Th' immortal Spirit of one happy day
Lingers beside that Rill, in vision clear."
HER only pilot the soft breeze, the boat
Lingers, but Fancy is well satisfied;
With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory at her side,
And the glad Muse at liberty to note
All that to each is precious, as we float
Gently along; regardless who shall chide
If the heavens smile, and leave us free to glide,
Happy Associates breathing air remote
From trivial cares. But, Fancy and the Muse,
Why have I crowded this small bark with you
And others of your kind, ideal crew!
While here sits One whose brightness owes its hues
To flesh and blood; no Goddess from above,
No fleeting Spirit, but my own true Love?
"WHY, Minstrel, these untuneful murmurings,
Dull, flagging notes that with each other jar?
"Think, gentle Lady, of a Harp so far
From its own country, and forgive the strings.'
A simple answer! but even so forth springs,
From the Castalian fountain of the heart,
The Poetry of Life, and all that Art
Divine of words quickening insensate things.
From the submissive necks of guiltless men
Stretch'd on the block, the glittering axe recoils;
Sun, Moon, and stars, all struggle in the toils
Of mortal sympathy: what wonder, then,
That the poor Harp distemper'd music yields
To its sad Lord, far from his native fields?
O GENTLE SLEEP! do they belong to thee,
These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love
To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove,
A captive never wishing to be free.
This tiresome night, O Sleep, thou art to me
A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove
Upon a fretful rivulet, now above
9 This Rill trickles down the hill-side into Windermere, near Lowwood. My sister and I, on our first visit together to this part of the country, walked from Kendal, and we rested ourselves by the side of the lake where the streamlet falls into it. This sonnet was written some years after, in recollection of that most happy day and hour. From the Author's Notes.
Now on the water vex'd with mockery.
I have no pain that calls for patience, no;
Hence am I cross and peevish as a child:
Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe,
Yet ever willing to be reconciled:
O gentle Creature! do not use me so,
But once and deeply let me be beguiled.
FOND words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep,
And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names;
The very sweetest, Fancy culls or frames,
When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep.
Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost steep
In rich reward all suffering; Balm that tames
All anguish; Saint that evil thoughts and aims
Takest away, and into souls dost creep,
Like to a breeze from Heaven. Shall I alone,
I surely not a man ungently made,
Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost?
Perverse, self-will'd to own and to disown,
Mere slave of them who never for thee pray'd
Still last to come where thou art wanted most!
A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by,
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;
I've thought of all by turns, and yet do lie
Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies
Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees;
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth:
So do not let me wear to-night away:
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
Come, blessed barrier between day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
RITTEN UPON A BLANK LEAF IN THE COMPLETE ANGLER.'
WHILE flowing rivers yield a blameless sport,
Shall live the name of Walton: Sage benign!
Whose pen, the mysteries of the rod and line
Unfolding, did not fruitlessly exhort
To reverend watching of each still report
Meek, nobly versed in simple discipline,
He found the longest summer day too short,
To his loved pastime given by sedgy Lee,
Or down the tempting maze of Shawford brook.
Fairer than life itself, in this sweet Book,
The cowslip-bank and shady willow-tree;
And the fresh meads,
where flow'd, from every nook
Of his full bosom, gladsome Piety!
IN my mind's eye a Temple, like a cloud
Slowly surmounting some invidious hill,
Rose out of darkness: the bright work stood still;
And might of its own beauty have been proud,
But it was fashion'd and to God was vow'd
By virtues that diffused, in every part,
Spirit divine through forms of human art:
Faith had her arch,- her arch, when winds blow loud,
Into the consciousness of safety thrill'd;
And Love her towers of dread foundation laid
Under the grave of things; Hope had her spire
Star-high, and pointing still to something higher:
Trembling I gazed, but heard a voice, it said,
"Hell-gates are powerless Phantoms when we build."
COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE VALLEYS OF WESTMORELAND, ON
EASTER SUNDAY.
WITH each recurrence of this glorious morn
That saw the Saviour in his human frame
Rise from the dead, crewhile the Cottage-dame
Put on fresh raiment, till that hour unworn:
Domestic hands the home-bred wool had shorn;
And she who span it cull'd the daintiest fleece,
In thoughtful reverence to the Prince of Peace,
Whose temples bled beneath the platted thorn.
A blest estate when piety sublime
These humble props disdain'd not! O green dales!
Sad may I be who heard your sabbath chime
When Art's abused inventions were unknown;
Kind Nature's various wealth was all your own;
And benefits were weigh'd in Reason's scales!
OFT have I seen, ere Time had plough'd my cheek,
Matrons and Sires-who, punctual to the call
Of their loved Church, on fast or festival.
Through the long year the House of Prayer would seek:
By Christmas snows, by visitation bleak
Of Easter winds, unscared, from hut or hall
They came to lowly bench or sculptured stall,
But with one fervour of devotion meck.
I see the places where they once were known,
And ask, surrounded even by kneeling crowds,
Is ancient Piety for ever flown?
Alas! even then they seem'd like fleecy clouds
That, struggling through the western sky, have won
Their pensive light from a departed Sun.
OMPOSED ON THE EVE OF THE MARRIAGE OF A FRIEND IN
THE VALE OF GRASMERE, 1812.
WHAT need of clamorous bells, or ribands gay,
These humble nuptials to proclaim or grace?
Angels of love, look down upon the place;
Shed on the chosen vale a sun-bright day!
Yet no proud gladness would the Bride display
Even for such promise:-serious is her face,
Modest her mien; and she, whose thoughts keep pace
With gentleness, in that becoming way
Will thank you. Faultless does the Maid appear;
No disproportion in her soul, no strife:
But, when the closer view of wedded life
Hath shown that nothing human can be clear
From frailty, for that insight may the Wife
To her indulgent Lord become more dear.
FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO.
YES! hope may with my strong desire keep pace,
And I be undeluded, unbetray'd;
For if of our affections none find grace
In sight of Heaven, then wherefore hath God made
The world which we inhabit?
Love cannot have, than that in loving thee
Glory to that eternal Peace is paid,
Who such divinity to thee imparts
As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.
His hope is treacherous only whose love dies
With beauty, which is varying every hour;
But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power
No mortal object did these eyes behold
When first they met the placid light of thine;
And my Soul felt her destiny divine,
And hope of endless peace in me grew bold:
Heaven-born, the Soul a heaven-ward course must hold;
Beyond the visible world she soars to seck
(For what delights the sense is false and weak)
Ideal Form, the universal mould.
The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest
In that which perishes: nor will he lend
His heart to aught which doth on time depend.
'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love,
That kills the soul: love betters what is best,
Even here below, but more in Heaven above.
FROM THE SAME. TO THE SUPREME BEING.
THE prayers I make will then be sweet indeed
If Thou the spirit give by which I pray:
My unassisted heart is barren clay,
That of its native self can nothing feed:
Of good and pious works Thou art the seed,
That quickens only where Thou say'st it may:
Unless Thou shew to us Thine own true way
No man can find it: Father! Thou must lead.
Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind
By which such virtue may in me be bred
That in Thy holy footsteps I may tread;
The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind,
That I may have the power to sing of Thee,
And sound Thy praises everlastingly.
SURPRISED by joy, impatient as the Wind,
I turn'd to share the transport, -O! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recall'd thee to my mind:
But how could I forget thee? through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss? That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
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