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!»>
The People answered 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, thenceforth 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!»>
THE SPARROW'S NEST..
BEHOLD, within the leafy shade,
Those bright blue eggs together laid!
On me the chance-discovered sight
Gleamed like a vision of delight.—
I started-seeming to espy
The home and sheltered bed,-
The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by,
My Father's House, in wet or dry,
My Sister Emmeline and I
She looked at it as if she feared it;
Still wishing, dreading to be near it :
Such heart was in her, being then
A little Prattler among men.
The Blessing of my later years
Was with me when a Boy:
She gave me eyes, she gave me ears;
And humble cares, and delicate fears;
A heart, the fountain of sweet tears;
And love, and thought, and joy.
TO A BUTTERFLY.
I've watched you now a full half-hour,
Self-poised upon that yellow flower;
And, little Butterfly! indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless!-not frozen seas
More motionless! and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!
This plot of Orchard-ground is ours;
My trees they are, my Sister's flowers;
Hlere rest your wings when they are weary;
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
Sit near us, on the bough!
We'll talk of sunshine and of song;
And summer days when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.
COMPOSED IN THE YEAR 1802.
FAREWELL, thou little Nook of mountain-ground,
Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair
Of that magnificent Temple which doth bound
One side of our whole Vale with grandeur rare;
Sweet Garden-orchard, eminently fair,
The loveliest spot that man hath ever found,
Farewell!-we leave thee to heaven's peaceful care,
Thee, and the Gottage which thou dost surround.
Our boat is safely anchor'd by the shore,
And safely she will ride when we are gone;
The flowering shrubs that decorate our door
Will prosper, though untended and alone:
Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have none:
These narrow bounds contain our private store
Of things earth makes and sun doth shine upon;
Here are they in our sight-we have no more.
Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell!
For two months now in vain we shall be sought;
We leave you here in solitude to dwell
With these our latest gifts of tender thought;
Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat,
Bright gowan, and marsh-marygold, farewell!
Whom from the borders of the Lake we brought,
And placed together near our rocky Well.
We go for one to whom ye will be dear;
And she will prize this Bower, this Indian shed,
Our own contrivance, Building without peer!
-A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred,
Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered,
With joyousness, and with a thoughtful cheer,
Will come to you,--to you herself will wed,-
And love the blessed life that we lead here.
Dear Spot! which we have watched with tender heed,
Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown
Among the distant mountains, flower and weed,
Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own,
Making all kindness registered and known;
Thou for our sakes, though Nature's Child indeed,
Fair in thyself and beautiful alone,
Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need.
And O most constant, yet most fickle Place,
That hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost show
To them who look not daily on thy face;
Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know,
And say 'st when we forsake thee, « Let them go !»
Thou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild race
Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow,―
And travel with the year at a soft pace.
Help us to tell her tales of years gone by,
And this sweet spring the best beloved and best.
Joy will be flown in its mortality;
Something must stay to tell us of the rest.
Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock's breast
Glittered at evening like a starry sky;
And in this Bush our Sparrow built her nest,
Of which I sung one Song that will not die.
O happy Garden! whose seclusion deep
Hath been so friendly to industrious hours;
And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep
Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers,
And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers;
Two burning months let summer overleap,
And, coming back with Her who will be ours,
Into thy bosom we again shall creep.
Nor lacked his calmer hours device or toy
To banish listlessness and irksome care;
He would have taught you how you might employ
Yourself; and many did to him repair,-
And, certes, not in vain; he had inventions rare.
Expedients, too, of simplest sort he tried:
Long blades of grass, plucked round him as he lay,
Made-to his car attentively applied-
A Pipe on which the wind would deftly play;
Glasses he had, that little things display,
The beetle panoplied in gems and gold,
WRITTEN IN MY POCKET-COPY OF THOMSON'S CASTLE A mailed angel on a battle day;
WITHIN Our happy Castle there dwelt One
Whom without blame I may not overlook;
For never sun on living creature shone
Who more devout enjoyment with us took:
Here on his hours he hung as on a book;
On his own time here would he float away,
As doth a fly upon a summer brook;
But go to-morrow-or belike to-day
Seek for him,-he is fled; and whither none can say.
Thus often would he leave our peaceful home,
And find elsewhere his business or delight;
Out of our Valley's limits did he roam :
Full many a time, upon a stormy night,
His voice came to us from the neighbouring height:
Oft did we see him driving full in view
At mid-day when the sun was shining bright;
What ill was on him, what he had to do,
A mighty wonder bred among our quiet crew.
Ah! piteous sight it was to see this Man
When he came back to us, a withered flower,--
Or like a sinful creature, pale and wan.
