyalty requires Shelter and daily bread, — the amount of his desires.

While he the issue waits, at early morn Wandering by stealth abroad, he chanced to hear A startling outcry made by hound and horn, From which the tusky boar hath fled in fear ; And, scouring tow'rds him o'er the grassy plain,

Behold the hunter train ! He bids his little company advance With seeming unconcern and steady countenance.

146 ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE.

The royal Elidure, who leads the chaccy Hath checked his foaming courser — Can it be ! Methinks that I should recognise that face, Though much disguised by long adversity ! He gazed, rejoicing, and again he gazed,

Confounded and amazed — " It is the king, my brother !" and, by sound Of his own voice confirmed, he leaps upon the ground.

Long, strict, and tender, was the embrace he gave, Feebly returned by daunted Artegal; Whose natural affection doubts enslave, And apprehensions dark and criminal. Loth to restrain the moving interview,

The attendant lords withdrew ; And, while they stood upon the plain apart, Thus Elidure, by words, reUeved his struggling heart.

ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE. 147

a

By heavenly Powers conducted, we have met ; — O Brother ! to my knowledge lost so long, But neither lost to love, nor to regret, Nor to my wishes lost, forgive the wrong, (Such it may seem) if I thy crown have borne.

Thy royal mantle worn : I was their natural guardian ; and 'tis just That now I should restore what hath been held in trust'

Awhile the astonish'd Artegal stood mute. Then thus exclaimed — " To me of titles shorn And stripped of power ! me, feeble, destitute, To me a kingdom ! — spare the bitter scorn ! If justice ruled the breast of foreign kings

Then, on the wide-spread wings Of war, had I returned to claim my right ; This will I here avow, not dreading thy despite."

L 2

148 ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE.

" I do not blame thee," Elidiire replied, " But, if my looks did with my words agree, I should at once be trusted, not defied, And thou from all disquietude be free. May spotless Dian, Goddess of the chace,

Who to this blessed place At this blest moment led me, if I speak With insincere intent, on me her vengeance wreak !

Were this^ same spear, which in my hand I grasp. The British sceptre, here would I to thee The sjrmbol yield ; and would undo this clasp, If it confined the robe of sovereignty. Odious to me the pomp of regal court,

And joyless sylvan sport. While thou art roving wretched and forlorn, Thy couch the dewy earth, thy roof the forest thorn !"

ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE. 149

Then Artegal thus spake — "I only sought, Within this realm a place of safe retreat; Beware of rousing an ambitious thought ; Beware of kindling hopes, for me unmeet ! Thou art reputed wise, but in my mind

Art pitiably blind ; Full soon this generous purpose thou may's t rue. When that which has been done no wishes can undo.

Who, when a crown is fixed upon his head. Would balance claim with claim, and right with right ? But thou — I know not how inspired, how led — Wouldst change the course of things in all men's sight • And this for one who cannot imitate

Thy virtue, who may hate : For, if by such strange sacrifice restored, He reign, thou still must be his king, and sovereign lord.

L 3

150 ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE.

Lifted in magnanimity above Aught that my feeble nature could perform, Or even conceive ; surpassing me in love Far as in power the eagle doth the worm ; I, Brother ! only should be king in name,

And govern to my shame ; A shadow in a hated land while all Of glad or willing service to thy share would fall."

« Believe it not," said Elidure; "respect Awaits on virtuous life, and ever most Attends on goodness with dominion decked, Which stands the universal empire's boast; This can thy own experience testify :

Nor shall thy foes deny That, in the gracious opening of thy reign. Our Father's spirit seemed in thee to breathe again.

ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE, 151

And what if o'er that bright unbosoming Clouds of disgrace and envious fortune past ! Have we not seen the glories of the spring By veil of noontide darkness overcast ? The frith that glittered like a warrior's shield,

The sky, the gay green field, Are vanished ; — gladness ceases in the groves. And trepidation strikes the blackened mountain coves.

But is that gloom dissolved ? how passing clear Seems the wide world — far brighter than before ! Even so thy latent worth will re-appear. Gladdening the people's heart from shore to shore, For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone ;

Re-seated on thy throne, Proof shalt thou furnish that misfortune, pain. And sorrow, have confirmed thy native right to reign.

L 4

152 ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE.

But, not to overlook what thou may'st know, Thy enemies are neither weak nor few, And circumspect must be our course and slow, Or from my purpose ruin may ensue. Dismiss thy followers ; — let them calmly wait

Such change in thy estate As I already have in thought devised ; And which, with caution due, may soon be realised.*

The Story tells what courses were pursued. Until King Elidure, with full consent Of all his Peers, before the multitude, Rose, — and, to consummate this just intent. Did place upon his Brother's head the Crown

Relinquished by his own ; Then to his people cried, " Receive your Lord Gorbonian's first-born Son, your rightful King restored !"

ARTEGAL AND ELIDURE. 153

The People answer'd with a loud acclaim : Yet more ; — heart-smitten by the heroic deed, The reinstated Artegal became Earth's noblest penitent ; from bondage freed Of vice, — of vice unable to subvert

Or shake his high desert. Long did he reign ; and, when he died, the tear Of universal grief bedewed his honoured bier.

Thus was a Brother by a Brother saved ; With whom a Crown (temptation that hath set Discord in hearts of men till they have braved Their nearest kin with deadly purpose met) 'Gainst duty weighed and faithful love, did seem

A thing of no esteem ; And, from this triumph of affection pure. He bore the lasting name of " pious Elidure !"

A FACT, AND AN IMAGINATION;

OR,

CANUTE AND ALFRED.

The Danish Conqueror, on his royal chair

Mustering a face of haughtiest sovereignty,

To aid a covert purpose, cried — " O ye

Approaching waters of the deep, that share

With this green isle my fortunes, come not where

Your Master's throne is set !" — Absurd decree !

A mandate, uttered to the foaming sea.

Is to its motions less than wanton air.

— Then Canute, rising from the invaded Throne,

Said to his servile courtiers, " Poor the reach.

The undisguised extent, of mortal sway !

He only is a king, and he alone

Deserves the name, (this truth the billows preach)

Whose everlasting laws, sea, earth, and heaven obey.'

A FACT, AND AN IMAGINATION. 155

This just reproof the prosperous Dane

Drew, from the impulse of the Main,

For some whose rugged northern mouths would strain

At oriental flattery ;

And Canute (truth more worthy to be known)

From that time forth did for his brows disown

The ostentatious symbol of a Crown ;

Esteeming earthly royalty*

Contemptible and vain.

Now hear what one of elder days, Rich theme of England's fondest praise, , Her darling Alfred, might have spoken ; To cheer the remnant of his host When he w^s driven from coast to coast. Distressed and harassed, but with mind unbroken ; *^ My faithful Followers, lo ! the tide is spent ; That rose, and steadily advanced to fill The shores and channels, working Nature's will Among the mazy streams that backward went,

156 A FACT, AND AN IMAGINATION.

And in the sluggish pools where ships are pent.

And now, its task performed, the Flood stands still

At the green base of many an inland hill,

In placid beauty and sublime content !

Such the repose that Sage and Hero find ;

Such measured rest the sedulous and good

Of humbler name ; whose souls do, like the flood

Of Ocean, press right on ; or gently wind,

Neither to be diverted nor withstood,

Until they reach the bounds by Heaven assigned."

TO

Those silver clouds collected round the sun

His mid-day warmth abate not, seeming less

To overshade than multiply his beams

By soft reflection — grateful to the sky,

To rocks, fields, woods. Nor doth our human sense

Ask, for its pleasure, screen or canopy

More ample than that time-dismantled Oak

Spreads o'er this tuft of heath : which now, attired

In the whole fulness of its bloom, affords

As beautiful a couch as e'er on earth

Was fashioned ; whether by the hand of art

That Eastern Sultan, amid flowers enwrought

On silken tissue, might diffuse his limbs

In languor ; or, by Nature, for repose

Of panting Wood-nymph weary of the chace.

