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Doth yet frequent the hill of storms,
The Stars dim-twinkling through their forms!
What! Ossian here—a painted Thrall,
Mute fixture on a stuccoed wall;
To serve, an unsuspected screen
For show that must not yet be seen;
And, when the moment comes, to part
And vanish by mysterious art;
"lead, Harp, and Body, split asunder,
For ingress to a world of wonder;
A gay Saloon, with waters dancing
Upon the sight wherever glancing;
One loud Cascade in front, and lo!
A thousand like it, white as snow—
Streams on the walls, and torrents foam
As active round the hollow dome,
Illusive cataracts' of their terrors
Not stript, nor voiceless in the Mirrors,
That catch the pageant from the Flood
Thundering adown a rocky wood
Strange scene, fantastic and uneasy
As ever made a Maniac dizzy,
When disenchanted from the mood
That loves on sullen thoughts to brood'

O Nature, in thy changeful visions, Through all thy most abrupt transitions, Smooth, graceful, tender, or subline, Ever averse to Pantomime, Thee neither do they know nor us Thy Servants, who can trifle thus; Else surely had the sober powers Of rock that frowns, and stream that roars, Exalted by congenial sway Of Spirits, and the undying Lay, And names that moulder not away, Awaken'd some redeeming thought More worthy of this favour'd Spot; Recall'd some feeling—to set free The Bard from such indignity'

The Effigies of a valiant Wight I once beheld, a Templar Knight; Not prostrate, not like those that rest On Tombs, with palms together press'd, 3ut sculptured out of living stone, And standing upright and alone, Both hands with rival energy Employd in setting his sword free From its dull sheath—stern Sentinel Intent to guard St Robert's Cell; As if with memory of the affray Far distant, when, as legends say, The Monks of Fountain's throng'd to force From its dear home the Hermit's corse, That in their keeping it might lie, To crown their Abbey's sanctity. So had they rush'd into the Grot Of sense despised, a world forgot, And torn him from his loved Retreat, Where Altar-stone and rock-hewn seat Still hint that quiet best is found, Even by the Living, under ground; But a bold Knight, the selfish aim

' On the banks of the River Nid, near Knaresborough.

Defeating, put the Monks to shame, There where you see his Image stand Bare to the sky, with threatening brand Which lingering Nio is proud to show Reflected in the pool below.

Thus, like the Men of earliest days, Our Sires set forth their grateful praise; Uncouth the workmanship, and rude! But, nursed in mountain solitude, Might some aspiring Artist dare To seize whate'er, through misty air, A Ghost, by glimpses, may present Of imitable lineament, And give the Phantom such array As less should scorn the abandon'd clay; Then let him hew, with patient stroke, An Ossian out of mural rock, And leave the figurative Man Upon thy Margin, roaring Bran! Fixed, like the Templar of the steep, An everlasting watch to keep; With local sanctities in trust, More precious than a hermit's dust: And virtues through the mass infused, Which old idolatry abused.

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There was such deep contentment in the air,
That every naked ash, and tardy tree
Yet leafless, seem'd as though the countenance
With which it look'd on this delightful day
Were native to the summer.—Up the brook
I roam'd in the confusion of my heart,
Alive to all things and forgetting all.
At length I to a sudden turning came
In this continuous glen, where down a rock
The Stream, so ardent in its course before,
Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all
Which I till then had heard, appear'd the voice
Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the Lamb,
The Shepherd's Dog, the Linnet and the Thrush
Wied with this Waterfall, and made a song
Which, while I listened, secm'd like the wild growth
Or like some natural produce of the air,
That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here;
But 't was the foliage of the rocks, the birch,
The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn,
With hanging islands of resplendent furze:
And on a summit, distant a short space,
By any who should look beyond the dell,
A single mountain cottage might be seen.
I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said,
“Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook,
My EMMA, I will dedicate to thee."
——Soon did the spot become my other home,
My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode.
And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there,
To whom I sometimes in our idle talk
Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps,
Years after we are gone and in our graves,
When they have cause to speak of this wild place,
May call it by the name of EMMA's Dell.