Down would he sit; and without strength or power
Look at the common grass from hour to hour:
And oftentimes, how long I fear to say,
Where apple-trees in blossom made a bower,
Retired in that sunshiny shade he lay;
And, like a naked Indian, slept himself away.
Great wonder to our gentle Tribe it was
Whenever from our Valley he withdrew;
For happier soul no living creature has
Than he had, being here the long day through.
Some thought he was a lover, and did woo:
Some thought far worse of him, and judged him wrong:
But Verse was what he had been wedded to;
And his own mind did like a tempest strong
Come to him thus, and drove the weary Wight along.
With him there often walked in friendly guise,
Or lay upon the moss by brook or tree,
A noticeable man with large grey eyes,
And a pale face that seem'd undoubtedly
As if a blooming face it ought to be;
Heavy his low-hung lip did oft.
appear
Deprest by weight of musing Phantasy;
Profound his forehead was, though not severe;
Yet some did think that he had little business here:
Sweet heaven forefend! his was a lawful right;
Noisy he was, and gamesome as a boy;
His limbs would toss about him with delight
Like branches when strong winds the trees annoy.
The mysteries that cups of flowers enfold,
And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.
He would entice that other Man to hear
His music, and to view his imagery:
And, sooth, these two did love each other dear,
As far as love in such a place could be;
There did they dwell-from earthly labour free,
As happy spirits as were ever seen;
If but a bird, to keep them company,
Or butterfly sate down, they were, I ween,
As pleased as if the same had been a Maiden Queen.
I MET Louisa in the shade;
And having seen that lovely Maid,
Why should I fear to say
That she is ruddy, fleet, and strong;
And down the rocks can leap along,
Like rivulets in May?
And she hath smiles to earth unknown;
Smiles, that with motion of their own
Do spread, and sink, and rise;
That come and go with endless play,
And ever, as they pass away,
Are hidden in her eyes.
She loves her fire, her Cottage-home;
Yet o'er the moorland will she roam
In weather rough and bleak;
And, when against the wind she strains,
Oh might I kiss the mountain rains
That sparkle on her cheek!
Take all that's mine « beneath the moon,»>
If I with her but half a noon
May sit beneath the walls
Of some old cave, or mossy nook,
When
up she winds along the brook
To hunt the waterfalls.
STRANGE fits of passion I have known:
And I will dare to tell,
But in the Lover's ear alone,
What once to me befel.
When she I loved was strong and gay,
And like a rose in June,
I to her cottage bent my way,
Beneath the evening Moon.
Upon the Moon I fixed my eye, All over the wide lea;
My Horse trudged on-and we drew nigh Those paths so dear to me.
And now we reached the orchard plot;
And as we climbed the hill,
Towards the roof of Lucy's cot
The Moon descended still.
In one of those sweet dreams I slept,
Kind Nature's gentlest boon!
And all the while my eyes I kept
On the descending Moon.
My Horse moved on; hoof after hoof
He raised, and never stopped:
When down behind the cottage roof,
At once, the bright Moon dropped.
What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a Lover's head!
«O mercy!»> to myself I cried, << If Lucy should be dead!»>
SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love.
A Violet by a mossy stone
Half-hidden from the eye!
-Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her Grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!
I TRAVELLED among unknown Men,
In Lands beyond the Sea;
Nor, England! did I know till then
What love I bore to thee.
T is past, that melancholy dream!
Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time; for still I seem
To love thee more and more.
Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire;
And She I cherished turned her wheel Beside an English fire.
Thy mornings shewed, thy nights concealed
The bowers where Lucy played;
And thine is too the last green field
That Lucy's eyes surveyed.
ERE with cold beads of midnight dew
Had mingled tears of thine,
I grieved, fond Youth! that thou shouldst sue To haughty Geraldine.
![[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors]](https://books.google.com.pr/books/content?id=KVs_AAAAYAAJ&output=html_text&pg=PA43&img=1&zoom=3&hl=en&q=related:ISBN0140092331&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U2YckrmoHSgKBrlzVzAVByQbVQaCw&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=457,144,377,450)
Look at the fate of summer Flowers,
Which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song;
And, grieved for their brief date, confess that ours,
Measured by what we are and ought to be,
Measured by all that trembling we foresee,
Is not so long!
If human Life do pass away,
Perishing yet more swiftly than the Flower
Whose frail existence is but of a day;
What
space hath Virgin's Beauty to disclose
Her sweets, and triumph o'er the breathing Rose?
Not even an hour!