O Lady ! fairer in thy Poet's sight

Than fairest spiritual Creature of the groves,

Approach — and, thus invited, crown with rest

158

The noon-tide hour : — though truly some there are

Whose footsteps superstitiously avoid

This venerable Tree ; for, when the wind

Blows keenly, it sends forth a creaking sound,

Above the general roar of woods and crags ,

Distinctly heard from far — a doleful note

As if (so Grecian shepherds would have deem'd)

The Hamadryad, pent within, bewailed

Some bitter wrong. Nor is it unbelieved,

By ruder fancy, that a troubled Ghost

Haunts this old Trunk ; lamenting deeds of which

The flowery ground is conscious. But no wind

Sweeps now along this elevated ridge ;

Not even a zephyr stirs ; — the obnoxious Tree

Is mute, — and, in his silence, would look down

On thy reclining form with more delight

Than his Coevals in the sheltered vale

Seem to participate, the whilst they view

Their own far-stretching arms and leafy heads

Vividly pictured in some glassy pool.

That, for a brief space, checks the hurrying stream !

SONNET.

The Stars are Mansions built by Nature's hand ;

And, haply, there the spirits of the blest

Live, clothed in radiance, their immortal vest ;

Huge Ocean frames, within his yellow strand,

A Habitation marvellously planned, -

For life to occupy in love and rest ;

All that we see — is dome, or vault, or nest,

Or fort, erected at her sage command.

Is this a vernal thought ? Even so, the Spring

Gave it while cares were weighing on my heart,

Mid song of birds, and insects murmuring ;

And while the youthful year's prolific art —

Of bud, leaf, blade, and flower — was fashioning

Abodes, where self-disturbance hath no part.

SONNET,

ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED THE PUBLICATION OF A CERTAIN POEM.

See Milton s Sonnet^ beginning " A Book was writ of late called ' Tetrachordon.' "

ii

A Book came forth of late called, " Peter Bell ;"

Not negligent the style ; — the matter ? — good

As aught that song records of Robin Hood ;

Or Roy, renowned through many a Scottish dell ;

But some (who brook these hacknied themes full well,

Nor heat, at Tam o* Shanter's name, their blood)

Wax'd wrath, and with foul claws, a harpy brood —

On Bard and Hero clamorously fell.

Heed not, wild Rover once through heath and glen

Who mad'st at length the better life thy choice,

Heed not such onset ! nay, if praise of men

To thee appear not an unmeaning voice.

Lift up that grey-haired forehead, and rejoice

In the just tribute of thy Poet's pen !

SONNET,

ON SEEING A TUFT OF SNOWDROPS IN A STORM.

When haughty expectations prostrate lie.

And grandeur crouches like a guilty thing,

Oft shall the lowly weak, till nature bring

Mature release, in fair society

Survive, and Fortune's utmost anger try ;

Like these frail snow-drops that together cling.

And nod their helmets smitten by the wing

Of many a furious whirlblast sweeping by.

Observe the faithful flowers ! if small to great

May lead the thoughts, thus struggling used to stand

The Emathian phalanx, nobly obstinate ;

And so the bright immortal Theban band,

AVhom onset, fiercely urged at Jove's command,

Might overwhelm, but could not separate !

M

. TO .

WITH A SELECTION FROM THE POEMS OF ANNE, COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA; AND EXTRACTS OF SIMILAR CHARACTER FROM OTHER WRITERS ; THE WHOLE TRANSCRIBED BY A FEMALE FRIEND.

Lady ! I rifled a Parnassian Cave (But seldom trod) of mildly-gleaming ore ; And cull'd, from sundry beds, a lucid store Of genuine crystals, pure as those that pave The azure brooks where Dian joys to lave Her spotless limbs ; and ventured to explore Dim shades — for reliques, upon Lethe's shore. Cast up at random by the sullen wave. To female hands the treasures were resign'd ; And lo this work ! — a grotto bright and clear From stain or taint ; in which thy blameless mind May feed on thoughts though pensive not austere; Or if thy deeper spirit be inclin'd To holy musing it may enter here.

ON THE

DEATH OF HIS LATE MAJESTY.

Ward of the Law ! — dread Shadow of a King ! Whose Realm had dwindled to one stately room ; Whose universe was gloom immers'd in gloom, Darkness as thick as Life o'er Life could fling, Yet haply cheered with some faint glimmering Of Faith and Hope ; if thou by nature's doom Gently hast sunk into the quiet tomb. Why should we bend in grief, to sorrow cling, When thankfulness were best ? — Fresh-flowing tears, Or, where tears flow not, sigh succeeding sigh, Yield to such after-thought the sole reply Which justly it can claim. The Nation hears In this deep knell — silent for threescore years, An unexampled voice of awful memory !

M 2

INSCRIPTIONS,

SUPPOSED TO BE FOUND IN, AND NEAR, A HERMIT's CELL.

I.

Hast thou seen, with train incessant, Bubbles gliding under ice, Bodied forth and evanescent. No one knows by what device ?

Such are thoughts ! — a wind-swept meadow Mimicking a troubled sea — Such is life ; — and death a shadow From the rock eternity !

* # * * # # # J

INSCRIPTIONS. 165

II.

INSCRIBED UPON A ROCK.

Pause, Traveller ! whosoe'er thou be Whom chance may lead to this retreat, Where silence yields reluctantly * Even to the fleecy straggler's bleat ;

Give voice to what my hand shall trace. And fear not lest an idle sound Of words unsuited to the place, Disturb its solitude profound.

I saw this Rock, while vernal air Blew softly o'er the russet heath, Uphold a Monument as fair As Church or Abbey furnish eth.

M 3

166 INSCRIPTIONS.

Unsullied did it meet the day. Like marble white, like ether pure ; As if beneath some hero lay, *

Honoured with costliest sepulture.

My fancy kindled as I gazed ; And, ever as the sun shone forth, The flatter'd structure glistened, blazed, And seemed the proudest thing on earth.

But Frost had reared the gorgeous Pile Unsound as those which fortune builds ; To undermine with secret guile, Sapp'd by the very beam that gilds.

And, while 1 gazed, with sudden shock Fell the whole Fabric to the ground ; And naked left this dripping Rock, With shapeless ruin spread around !

INSCRIPTIONS* 167

III.

Hopes what are they? — Beads of morning

Strung on slender blades of grass ;

Or a spider's web adorning

In a strait and treacherous pass.

What are fears but voices airy ? Whispering harm where harm is not, And deluding the unwary Till the fatal bolt is shot !

What is glory ? — in the socket See how dying Tapers fare ! What is pride? — a whizzing rocket That would emulate a star.

M 4

168 INSCRIPTIONS.

What is friendship ? — do not trust her. Nor the vows which she has made ; Diamonds dart their brightest lustre From a palsy-shaken head.

What is truth ? — a staff rejected ; Duty ? — an unwelcome clog ; Joy ? — a dazzling moon reflected In a swamp or watery bog ;

Bright, as if through ether steering, To the Traveller's eye it shone : He hath hailed it re-appearing — And as quickly it is gone ;

Gone, as if for ever hidden, Or misshapen to the sight ; And by sullen weeds forbidden To resume its native light.

INSCRIPTIONS. 169

What is youth ? — a dancing billow, Winds behind, and rocks before ! Age ? — a drooping, tottering willow On a flat and lazy shore.

What is peace ? — when pain is over. And love ceases to rebel, Let the last faint sigh discover That precedes the passing knell !

*

170 INSCRIPTIONS.

IV.

NEAR THE SPRING OF THE HERMITAGE.

Troubled long with warring notions. Long impatient of thy rod, I resign my soul's emotions Unto Thee, mysterious God !

What avails the kindly shelter Yielded by this craggy rent, If my spirit toss and welter On the waves of discontent ?

Parching Summer hath no warrant To consume this crystal well ; Rains, that make each rill a torrent, Neither sully it nor swell.