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Reviving obsolete Idolatry, I, like a Runic Priest, in characters Of formidable size had chisseled out Some uncouth name upon the native rock, Above the Rotha, by the forest side. —Now, by those dear immunities of heart Engendered betwixt malice and true love, 1 was not loth to be so catechised, And this was my reply:-" As it befel, One summer morning we had walked abroad At break of day, Joanna and myself. —'T was that delightful season when the broom, Full-flowered, and visible on every steep, Along the copses runs in veins of gold. Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks; And when we came in front of that tall rock Which looks toward the East, I there stopped short, And traced the lofty barrier with my eye From base to summit: such delight I found To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower, That intermixture of delicious hues, Along so vast a surface, all at once, In one impression, by connecting force Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart. —When I had gazed perhaps two minutes space, Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud. The Rock, like something starting from a sleep, Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed again: That ancient Woman seated on Helm-Crag Was ready with her cavern: Hammer-Scar, And the tall Steep of Silver-How, sent forth A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard, And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone: Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky Carried the Lady's voice,—old Skiddaw blew Ilis speaking trumpet;-back out of the clouds Of Glaramara southward came the voice; And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head. —Now whether (said I to our cordial Friend, Who in the hey-day of astonishment Smiled in my face) this were in simple truth A work accomplished by the brotherhood Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched With dreams and visionary impulses To me alone imparted, sure I am That there was a loud uproar in the hills: And, while we both were listening, to my side The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished To shelter from some object of her fear. —And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm And silent morning, I sat down, and there, In memory of affections old and true, I chisseled out in those rude characters Joanna's name upon the living stone. And I, and all who dwell by my fire-side, Have called the lovely rock, JoANNA's Rock.”

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THERE is an Eminence,—of these our hills
The last that parleys with the setting sun.
We can behold it from our Orchard-seat;
And when at evening we pursue our walk
Along the public way, this Cliff, so high
Above us, and so distant in its height,
is visible; and often seems to send
its own deep quiet to restore our hearts.
The meteors make of it a favourite haunt:
The star of Jove, so beautiful and large
in the mid heavens, is never half so fair
As when lie shines above it. "T is in truth
The loneliest place we have among the clouds.
And She who dwells with me, whom I have loved
With such communion, that no place on earth
Can ever be a solitude to me,
liath to this lonely Summit given my Name.

A Nan now girdle of rough stones and crags, A rude and natural causeway, interposed setween the water and a winding slope of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore of Grasmere safe in its own privacy. And there, myself and two beloved Friends, One calm September morning, ere the mist ilad altogether yielded to the sun, Sauntered on this retired and dissicult way. ——ill suits the road with one in haste, but we Played with our time; and, as we strolled along, It was our occupation to observe Such objects as the waves had tossed ashore, Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough, Each on the other heaped, along the line of the dry wreck. And, in our vacant mood, Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft of dandelion seed or thistle's beard, That skinned the surface of the dead calm lake, Suddenly halting now—a lifeless stand! And starting off again with freak as sudden; In all its sportive wanderings, all the while, Making report of an invisible breeze That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse, Its playinate, rather say its moving soul. ––And often, tritling with a privilege Altke indulged to all, we paused, one now, And now the other, to point out, perchance To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fair Łither to be divided from the place on which it goew, or to be left alone To its own beauty. Many such there are, Fair Ferns and Flowers, and chiefly that tall Fern, So stately, of the Queen Osmunda named; Plant lovelier in its own retired abode on Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by the side of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere, sole-itting by the shores of old Romance. —So fared we that bright morning: from the fields, Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth of Reapers, Men and Women, Boys and Girls.

vate of crasmere, is a rock which from most points of view bears • *triking resemblance to an old woman cowering. Close by this ro-A is one of those Fix-are- or Caverns, which in the language of the country are called dungeons. Most of the Mountains here menee-1 immediately surround the vale of Grasmere; of the others, ** are at a cousiderable distance, but they belong to the same

stuater.

Delighted much to listen to those sounds,
And feeding thus our fancies, we advanced
Along the indented shore; when suddenly,
Through a thin veil of glittering haze was seen
I'efore us, on a point of jutting land,
The tall and upright figure of a Man
Attired in peasant's garb, who stood alone,
Angling beside the margin of the lake.
Improvident and reckless, we exclaimed,
The Man must be, who thus can lose a day
Of the mid-harvest, when the labourer's hire
ls ample, and some little might be stored
Where with to cheer him in the winter time.
Thus talking of that Peasant, we approached
Close to the spot where with his rod and line
He stood alone; whereat he turned his head
To greet us—and we saw a Man worn down
By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks
And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean
That for my single self I looked at them,
Forgetful of the body they sustained.—
Too weak to labour in the harvest field,
The Man was using his best skill to gain
A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake
That knew not of his wants. I will not say
What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how
The happy idleness of that sweet morn,
With all its lovely images, was changed
To serious musing and to self-reproach.
Nor did we fall to see within ourselves
What need there is to be reserved in speech,
And temper all our thoughts with charity.
—Therefore, unwilling to forget that day,
My Friend, Myself, and She who then received
the same admonishment, have called the place
by a memorial name, uncouth indeed
As eer by Mariner was given to tay
Or Foreland, on a new-discovered coast;
And Pol NT It Ash JudgMENT is the Name it bears.

TO M. ii.

