A pair of herons oft-times have I seen,
Upon a rocky islet, side by side,
Drying their feathers in the sun, at ease;
And so, when night with grateful gloom had fallen, Two glow-worms in such nearness that they shared, As seemed, their soft self-satisfying light, Each with the other, on the dewy ground, Where He that made them blesses their repose.- When wandering among lakes and hills I note, Once more, those creatures thus by nature paired, And guarded in their tranquil state of life, Even, as your happy presence to my mind Their union brought, will they repay the debt, And send a thankful spirit back to you,
But small and fugitive our gain Compared with hers who long hath lain, With languid limbs and patient head Reposing on a lone sick-bed;
Where now, she daily hears a strain That cheats her of too busy cares, Eases her pain, and helps her prayers. And who but this dear Bird beguiled The fever of that pale-faced Child; Now cooling, with his passing wing, Her forehead, like a breeze of Spring: Recalling now, with descant soft Shed round her pillow from aloft, Sweet thoughts of angels hovering nigh,
With hope that we, dear Friends! shall meet again. And the invisible sympathy
(SUGGESTED IN A WESTMORELAND COTTAGE.)
DRIVEN in by Autumn's sharpening air From half-stripped woods and pastures bare, Brisk Robin seeks a kindlier home: Not like a beggar is he come, But enters as a looked-for guest, Confiding in his ruddy breast, As if it were a natural shield Charged with a blazon on the field, Due to that good and pious deed Of which we in the Ballad read. But pensive fancies putting by, And wild-wood sorrows, speedily He plays the expert ventriloquist ;
And, caught by glimpses now-now missed, Puzzles the listener with a doubt
If the soft voice he throws about
Comes from within doors or without! Was ever such a sweet confusion, Sustained by delicate illusion? He's at your elbow-to your feeling The notes are from the floor or ceiling; And there's a riddle to be guessed, 'Till you have marked his heaving chest, And busy throat whose sink and swell, Betray the Elf that loves to dwell In Robin's bosom, as a chosen cell.
Heart-pleased we smile upon the Bird If seen, and with like pleasure stirred Commend him, when he's only heard.
Of 'Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John, Blessing the bed she lies upon*?' And sometimes, just as listening ends In slumber, with the cadence blends A dream of that low-warbled hymn Which old folk, fondly pleased to trim Lamps of faith, now burning dim, Say that the Cherubs carved in stone, When clouds gave way at dead of night And the ancient church was filled with light, Used to sing in heavenly tone, Above and round the sacred places They guard, with winged baby-faces.
Thrice happy Creature! in all lands Nurtured by hospitable hands: Free entrance to this cot has he, Entrance and exit both yet free; And, when the keen unruffled weather That thus brings man and bird together, Shall with its pleasantness be past, And casement closed and door made fast, To keep at bay the howling blast, He needs not fear the season's rage, For the whole house is Robin's cage. Whether the bird flit here or there, O'er table lilt, or perch on chair, Though some may frown and make a stir, To scare him as a trespasser,
And he belike will flinch or start, Good friends he has to take his part; One chiefly, who with voice and look Pleads for him from the chimney-nook, Where sits the Dame, and wears away
'Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John, Bless the bed that I lie on,' are part of a child's prayer, still in general use through the northern counties.
POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES.
By persons resident in the country and attached to rural objects, many places will be found unnamed or of unknown names, where little Incidents must have occurred, or feelings been experienced, which will have given to such places a private and peculiar interest. From a wish to give some sort of record to such Incidents, and renew the gratification of such feelings, Names have been given to Places by the Author and some of his Friends, and the following Poems written in consequence.
Ir was an April morning: fresh and clear The Rivulet, delighting in its strength,
Ran with a young man's speed; and yet the voice Of waters which the winter had supplied Was softened down into a vernal tone. The spirit of enjoyment and desire, And hopes and wishes, from all living things Went circling, like a multitude of sounds. The budding groves seemed eager to urge on The steps of June; as if their various hues Were only hindrances that stood between Them and their object: but, meanwhile, prevailed Such an entire contentment in the air That every naked ash, and tardy tree Yet leafless, showed as if the countenance With which it looked on this delightful day Were native to the summer.-Up the brook I roamed 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, appeared the voice Of common pleasure : beast and bird, the lamb, The shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush Vied with this waterfall, and made a song, Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth Or like some natural produce of the air, That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here; But 'twas 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
AMID the smoke of cities did you pass
The time of early youth; and there you learned, From years of quiet industry, to love
The living Beings by your own fire-side, With such a strong devotion, that your heart
Is slow to meet the sympathies of them
Who look upon the hills with tenderness,
And make dear friendships with the streams and
Yet we, who are transgressors in this kind, Dwelling retired in our simplicity
Among the woods and fields, we love you well, Joanna! and I guess, since you have been So distant from us now for two long years, That you will gladly listen to discourse, However trivial, if you thence be taught That they, with whom you once were happy, talk Familiarly of you and of old times.
While I was seated, now some ten days past, Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop Their ancient neighbour, the old steeple-tower, The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by
Came forth to greet me; and when he had asked, "How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid! And when will she return to us?" he paused; And, after short exchange of village news, He with grave looks demanded, for what cause, Reviving obsolete idolatry,
I, like a Runic Priest, in characters Of formidable size had chiselled out Some uncouth name upon the native rock, Above the Rotha, by the forest-side. -Now, by those dear immunities of heart Engendered between malice and true love, I 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. -'Twas 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
That eastward looks, I there stopped short-and stood
Tracing 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; Hammar-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 His 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 chiselled out in those rude characters Joanna's name deep in the living stone :— And I, and all who dwell by my fireside, Have called the lovely rock, JOANNA'S ROCK."
Note.-In Cumberland and Westmoreland are several Inscriptions, upon the native rock, which, from the wasting of time, and the rudeness of the workmanship, have been mistaken for Runic. They are without doubt Roman. The Rotha, mentioned in this poem, is the River which, flowing through the lakes of Grasmere and Rydale, falls into Wynandermere. On Helmcrag, that impressive single mountain at the head of the Vale of Grasmere, is a rock which from most points of view bears a striking resemblance to an old Woman cowering. Close by this rock is one of those fissures or caverns, which in the language of the country are called dungeons. Most of the mountains here mentioned immediately surround the Vale of Grasmere; of the others, some are at a considerable distance, but they belong to the same cluster.
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 Peak, 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 he shines above it. "Tis 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,
Hath to this lonely Summit given my Name.
A NARROW girdle of rough stones and crags, A rude and natural causeway, interposed Between the water and a winding slope Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore
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