INSCRIPTIONS. 171

Thus dishonouring not her station, Would my Life present to Thee, Gracious God, the pure oblatioil Of divine Tranquillity !

V.

Not seldom, clad in radiant vest. Deceitfully goes forth the Morn ; Not seldom Evening in the west Sinks smilingly forsworn.

The smoothest seas will sometimes prove, To the confiding Bark, untrue ; And, if she trust the stars above. They can be treacherous too.

#

M 6

172 INSCRIPTIONS.

The umbrageous Oak, in pomp outspread. Full oft, when storms the welkin rend, Draws lightning down upon the head It promis'd to defend.

But Thou art true, incarnate Lord ! Who didst vouchsafe for man to die ; Thy smile is sure, thy plighted word No change can falsify !

I bent before thy gracious throne, And asked for peace with suppliant knee ; And peace was given, — nor peace alone. But faith, sand hope, and extacy I

^Jihi

/^ ii^ <Mri^^

THE PRIORESS'S TALE,

(from CHAUCER.)

In the follomng Piece I have allowed myself no farther deviations from the original than were necessary for the fuent readings and instant understandings of the Author : so much however is the language altered since Chau£er's timcy especially in pronunciation^ that much was to he removed^ and its place supplied with as little incongruity as possible. The ancient accent has been retained in a few conjunctions^ such as also and alway, from a conviction that such sprinklings of antiquity would be admitted^ by persons of taste, to have a grace- ful accordance with the subject*

THE PRIORESS'S TALE,

« Call up him who left half told The story of Cambuscan bold."

O Lord, our Lord ! how wonderously (quoth she) Thy name in this large world is spread abroad ! For not alone by men of dignity Thy worship is performed and precious laud ; But by the mouths of children, gracious God ! Thy goodness is set forth, they when they lie Upon the breast thy name do glorify.

Wherefore in praise, the worthiest that I may,

Jesu ! of thee, and the white Lily-flower

Which did thee bear, and is a maid for aye,

To tell a story I will use my power ;

Not that I may increase her honour's dower,

For she herself is honour, and the root

Of goodness, next her Son our soul's best boot.

176 THE PRIORESS'S TALE.

O Mother Maid ! O Maid and Mother free ! O bush unburnt ! burning in Moses' sight ! That down didst ravish from the Deity, Through humbleness, the spirit that did alight Upon thy heart, whence, through that glory's might. Conceived was the Father's sapience, Help me to tell it in thy reverence !

Lady, thy goodness, thy magnificence,

Thy virtue, and thy great humility.

Surpass all science and all utterance ;

For sometimes, Lady ! ere men pray to thee

Thou go'st before in thy benignity,

The light to us vouchsafing of thy prayer,

To be our guide unto thy Son so dear.

My knowledge is so weak, O blissful Queen ! To tell abroad thy mighty worthiness, That I the weight of it may not sustain ; But as a child of twelvemonths old or less, That laboureth his language to express. Even so fare I ; and therefore, I thee pray. Guide thou my song which I of thee shall say.

THE PRIORESS'S TALE. 177

There was in Asia, in a mighty town,

'Mong Christian folk, a street where Jews might be ;

Assigned to them and given them for their own

By a great Lord, for gain and usury,

Hateful to Christ and to his company ;

And through this street who list might ride and wend ;

Free was it, and unbarr'd at either end.

A little school of Christian people stood Down at the farther end, in which there were A nest of children come of Christian blood, That learned in that school from year to year Such sort of doctrine as men used there, That is to say, to sing and read also As little children in their childhood do.

Among these children was a widow's son, A little scholar, scarcely seven years old, Who day by day unto this school hath gone. And eke, when he the image did behold Of Jesu's Mother, as he had been told. This Child was wont to kneel adown and say Ave Marie, as he goeth by the way.

N

178 THE PRIORESS'S TALE.

This Widow thus her Httle Son hath taught Our bhssful Lady, Jesu's Mother dear, To worship aye, iind he forgat it not. For simple infant hath a ready ear. Sweet is the holiness of youth : and hence, Calling to mind this matter when I may, Saint Nicholas in my presence standeth aye, For he so young to Christ did reverence.

This little Child, while in the school he sate His primer conning with an earnest cheer, The whilst the rest their anthem-book repeat The Alma Redemptoris did he hear ; And as he durst he drew him near and near, And hearkened to the words and to the note, 'Till the first verse he learn'd it all by rote.

This Latin knew he nothing what it said For he too tender was of age to know ; But to his comrade he repaired, and prayed That he the meaning of this song would show, And unto him declare why men sing so ; This, oftentimes, that he might be at ease, This child did him beseech, on his bare knees.

THE PRIORESS'S TALE. 179

His Schoolfellow, who elder was than he,

Answered him thus ; — " This song, I have heard say,

Was fashioned for our blissful Lady free ;

Her to salute, and also her to pray

To be our help upon our dying day.

If there is more in this I know it not ;

The song I learn, — small grammar I have got. S rv^ ^'JO -^ -^

" And is this song fashioned in reverence Of Jesu's Mother ?" said this Innocent, " Now, certes, I will use my diligence To con it all ere Christmas-tide be spent; Although I for my Primer shall be shent, And shall be beaten three times in an hour, Our Lady I will praise with all my power."

His Schoolfellow, whom he had so besought, As they went homeward taught him privily ; And then he sang it well and fearlessly. From word to word according to the note : Twice in a day it passed through his throat ; Homeward and schoolward whensoever he went, , On Jesu's Mother fixed was his intent.

N 2

180 THE PRIORESS'S TALE,

Through all the Jewry (this before said I,) This little child, as he came to and fro, Full merrily then would he sing and cry, O Alma Redemptions ! high and low : The sweetness of Christ's Mother pierced so His heart, that her to praise, to her to pray, He cannot stop his singing by the way.

The Serpent, Satan, our first foe, that hath

His wasp's nest in Jew's heart, upswell'd — " O woe,

O Hebrew people !" said he in his wrath,

" Is it an honest thing ? Shall this be so ?

That such a Boy where'er he list shall go

In your despite, and sing his hymns and saws,

Which is against the reverence of our laws !"

From that day forward have the Jews conspired Out of the world this Innocent to chace ; And to this end a Homicide they hired. That in an Alley had a privy place. And, as the Child 'gan to the School to pace, This cruel Jew him seized, and held him fast And cut his throat, and in a pit him cast.

THE PRIORESS'S TALE. 181

I say that him into a pit they threw,

A loathsome pit whence noisome scents exhale;

O cursed folk ! away ye Herod s new !

What may your ill intentions you avail ?

Murder will out ; certes it will not fail ;

Know, that the honour of high God may spread,

The blood cries out on your accursed deed.

O Martyr 'stablished in virginity !

Now may*st thou sing for aye before the throne,

Following the Lamb celestial," quoth she,

" Of which the great Evangelist, Saint John,

In Patmos wrote, who saith of them that go

Before the Lamb singing continually.

That never fleshly woman they did know.

Now this poor widow waiteth all that night After her little Child, and he came not ; For which, by earliest glimpse of morning light, With face all pale with dread and busy thought She at the School and elsewhere him hath sought, Until thus far she learned, that he had been In the Jews' street, and there he last was seen.

N 3

182 THE PRIORESS'S TALE,

With Mother's pity in her breast enclosed She goeth, as she were half out of her mind. To every place wherein she hath supposed By likelihood her little Son to find ; And ever on Christ's Mother meek and kind She cried, till to the Jewry she was brought. And him among the accursed Jews she sought.

She asketh, and she piteously doth pray To every Jew that dwelleth in that place To tell her if her Child had pass'd that way ; They all said Nay ; but Jesu of his grace Gave to her thought, that in a little space She for her Son in that same spot did cry Where he was cast into a pit hard by.

O thou great God that dost perform thy laud

By mouths of Innocents, lo ! here thy might ;

This gem of chastity, this emerald,

And eke of martyrdom this ruby bright.