OUR walk was far among the ancient trees;
There was no road, nor any woodman's path;
But the thick umbrage, checking the wild growth
Of weed and sapling, along soft green turf
Beneath the branches, of itself had inade
A track, that brought us to a slip of lawn,
And a small bed of water in the woods.
All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink
On its firm margin, even as from a Well,
Or some Stone-basin which the Herdsman's hand
Ilad shaped for their refreshment; nor did sun,
Or wind from any quarter, ever come,
But as a blessing, to this calm recess,
This glade of water and this one green field.
The spot was made by Nature for herself,
The travellers know it not, and 't will remain
Unknown to them: but it is beautiful;
And if a man should plant his cottage near,
Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees,
And blend its waters with his daily meal,
Ile would so love it, that in his death hour
Its image would survive among his thoughts:
And therefore, my sweet Many, this still Nook,
With all its beeches, we have named from You.

When, to the attractions of the busy World,
Preferring studious leisure, I had chosen
A habitation in this peaceful Vale,
Sharp season followed of continual storm
In deepest winter; and, from week to week,
Pathway, and lane, and public road, were clogged
With frequent showers of snow. Upon a hill
At a short distance from my Cottage, stands
A stately Fir-grove, whither I was wont
To hasten, for I found, beneath the roof
Of that perennial shade, a cloistral place
Of refuge, with an unincumbered floor.
Here, in safe covert, on the shallow snow,
And, sometimes, on a speck of visible earth,
The redbreast near me hopped; nor was I loth
To sympathise with vulgar coppice Birds
That, for protection from the nipping blast,
Hither repaired.—A single beech-tree grew
Within this grove of firs; and, on the fork
Of that one beech, appeared a thrush's nest;
A last year's nest, conspicuously built
At such small elevation from the ground
As gave sure sign that they, who in that house
Of nature and of love had made their home
Amid the fir-trees, all the summer long
Dwelt in a tranquil spot. And oftentimes,
A few sheep, stragglers from some mountain-flock,
Would watch my motions with suspicious stare,
From the remotest outskirts of the grove,
Some nook where they had made their final stand,
Huddling together from two fears—the fear
Of me and of the storm. Full many an hour
Here did I lose. But in this grove the trees
Had been so thickly planted, and had thriven
In such perplexed and intricate array,
That vainly did I seek, between their stems,
A length of open space, where to and fro
My feet might move without concern or care
And, baffled thus, before the storm relaxed,
I ceased the shelter to frequent, and prized,
Less than I wished to prize, that calm recess.

The snows dissolved, and genial Spring returned To clothe the fields with verdure. Other haunts Meanwhile were mine; till, one bright April day, By chance retiring from the glare of noon To this forsaken covert, there I found A hoary path-way traced between the trees, And winding on with such an easy line Along a natural opening, that I stood Much wondering how I could have sought in vain For what was now so obvious. To abide, For an allotted interval of ease, Beneath my cottage roof, had newly come From the wild sea a cherished Visitant; And with the sight of this same path—begun, Begun and ended, in the shady grove,

Pleasant conviction flashed upon my mind
That, to this opportune recess allured,
He had surveyed it with a finer eye,
A heart more wakeful; and had worn the track
By pacing here, unwearied and alone,
In that habitual restlessness of foot
With which the Sailor measures o'er and o'er
His short domain upon the vessel's deck,
While she is travelling through the dreary sea.

When thou hadst quitted Esthwaite's pleasant shore, And taken thy first leave of those green hills And rocks that were the play-ground of thy Youth. Year followed year, my Brother! and we two, Conversing not, knew little in what mould Each other's minds were fashioned; and at lengtla, When once again we met in Grasmere Vale, Between us there was little other bond Than common feelings of fraternal love. But thou, a School-boy, to the sea hadst carried Undying recollections; Nature there Was with thee; she, who loved us both, she still Was with thee; and even so didst thou become A silent Poet; from the solitude Of the vast sea didst bring a watchful heart Still couchant, an inevitable ear, And an eye practised like a blind man's touch. —Back to the joyless Ocean thou art gone; Nor from this vestige of thy musing hours Could I withhold thy honoured name, and now I love the fir-grove with a perfect love. Thither do I withdraw when cloudless suns Shine hot, or wind blows troublesome and strong: And there I sit at evening, when the steep Of Silver-how, and Grasmere's peaceful Lake. And one green Island, gleam between the stems Of the dark firs, a visionary scene! And, while I gaze upon the spectacle Of clouded splendour, on this dream-like sight Of solemn loveliness, I think on thee, My brother, and on all which thou hast lost. Nor seldom, if I rightly guess, while Thou, Muttering the Verses which I muttered first Among the mountains, through the midnight watch Art pacing thoughtfully the Vessel's deck In some far region, here, while o'er my head, At every impulse of the moving breeze, The fir-grove murmurs with a sea-like sound, Alone I tread this path;—for aught I know, Timing my steps to thine; and, with a store Of undistinguishable sympathies, Mingling most carnest wishes for the day When we, and others whom we love, shall meet A second time, in Grasmere's happy Vale.

Note. —This wish was not granted; the lamented Person, set long after, perished by shipwreck, in discharge of his duty as Commander of the Honourable East India Company's Wessel, the Earl of Abergavenny.

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