The deepest grove whose foliage hid
The happiest Lovers Arcady might boast,
Could not the entrance of this thought forbid :
O be thou wise as they, soul-gifted Maid!
Nor rate too high what must so quickly fade,
So soon be lost.
Then shall Love teach some virtuous Youth
<< To draw out of the Object of his eyes,>>
The whilst on Thee they gaze in simple truth,
Hues more exalted, « a refined Form,»
That dreads not age, nor suffers from the worm,
And never dies.
'T is said, that some have died for love:
And here and there a church-yard grave is found In the cold North's unhallowed ground,Because the wretched Man himself had slain,
His love was such a grievous pain.
And there is one whom I five years have known; He dwells alone
Upon Helvellyn's side:
He loved the pretty Barbara died,
And thus he makes his moan:
Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid
When thus his moan he made;
« Oh, move, thou Cottage, from behind that oak!
Or let the aged tree uprooted lie,
That in some other way yon smoke
May mount into the sky!
The clouds pass on; they from the heavens depart :
I look-the sky is empty space;
I know not what I trace;
But when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart.
«O! what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves, When will that dying murmur be supprest! Your sound my heart of peace bereaves,
It robs my heart of rest.
Thou Thrush, that singest loud-and loud and free, Into yon row of willows flit,
Or sing another song, or choose another tree.
«Roll back, sweet Rill! back to thy mountain bounds, And there for ever be thy waters chained!
For thou dost haunt the air with sounds
That cannot be sustained;
If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough
Headlong yon waterfall must come,
Oh let it then be dumb!
Be any thing, sweet Rill, but that which thou art now.
«Thou Eglantine, whose arch so proudly towers, (Even like a rainbow spanning half the vale) Thou one fair shrub, oh! shed thy flowers,
And stir not in the gale.
For thus to see thee nodding in the air,
To see thy arch thus stretch and bend,
Thus rise and thus descend,-
Disturbs me till the sight is more than I can bear.»
The Man who makes this feverish complaint
Is one of giant stature, who could dance
Equipped from head to foot in iron mail.
Ah gentle Love! if ever thought was thine
To store up kindred hours for me, thy face
Turn from me, gentle Love! nor let me walk
Within the sound of Emma's voice, or know
Such happiness as I have known to-day.
LET other Bards of Angels sing,
Bright Suns without a spot;
But thou art no such perfect Thing;
Rejcice that thou art not!
Such if thou wert in all men's view,
A universal show,
What would my Fancy have to do,
My Feelings to bestow?
The world denies that Thou art fair;
So, Mary, let it be
If nought in loveliness compare
With what thou art to me.
True beauty dwells in deep retreats,
Whose veil is unremoved
Till heart with heart in concord beats,
And the Lover is beloved.
How rich that forehead's calm expanse!
How bright that Heaven-directed glance!
-Waft her to Glory, winged Powers,
Ere Sorrow be renewed,
And intercourse with mortal hours
Bring back a humbler mood!
So looked Cecilia when she drew
An Angel from his station;
So looked-not ceasing to pursue
Her tuneful adoration!
But hand and voice alike are still;
No sound here sweeps away the will
That gave it birth;-in service meek
One upright arm sustains the cheek,
And one across the bosom lies-
That rose, and now forgets to rise,
Subdued by breathless harmonies
Of meditative feeling;
Mute strains from worlds beyond the skies,
Through the pure light of female eyes
Their sanctity revealing!
THERE is a change-and I am poor;
Your Love hath been, nor long ago,
A Fountain at my fond Heart's door,
Whose only business was to flow;
And flow it did; not taking heed
Of its own bounty, or my need.
What happy moments did I count!
Blest was I then all bliss above!
Now, for this consecrated Fount
Of murmuring, sparkling, living love,
What have I? shall I dare to tell?
A comfortless and hidden WELL.
A Well of love-it may be deep-
I trust it is, and never dry:
What matter? if the Waters sleep
In silence and obscurity.
-Such change, and at the very door
Of my fond Heart, hath made me poor.
O DEARER far than light and life are dear,
Full oft our human foresight I deplore;
Trembling, through my unworthiness, with fear
That friends, by death disjoined, may meet no more!
Misgivings, hard to vanquish or control,
Mix with the day, and cross the hour of rest;
While all the future, for thy purer soul,
With << sober certainties» of love is blest.
If a faint sigh, not meant fe human ear,
Tell that these words thy humbleness offend,
Cherish me still-else faltering in the rear
Of a steep march; uphold me to the end.
Peace settles where the Intellect is meek,
And Love is dutiful in thought and deed;
Through Thee communion with that Love I seek;
The faith Heaven strengthens where he moulds the creed.
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