There, where with mangled throat he lay upright.

The Alma Redemptoris 'gan to sing

So loud that with his voice the place did ring.

THE PRIORESS'S TALE. 183

The Christian folk that through the Jewry went

Come to the spot in wonder at the thing ;

And hastily they for the Provost sent ;

Immediately he came not tarrying,

And praiseth Christ that is our heavenly King,

And eke his Mother, honour of Mankind :

Which done, he bade that they the Jews should bind.

This Child with piteous lamentation then Was taken up, singing his song alway ; And with procession great and pomp of men To the next Abbey him they bare away ; His Mother swooning by the Bier lay : And scarcely could the people that were near Remove this second Rachel from the Bier.

Torment and shameful death to every one This Provost doth for those bad Jews prepare That of this murder wist, and that anon : Such wickedness his judgments cannot spare ; Who will do evil, evil shall he bear ; Them therefore with wild horses did he draw, And after that he hung them by the law.

N 4

184 THE PRIORESS'S TALE.

Upon his Bier this Innocent doth He

Before the Altar while the Mass doth last :

The Abbot with his Convent's company

Then sped themselves to bury him full fast ;

And, when they holy water on him cast.

Yet spake this Child when sprinkled was the water.

And sang, O Alma Redemptoris Mater !

This Abbot who had been a holy ifian

And was, as all Monks are, or ought to be,

In supplication to the Child began

Thus saying, " O dear Child ! I summon thee

In virtue of the holy Trinity

Tell me the cause why thou dost sing this hymn,

Since that thy throat is cut, as it doth seem."

" My throat is cut unto the bone, I trow," Said this young Child, " and by the law of kind I should have died, yea many hours ago ; But Jesus Christ, as in the books ye find, Will that his glory last, and be in mind ; And, for the worship of his Mother dear. Yet may I sing, O Alma ! loud and clear.

THE PRIORESS'S TALE. 185

This well of mercy Jesu's Mother sweet After my knowledge I have loved alway, And in the hour when I my death did meet To me she came, and thus to me did say, " Thou in thy dying sing this holy lay," As ye have heard ; and soon as I had sung Methought she laid a grain upon my tongue.

Wherefore I sing, nor can from song refrain.

In honour of that blissful Maiden free,

'Till from my tongue off-taken is the grain ;

And after that thus said she unto me,

" My little Child, then will I come for thee

Soon as the grain from off thy tongue they take,

Be not dismay' d, I will not thee forsake !"

This holy Monk, this Abbot — him mean I, Touched then his tongue, and took away the grain ; And he gave up the ghost full peacefully ; And, when the Abbot had this wonder seen. His salt tears trickled down like showers of rain. And on his face he dropped upon the ground. And still he lay as if he had been bound.

186 THE PRIORESS'S TALE.

Eke the whole Convent on the pavement lay, Weeping and praising Jesu's Mother dear ; And after that they rose, and took their way And lifted up this Martyr from the Bier, And in a tomb of precious marble clear Enclos'd his uncorrupted body sweet. — Where'er he be, God grant us him to meet !

* Young Hew of Lincoln ! in like sort laid low

By cursed Jews — thing well and widely known.

For not long since was dealt the cruel blow,

Pray also thou for us, while here we tarry

Weak sinful folk, that God, with pitying eye.

In mercy would his mercy multiply

On us, for reverence of his Mother Mary !

SEPTEMBER, 1819.

The sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields Are hung, as if with golden shields. Bright trophies of the sun ! Like a fair sister of the sky. Unruffled doth the blue Lake lie, The Mountains looking on.

And, sooth to say, yon vocal Grove Albeit uninspired by love, By love untaught to ring. May well afford to mortal ear An impulse more profoundly dear Than music of the Spring.

188 SEPTEMBER, 1819.

For that from turbulence and heat Proceeds, from some uneasy seat In Nature's struggling frame, Some region of impatient life ; And jealousy, and quivering strife, Therein a portion claim.

This, this is holy ; — while I hear These vespers of another year, This hymn of thanks and praise. My spirit seems to mount above The anxieties of human love, And earth's precarious days.

But list ! — though winter storms be nigh, Unchecked is that soft harmony : There lives Who can provide For all his creatures ; and in Him, Even like the radiant Seraphim, These Choristers confide.

UPON THE SAME OCCASION.

Departing Summer hath assumed An aspect tenderly illumed, The gentlest look of Spring : That calls from yonder leafy shade Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, A timely caroling.

No faint and hesitating trill, Such tribute as to Winter chill The lonely red-breast pays ! Clear, loud, and lively is the din. From social Warblers gathering in Their harvest of sweet lays.

190 SEPTEMBER, 1819.

Nor doth the example fail to cheer Me conscious that my leaf is sear. And yellow on the bough : — Fall, rosy garlands, from my head ! Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed Around a younger brow !

Yet will I temperately rejoice ;

Wide is the range, and free the choice

Of undiscordant themes ;

Which, haply, kindred souls may prize

Not less than vernal extacies.

And passion's feverish dreams.

For deathless powers to verse belong. And they like Demi-gods are strong On whom the Muses smile ; But some their function have disclaimed. Best pleased with what is aptliest framed To enervate and defile.

SEPTEMBER, 1819. 191

Not such the initiatory strains

Committed to the silent plains

In Britain's earliest dawn ;

Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale.

While all-too-daringly the veil

Of Nature was withdrawn !

Nor, such the spirit-stirring note When the live chords Alcaeus smote, Inflamed by sense of wrong ; Woe ! woe to Tyrants ! from the lyre Broke threateningly, in sparkles dire Of fierce vindictive song.

And not unhallow'd was the page By winged Love inscribed, to assuage The pangs of vain pursuit ; Love listening while the Lesbian Maid With passion's finest finger swayed Her own CEolian lute.

192 SEPTEMBER, 1819.

O ye who patiently explore The wreck of Herculanean lore, What rapture could ye seize Some Theban fragment, or unroll One precious, tender-hearted scroll Of pure Simonides !

That were, indeed, a genuine birth Of poesy ; a bursting forth Of Genius from the dust : What Horace boasted to behold, What Maro loved, shall we enfold ? Can haughty Time be just !

ODE,

COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING OF EXTRAORDINARY SPLENDOR

AND BEAUTY.

I.

Had this effulgence disappeared With flying haste, I might have sent Among the speechless clouds a look Of blank astonishment ; But 'tis endued with power to stay. And sanctify one closing day, That frail Mortality may see. What is ? — ah no, but what can be I Time was when field and watery cove With modulated echoes rang. While choirs of fervent Angels sang Their vespers in the grove ; Or, ranged like stars along some sovereign height. Warbled, for heaven above and earth below, Strains suitable to both. — Such holy rite, Methinks, if audibly repeated now

o

194

From hill or valley, could not move Sublimer transport, purer love. Than doth this silent spectacle — the gleam - The shadow — and the peace supreme !

n.

No sound is uttered, — but a deep

And solemn harmony pervades

The hollow vale from steep to steep,

And penetrates the glades.

Far-distant images draw nigh,

CalPd forth by wond'rous potency

Of beamy radiance, that imbues

Whate'er it strikes, with gem-like hues !

In vision exquisitely clear.

Herds range along the mountain side ;

And glistening antlers are descried ;

And gilded flocks appear.

Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve !

But long as god-like wish, or hope divine,

Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe

That this magnificence is wholly thine !

195

— From worlds not quickened by the sun A portion of the gift is won ; An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is spread On ground which British shepherds treaH !

III.

And, if there be whom broken ties Afflict, or injuries assail. Yon hazy ridges to their eyes, Present a glorious scale. Climbing suffused with sunny air, To stop — no record hath told where ! And tempting fancy to ascend. And with immortal spirits blend ! — Wings at my shoulder seem to play ; But, rooted here, I stand and gaze On those bright steps that heaven-ward raise Their practicable way.

Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad And see to what fair countries ye are bound !

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196 ^

And if some Traveller, weary of his road, Hath slept since noon-tide on the grassy ground, Ye Genii ! to his covert speed ; And wake him with such gentle heed As may attune his soul to meet the dow'r Bestowed on this transcendent hour !

IV.

Such hues from their celestial Urn

Were wont to stream before my eye.

Where'er it wandered in the morn

Of blissful infancy.

This glimpse of glory, why renewed ?

Nay, rather speak with gratitude ;

For, if a vestige of those gleams

Survived, 'twas only in my dreams.

Dread Power ! whom peace and calmness serve

No less than Nature's threatening voice.

If aught unworthy be my choice,

From Thee if I would swerve.

197

O, let thy grace remind me of the hght, Full early lost and fruitlessly deplored ; Which, at this moment, on my waking sight Appears to shine, by miracle restored ! My soul, though yet confined to earth, Rejoices in a second birth ; — 'Tis past, the visionary splendour fades. And Night approaches with her shades.

NOTE.

The multiplication of mountain-ridges, described, at the commencement of the third stanza of this Ode, as a kind of Jacob's Ladder, leading to Heaven, is produced either by watery vapours, or sunny haze, — in the present instance by the latter cause. See the account of the Lakes at the end of this volume. The reader, who is acquainted with the Author's Ode, intitled, " Intimations of Immortality, &c." will re- cognize, the allusion to it that pervades the last stanza of the foregoing Poem.

o 3

** A LITTLE onward lend thy guiding hand To these dark steps, a little further on /"

— What trick of memory to my voice hath brought, This mournful iteration ? For though Time,

The Conqueror, crowns the Conquer'd, on this brow- Planting his favourite silver diadem, Nor he, nor minister of his intent To run before him, hath enrolled me yet. Though not unmenaced, among those who lean Upon a living staff, with borrowed sight.

— O my Antigone, beloved child !

Should that day come — but hark ! the birds salute The cheerful dawn brightening for me the east ; For me, thy natural Leader, once again Impatient to conduct thee, not as erst A tottering Infant, with compliant stoop

199

From flower to flower supported ; but to curb

Thy nymph-like step swift-bounding o'er the lawn,

Along the loose rocks, or the slippery verge

Of foaming torrents. — From thy orisons

Come forth^ and, while the morning air is yet

Transparent as the soul of innocent youth,

Let me, thy happy Guide, now point thy way.

And now precede thee, winding to and fro,

Till we by perseverance gain the top

Of some smooth ridge, whose brink precipitous

Kindles intense desire for powers withheld

From this corporeal frame ; whereon who stands,

Is seized with strong incitement to push forth

His arms, as swimmers use, and plunge — dread thought!

For pastime plunge — into the " abrupt abyss,"

Where Ravens spread their plumy vans, at ease !

And yet more gladly thee would I conduct Through woods and spacious forests, — to behold There, how the Original of human art, Heaven-prompted Nature, measures and erects Her temples, fearless for the stately work,

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200

Though waves in every breeze its high-arched roof,

And storms the pillars rock. But we such schools

Of reverential awe will chiefly seek

In the still summer noon, while beams of light ,

Reposing here, and in the aisles beyond

Traceably gliding through the dusk, recall

To mind the living presences of nuns ;

A gentle, pensive, white-robed sisterhood,

"WTiose saintly radiance mitigates the gloom

Of those terrestrial fabrics, where they serve.

To Christ, the Sun of Righteousness, espoused.

Re-open now thy everlasting gates, Thou Fane of holy writ ! Ye classic Domes, To these glad orbs from darksome bondage freed, Unfold again your portals ! Passage lies Through you to heights more glorious still, and shades More awful, where this Darling of my care. Advancing with me hand in hand, may learn Without forsaking a too earnest world, To calm the affections, elevate the soul, And consecrate her life to truth and love.

ODE.

THE PASS OF KIRKSTONE.

I.

AViTHiN the mind strong fancies work, A deep delight the bosom thrills, Oft as I pass along the fork Of these fraternal hills : Where, save the rugged road, we find No appanage of human kind ; Nor hint of man, if stone or rock Seem not his handy-work to mock By something cognizably shaped ; Mockery — or model — roughly hewn. And left as if by earthquake strewn. Or from the Flood escaped : — Altars for Druid service fit ; (But where no fire was ever lit

202

Unless the glow-worm to the skies Thence offer nightly sacrifice;) Wrinkled Egyptian monument; Green moss-grown tower ; or hoary tent ; Tents of a camp that never shall be raised ; On which four thousand years have gazed !

11.

Ye plowshares sparkling on the slopes !

Ye snow-white lambs that trip

Imprisoned mid the formal props

Of restless ownership !

Ye trees that may to-morrow fall,

To feed the insatiate Prodigal !

Lawns, houses, chattels, groves, and fields.

All that the fertile valley shields ;

Wages of folly — baits of crime, —

Of life's uneasy game the stake, —

Playthings that keep the eyes awake

Of drowsy, dotard Time ,• —

203

O care ! O guilt !^ — O vales and plains,

Here, mid his own unvexed domains,

A Genius dwells, that can subdue

At once all memory of You, —

Most potent when mists veil the sky,

Mists that distort and magnify ;

While the coarse rushes, to the sweeping breeze,

Sigh forth their ancient melodies !

III. List to those shriller notes ! — that march Perchance was on the blast. When through this Height's inverted arch Rome's earliest legion passed ! — They saw, adventurously impell'd, And older eyes than theirs beheld, This block — and yon whose Church-like frame Gives to the savage Pass its name.

204

Aspiring Road ! that lov'st to hide

Thy daring in a vapoury bourn,

Not seldom may the hour return

When thou shalt be my Guide ;

And I (as often we find cause.

When life is at a weary pause,

And we have panted up the hill

Of duty with reluctant will)

Be thankful, even though tired and faint,

For the rich bounties of Constraint ; .

Whence oft invigorating transports flow

That Choice lacked courage to bestow !

IV.

My soul was grateful for delight

That wore a threatening brow ;

A veil is lifted — can she slight

The scene that opens now?

Though habitation none appear.

The greenness tells, man must be there ;

205

The shelter — that the perspective

Is of the cHme in which we live ;

Where Toil pursues his daily round ;

Where Pity sheds sweet tears, and Love,

In woodbine bower or birchen grove,

Inflicts his tender wound.

— Who comes not hither ne'er shall know

How beautiful the world below ;

Nor can he guess how lightly leaps

The brook adown the rocky steeps.

Farewell thou desolate Domain !

Hope, pointing to the cultur'd Plain,

Carols like a shepherd boy ;

And who is she ? — can that be Joy ?

Who, with a sun-beam for her guide.

Smoothly skims the meadows wide ;

While Faith, from yonder opening cloud,

To hill and vale proclaims aloud,

" Whatever the weak may dread the wicked dare,

Thy lot, O man, is good, thy portion fair !"

ODE. — 1817.

Beneath the concave of an April sky,

When all the fields with freshest green were dight,

Appeared, in presence of that spiritual eye

That aids or supersedes our grosser sight,

The form and rich habiliments of One

Whose countenance bore resemblance to the sun,

When it reveals, in evening majesty,

Features half lost amid their own pure light.

Poised in the middle region of the air

He hung, — then floated with angelic ease,

Softening that bright effulgence by degrees,

Until he reached a rock, of summit bare.

Where oft the vent'rous Heifer drinks the summer breeze.

Upon the apex of that lofty cone

Alighted, there the Stranger stood alone;

Fair as a gorgeous Fabric of the East

207

Suddenly raised by some Enchanter's power, Where nothing was ; and firm as some old Tower Of Britain's realm, whose leafy crest Waves high, embellish'd by a gleaming shower !

II.

Beneath the shadow of his purple wings

Rested a golden Harp ; — he touch'd the strings ;

And, after prelude of unearthly sound

Poured through the echoing hills around,

He sang, " No wintry desolations,

" Scorching blight, or noxious dew,

" Affect my native habitations ;

*' Buried in glory, far beyond the scope

*' Of man's enquiring gaze, and imaged to his hope

" (Alas, how faintly !) in the hue

*' Profound of night's ethereal blue ;

** And in the aspect of each radiant orb ; —

" Some fix'd, some wandering with no timid curb ;

But wandering orb and fix'd, to mortal eye, " Blended in absolute serenity,

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208

*< And free from semblance of decline ; — " So wills eternal Love and Power divine.

III.

" And what if his presiding breath

" Impart a sympathetic motion

" Unto the gates of life and death,

" Throughout the bounds of earth and ocean ;

" Though all that feeds on nether air,

*' Howe'er magnificent or fair,

" Grows but to perish, and entrust

" Its ruins to their kindred dust ;

*' Yet, by the Almighty's ever-during care,

*' Her procreant vigils Nature keeps

*' Amid the unfathomable deeps ;

" And saves the peopled fields of earth

*' From dread of emptiness or dearth.

*^ Thus, in their stations, lifting tow'rd the sky

" The foliag'd head in cloud-like majesty,

** The shadow-casting race of Trees survive :

" Thus, in the train of Spring, arrive

20&

Sweet Flowers ; — what living eye hath viewed

Their myriads ? — endlessly renewed,

Wherever strikes the sun's glad ray;

Where'er the joyous waters stray ;

Wherever sportive zephyrs bend

Their course, or genial showers descend !

Rejoice, O men ! the very Angels quit

Their mansions unsusceptible of change,

Amid your pleasant bowers to sit.

And through your sweet vicissitudes to range !"

IV.

O, nursed at happy distance from the cares Of a too-anxious world, mild pastoral Muse ! That, to the sparkling crown Urania wears, And to her sister Clio's laurel wreath, Prefer'st a garland cull'd from purple heath, Or blooming thicket moist with morning dews ; Was such bright Spectacle vouchsafed to v^e ? And was it granted to the simple ear Of thy contented Votary Such melody to hear !

210

Him rather suits it, side by side with thee,

Wrapped in a fit of pleasing indolence,

While thy tired lute hangs on the hawthorn tree,

To lie and listen, till oer-drowsed sense

Sinks, hardly conscious of the influence,

To the soft murmur of the vagrant Bee.

— A slender sound ! yet hoary Time

Doth, to the Soul exalt it with the chime

Of all his years ; — a company

Of ages coming, ages gone ;

Nations from before them sweeping —

Regions in destruction steeping ; —

But every awful note in unison

With that faint utterance, which tells

Of treasure sucked from buds and bells.

For the pure keeping of those waxen cells ;

Where She, a statist prudent to confer

Upon the public weal ; a warrior bold, —

Radiant all over with unburnished gold.

211

And armed with living spear for mortal fight ;

A cunning forager That spreads no waste ; — a social builder, one In whom all busy offices unite With all fine functions that afford delight, Safe through the winter storm in quiet dwells !

■ V. And is She brought within the power Of vision ? — o'er this tempting flower Hovering until the petals stay Her flight, and take its voice away ? Observe each wing — a tiny van ! — The structure of her laden thigh ; How fragile ! — yet of ancestry Mysteriously remote and high ; High as the imperial front of man, The roseate bloom on woman's cheek ; The soaring eagle's curved beak ; The white plumes of the floating swan ;

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212

Old as the tyger's paws, the lion's mane

Ere shaken by that mood of stern disdain

At which the desart trembles. — Humming Bee !

Thy sting was needless then, perchance unknown ;

The seeds of malice were not sown ;

All creatures met in peace, from fierceness free,

And no pride blended with their dignity.

— Tears had not broken from their source ;

Nor anguish strayed from her Tartarian den :

The golden years maintained a course

Not undiversified, though smooth and even ;

We were not mocked with glimpse and shadow then;

Bright Seraphs mixed familiarly with men ;

And earth and stars composed a universal heaven !

TOPOGRAPHICAL DESCRIPTION

OF

THE COUNTRY OF THE LAKES

IN

Cfie 0ovt\) of dEttslanti.

p 3

This Essay, 'which tvas published several years ago as an In- troduction to some Vieijos of the Lakes, by the Rev. Joseph Wilkinson, [an expensive "work, and necessarily of limited circulation^ is notv, 'with emendations and additions, at- tached to these 'volumes ; from a consciousness of its having been 'written in the same spirit 'which dictated several of the poems, and from a belief that it 'will tend materially to illustrate them.

TOPOGRAPHICAL DESCRIPTION

OF

THE COUNTRY OF THE LAKES.

At Lucerne in Switzerland there existed, some years ago, a model of the Alpine country which encompasses the Lake of the four Cantons. The spectator ascended a little platform, and saw mountains, lakes, glaciers, rivers, woods, waterfalls, and valleys with their cottages and every other object contained in them, lying at his feet; all things being represented in their appropriate colours. It may be easily conceived that this exhibition afforded an exquisite delight to the imagination, which was thus tempted to wander at will from valley to valley, from mountain to mountain, through the deepest re- cesses of the Alps. But it supplied also a more sub-

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216 DESCRIPTION OF THE

stantial pleasure ; for the sublime and beautiful region, with all its hidden treasures, and their bearings and re- lations to each other, was thereby comprehended and understood at once.

Something of this kind (as far as it can be performed by words, which must needs be inadequately) will here be at- tempted in respect to the Lakes in the north of England, and the vales and mountains enclosing and surrounding them. The delineation if tolerably executed will in some instances communicate to the traveller, who has already seen the objects, new information; and will assist iri giving to his recollections a more orderly arrangement than his own opportunities of observing may have per- mitted him to make ; while it will be still more useful to the future traveller, by directing his attention at once to distinctions in things which, without such previous aid, a length of time only could enable him to discover. It is hoped, also, that this Essay may become generally serviceable by leading to habits of more exact and con- siderate observation than, as far as the writer knows, have hitherto been applied to local scenery. '

COUNTRY OF THE LAKES. 2it

To begin, then, with the main outUnes of the country. I know not how to give the reader a distinct image of these more readily, than by requesting him to place him- self with me, in imagination, upon some given point ; let it be the top of either of the mountains, Great Gavel, or SCawfell ; or, rather, let us suppose our station to be a cloud hanging midway between these two mountains, at not more than half a mile's distance from the summit of each, and not many yards above their highest elevation ; we shall then see stretched at our feet a number of val- leys, not fewer than nine, diverging from the point, on which we are supposed to stand, like spokes from the nave of a wheel. First, we note, lying to the south-east, the vale of Langdale, which will conduct the eye to the long Lake of Winandermere stretched nearly to the sea ;

or rather to the sands of the vast bay of Morcamb, serving here for the rim of this imaginary wheel;-— let us trace it in

a direction from the south-eas^t towards the south, and we

shall next fix our eyes upon the vale of Coniston, running

up likewise from the sea, but not (as all the other valleys

do) to the nave of the wheel, and therefore it may not

218 DESCRIPTION OF THE

be inaptly represented as a broken spoke sticking in the rim. Looking forth again, with an inclination towards the west, immediately at our feet lies the vale of Duddon, in which is no lake, but a copious stream winding among fields, rocks, and mountains, and terminating its course . in the sands of Duddon. The fourth valley next to be observed, viz. that of Eskdale, is of the same general character as the last, yet beautifully discriminated from it by peculiar features. Next, almost due west, look down upon, and into, the deep valley of Wastdale, with its little chapel and half a dozen neat scattered dwellings, a plain of meadow and corn-ground intersected with stone walls apparently innumerable, like a large piece of lawless patch-work, or an array of mathematical figures, such as in the ancient schools of geometry might have been sportively and fantastically traced out upon sand. Beyond this little fertile plain lies, within its bed of steep moun- tains, the long, narrow, stern, and desolate Lake of Wast- dale ; and beyond this a dusky tract of level ground con- ducts the eye to the Irish Sea. The several vales of Ennerdale and Buttermere, with their lakes, next pre-

COUNTRY OF THE LAKIES. 219

sent themselves ; and lastly, the vale of Borrowdale, of which that of Keswick is only a continuation, stretching due north, brings us to a point nearly opposite to the vale of Winandermere with which we began. From this it will appear, that the image of a wheel thus far exact, is little more than one half complete ; but the deficiency on the eastern side may be supplied by the vales of Wytheburn, Ulswater, Hawswater, and the vale of Gras- mere and Rydal; none of these, however, run-up to the central point between Great Gavel and Scawfell. From this, hitherto our central point, take a flight of not more than three or four miles eastward to the ridge of Hel- vellyn, and you will look down upon Wytheburn and St. John's Vale, which are a branch of the vale of Kes- wick ; upon Ulswater, stretching due east, and not far beyond to the south-east, (though from this point not visible,) lie the vale and lake of Hawswater; and lastly^ the vale of Grasmere, Rydal, and Ambleside, brings you back to Winandermere, thus completing, though on the eastern side in a somewhat irregular manner, the representative figure of the wheel.

220 DESCRIPTION OF THE

Such, concisely given, is the general topographical view of the country of the Lakes in the north of England ; and it may be observed, that, from the circumference to the centre, that is, from the sea or plain country to the moun- tain stations specified, there is — in the several ridges that enclose these vales and divide them from each other, I mean in the forms and surfaces, first of the swelling grounds, next of the hills and rocks, and lastly of the mountains — an ascent of almost regular gradation from elegance and richness to the highest point of grandeur. It follows therefore from this, first, that these rocks, hills, and mountains, must present themselves to view in stages rising above each other, the mountains cluster- ing together towards the central point; and, next, that an observer familiar with the several vales, must, from their various position in relation to the sun, have had before his eyes every possible embellishment of beauty, dignity, and splendour, which light and shadow can bestow upon objects so diversified. For example, in the vale of Winandermere, if the spectator looks for gentle and lovely scenes, his eye is turned towards the

COUNTRY OF THE LAKES. 221

south ; if for the grand, towards the north ; in the vale of Keswick, which (as hath been said) lies almost due north of this, it is directly the reverse. Hence, when the sun is setting in summer far to the north-west, it is seen by the spectator from the shores or breast of Winan- dermere, resting among the summits of the loftiest moun- tains, some of which will perhaps be half or wholly hid by clouds, or by the blaze of light which the orb diffuses around it ; and the surface of the lake will reflect before the eye correspondent colours through every variety of beauty, and through all degrees of splendour. In the vale of Keswick, at the same period, the sun sets over the humbler regions of the landscape, and showers down upon^^^m the radiance which at once veils and glorifies, — sending forth, meanwhile, broad streams of rosy, crimson purple, or golden light, towards the grand mountains in the south and south-east, which, thus illuminated, with all their projections and cavities, and with an intermixture of solemn shadows, are seen distinctly through a cool and clear atmosphere. Of course, there is as marked a dif- ference between the noontide appearance of these two,

222 DESCRIPTION OF THE

opposite vales. The bedimming haze that overspreads the south, and the clear atmosphere and determined shadows of the clouds in the north, at the same time of the day, are each seen in these several vales, v^ith a con- trast as striking. The reader will easily perceive in what degree the intermediate vales partake of the same variety.

I do not indeed know any tract of country in which, within so narrow a compass, may be found an equal variety in the influences of light and shadow upon the sublime or beautiful features of landscape ; and it is owing to the combined circumstances to which I have directed the reader's attention. From a point between Great Gavel and Scawfell, a shepherd would not require more than an hour to descend into any one of eight of the principal vales by which he would be surrounded ; and all the others lie (with the exception of Hawswater) at but a small distance. Yet, though clustered together, every valley has its distinct and separate character ; in some instances, as if they had been formed in studied contrast to each other, and in others with the united

COUNTRY OF THE LAKES. 223

pleasing differences and resemblances of a sisterly rival- ship. This concentration of interest gives to the coun- try a decided superiority over the most attractive districts of Scotland and Wales, especially for the pedestrian tra- veller. In Scotland and Wales are found undoubtedly individual scenes, which, in their several kinds, cannot be excelled. But, in Scotland, particularly, what deso- late and unimpressive tracts of country almost perpetually intervene ! so that the traveller, when he reaches a spot deservedly of great celebrity, would find it difficult to determine how much of his pleasure is owing to excel- lence inherent in the landscape itself; and how much to an instantaneous recovery from an oppression left upon his spirits by the barrenness and desolation through which he has passed.

But, to proceed with our survey ; — and, first, of the Mountains. Their forms are endlessly diversified, sweeping easily or boldly in simple majesty, abrupt and precipitous, or soft and elegant. In magnitude and gran- deur they are individually inferior to the most celebrated of those in some other parts of this island ; but, in the

224 DESCRIPTION OF THE

combinations which they make, towering above each other, or lifting themselves in ridges Hke the waves of a tumultuous sea, and in the beauty and variety of their surfaces and their colours, they are surpassed by none.

The general surface of the mountains is turf, rendered rich and green by the moisture of the climate. Some- times the turf, as in the neighbourhood of Newlands, is little broken, the whole covering being soft and downy pasturage. In other places rocks predominate ; the soil is laid bare by torrents and burstings of water from the sides of the mountains in heavy rains ; and occasionally their perpendicular sides are seamed by ravines (formed also by rains and torrents) which, meeting in angular points, entrench and scar over the surface with numerous figures like the letters W and Y.

. The Mountains are composed of the stone by mi- neralogists termed schist, which, as you approach the plain country, gives place to lime-stone and free-stone ; but schist being the substance of the mountains, the predominant colour of their roclcy parts is bluish, or hoary gray — the general tint of the lichens with which

COUNTRY OF THE LAKES.

225

the bare stone is encrusted. With this blue or grey colour is frequently intermixed a red tinge, proceeding from the iron that interveins the stone, and impregnates the soil. The iron is the principle of decomposition in these rocks ; and hence, when they become pulverized, the elementary particles crumbling down overspread in many places the steep and almost precipitous sides of the mountains with an intermixture of colours, like the compound hues of a dove's neck. When, in the heat of advancing summer, the fresh green tint of the herbage has somewhat faded, it is again revived by the appearance of the fern profusely spread every where ; and, upon this plant, more than upon any thing else, do the changes which the seasons make in the colouring of the moun- tains depend. About the first week in October, the rich green, which prevailed through the whole summer, is usually passed away. The brilliant and various colours of the fern are then in harmony with the autumnal woods; bright yellow or lemon colour, at the base of the moun- tains, melting gradually, through orange, to a dark russet brown towards the summits, where the plant being more

226 DESCRIPTION OF THE

exposed to the weather is in a more advanced state of decay. Neither heath nor fiarze are generally found upon the sides of these mountains, though in some places they are richly adorned by them. We may add, that the mountains are of height sufficient to have the surface to- wards the summits softened by distance, and to imbibe the finest aerial hues. In common also with other moun- tains, their apparent forms and colours are perpetually changed by the clouds and vapours which float round them : the effect indeed of mist or haze, in a country of this character, is like that of magic. I have seen six or seven ridges rising above each other, all created in a moment by the vapours upon the side of a mountain, which, in its ordinary appearance, showed not a projecting point to furnish even a hint for such an operation.

I will take this opportunity of observing, that they, who have studied the appearances of nature, feel that the superiority, in point of visual interest, of mountainous over other countries — is more strikingly displayed in winter than in summer. This, as must be obvious, is

COUNTRY OF THE LAKES. 227

partly owing to the forms of the mountains, which, of course, are not affected by the seasons ; but also, in no small degree, to the greater variety that exists in their winter than their summer colouring. This variety is such, and so harmoniously preserved, that it leaves little cause of regret when the splendour of autumn is passed away. The oak-coppices, upon the sides of the mountains, re- tain russet leaves ; the birch stands conspicuous with its silver stem and puce-coloured twigs; the hollies, with green leaves and scarlet berries, have come forth to view from among the deciduous trees, whose summer foliage had concealed them ; the ivy is now plentifully apparent upon the stems and boughs of the trees, and among the woody rocks. In place of the uniform summer-green of the herbage and fern, many rich colours play into each other over the surface of the mountains ; turf (the tints of which are interchangeably tawny-green, olive, and brown,) beds of withered fern, and grey rocks, being harmoniously blended together. The mosses and lichens are never so fresh and flourishing as in winter, if it be not a season of frost ; and their minute beauties prodi-

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228 DESCRIPTION OF THE

gaily adorn the fore-ground. Wherever we turn, we find these productions of nature, to which winter is rather favourable than unkindly, scattered over the walls, banks of earth, rocks, and stones, and upon the trunks of trees, with the intermixture of several species of small fern, now green and fresh ; and, to the observing pas- senger, their forms and colours are a source of inex- haustible admiration. Add to this the hoar-frost and snow, with all the varieties they create, and which volumes would not be sufficient to describe. I will content myself with one instance of the colouring produced by snow, which may not be uninteresting to painters. It is ex- tracted from the memorandum -book of a friend ; and for its accuracy I can speak, having been an eye-witness of the appearance. " I observed," says he, " the beau- tiful effect of the drifted snow upon the mountains, and the perfect tone of colour. From the top of the moun- tains downwards a rich olive was produced by the pow- dery snow and the grass, which olive was warmed with a little brown, and in this way harmoniously combined, by insensible gradations, with the white. The drifting

COUNTRY OF THE LAKES, 229

took away the monotony of snow ; and the whole vale of Grasmere, seen from the terrace walk in Easedale, was as varied, perhaps more so, than even in the pomp of autumn. In the distance was Loughrigg-Fell, the basin-wall of the lake : this, from the summit downward, was a rich orange-olive ; then the lake of a bright olive- green, nearly the same tint as the snow-powdered moun- tain tops and high slopes in Easedale; and lastly, the church with its firs forming the centre of the view. Next to the church with its firs, came nine distinguishable hills, six of them with woody sides turned towards us, all of them oak-copses with their bright red leaves and snow-powdered twigs ; these hills — so variously situated to each other, and to the view in general, so variously powdered, some only enough to give the herbage a rich brown tint, one intensely white and lighting up all the others — were yet so placed, as in the most inobtrusive manner to harmonise by contrast with a perfect naked, snowless bleak summit in the far distance."

Having spoken of the forms, surface, and colour of the mountains, let us descend into the Valleys. Though

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230 DESCRIPTION OF THE

these have been represented under the general image of the spokes of a wheel, they are, for the most part, wind- ing; the windings of many being abrupt and intricate. And, it may be observed, that, in one circumstance, the general shape of them all has been determined by that primitive conformation through which so many became receptacles of lakes. For they are not formed, as are most of the celebrated Welsh valleys, by an ap- proximation of the sloping bases of the opposite moun- tains towards each other, leaving little more between than a channel for the passage of a hasty river ; but the bottom of these valleys is, for the most part, a spacious and gently declining area, apparently level as the floor of a temple, or the surface of a lake, and beautifully broken, in many cases, by rocks and hills, which rise up like islands from the plain. In such of the valleys as make many windings, these level areas open upon the traveller in succession, divided from each other sometimes by a mutual approximation of the hills, leaving only passage for a river, sometimes by correspondent windings, with- out such approximation ; and sometimes by a bold ad-

COUNTRY OF THE LAKES. 231

vance of one mountain towards that which is opposite to it. It may here be observed with propriety, that the several rocks and hills, which have been described as rising up like islands from the level area of the vale, have regulated the choice of the inhabitants in the situ- ation of their dwellings. Where none of these are found, and the inclination of the ground is not sufficiently rapid easily to carry off the waters, (as in the higher part of Langdale, for instance,) the houses are not sprinkled over the middle part of the vales, but confined to their sides, being placed merely so far up the mountain as to pro- tect them from the floods. But where these rocks and hills have been scattered over the plain of the vale, (as in Grasmere, Donnerdale, Eskdale, &c.) the beauty which they give to the scene is much heightened by a single cottage, or cluster of cottages, that will be almost always found under them or upon their sides ; dryness and shelter having tempted the Dalesmen to fix their habitations there.

I shall now speak of the Lakes of this country. The form of the lake is most perfect when, like Derwent-

o 4

232 DESCRIPTION QF THE

water and some of the smaller lakes, it least resembles that of a river ; — I mean, when being looked at from any given point where the whole may be seen at once, the width of it bears such proportion to the length, that, however the outline may be diversified by far-shooting bays, it never assumes the shape of a river, and is con- templated with that placid and quiet feeling which be- longs peculiarly to the lake — as a body of still water under the influence of no current; reflecting therefore the clouds, the light, and all the imagery of the sky and surrounding hills; expressing also and making visible the changes of the atmosphere, and motions of the lightest breeze, and subject to agitation only from the winds —

—• The visible scene

Would enter unawares into his mind

With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,

Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received

Into the bosom of the steady lake !

It must be noticed, as a favourable characteristic of the lakes of this country, that, though several of the largest.

COUNTRY OF THE LAKES. 233

such as Winandermere, Ulswater, Haws water, &c. do, when the whole length of them is commanded from an elevated point, lose somewhat of the peculiar form of the lake, and assume the resemblance of a magnificent river ; yet, as their shape is winding, (particularly that of Uls- water and Hawswater) when the view of the whole is obstructed by those barriers which determine the wind- ings, and the spectator is confined to one reach, the ap- propriate feehng is revived ; and one lake may thus in succession present to the eye the essential characteristic of many. But, though the forms of the large lakes have this advantage, it is nevertheless a circumstance favour- able to the beauty of the country, that the largest of them are comparatively small ; and that the same valley generally furnishes a succession of lakes, instead of being filled with one. The valleys in North Wales, as hath been observed, are not formed for the reception of lakes ; those of Switzerland, Scotland, and this part of the north of England, are so formed ; but, in Switzerland and Scot- land, the proportion of diffused water is often too great, as at the lake of Geneva for instance, and in most of the

234 DESCRIPTION OF THE

Scotch lakes. No doubt it sounds magnificent and flat- ters the imagination to hear at a distance of expanses of water so many leagues in length and miles in width ; and such ample room may be delightful to the fresh- water sailor scudding with a lively breeze amid the ra- pidly-shifting scenery. But, who ever travelled along the banks of Loch-Lomond, variegated as the lower part is by islands, without feeling that a speedier termination of the long vista of blank water would be acceptable ; and without wishing for an interposition of green meadows, trees, and cottages, and a sparkling stream to run by his side ? In fact, a notion of grandeur, as connected with magnitude, has seduced persons of taste into a ge- neral mistake upon this subject. It is much more de- sirable, for the purposes of pleasure, that lakes should be numerous, and small or middle-sized, than large, not only for communication by walks and rides, but for va- riety, and for recurrence of similar appearances. To illustrate this by one instance : — how pleasing is it to have a ready and frequent opportunity of watching, at the outlet of a lake, the stream pushing its way. among

COUNTRY OF THE LAKES. 235

the rocks in lively contrast with the stillness from which it has escaped ; and how amusing to compare its noisy and turbulent motions with the gentle playfulness of the breezes, that may be starting up or wandering here and there over the faintly-rippled surface of the broad water ! I may add, as a general remark, that, in lakes of great width, the shores cannot be distinctly seen at the same time, and therefore contribute little to mutual illustration and ornament; and if, like the American and Asiatic lakes, the opposite shores are out of sight of each other, then unfortunately the traveller is reminded of a nobler object ; he has the blankness of a sea-prospect without the same grandeur and accompanying sense of power.