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XXXV.

ON HER FIRST ASCENT TO THE SUMMIT OF HELVELLYN.

INMATE of a mountain-dwelling,
Thou hast clomb aloft, and gazed
From the watch-towers of Helvellyn;
Awed, delighted, and amazed!

Potent was the spell that bound thee
Not unwilling to obey;

For blue Ether's arms, flung round thee,
Stilled 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!

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

Maiden! now take flight;-inherit Alps or Andes they are thine! With the morning's roseate Spirit, Sweep their length of snowy line;

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

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

To Niphates' top invited,
Whither spiteful Satan steered;
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 !

1816.

'Let me be allowed the aid of verse to describe the evolu⚫tions which these visitants sometimes perform, on a fine 'day towards the close of winter.-Extract from the Author's Book on the Lakes,

MARK how the feathered tenants of the flood,
With grace of motion that might scarcely seem
Inferior to angelical, prolong

Their curious pastime! shaping in mid air
(And sometimes with ambitious wing that soars
High as the level of the mountain-tops)
A circuit ampler than the lake beneath—
Their own domain; but ever, while intent
On tracing and retracing that large round,
Their jubilant activity evolves
Hundreds of curves and circlets, to and fro,
Upward and downward, progress intricate
Yet unperplexed, as if one spirit swayed
Their indefatigable flight. "Tis done-
Tan times, or more, I fancied it had ceased;
But lo! the vanished company again
Ascending; they approach-I hear their wings
Faint, faint at first; and then an eager sound
Past in a moment-and as faint again!
They tempt the sun to sport amid their plumes;

VIEW FROM THE TOP OF BLACK COMB.

THIS Height a ministering Angel might select: For from the summit of BLACK CоMB (dread name Derived from clouds and storms!) the amplest range of unobstructed prospect may be seen That British ground commands:-low dusky tracts, Where Trent is nursed, far southward! Cambrian hills

To the south-west, a multitudinous show; And, in a line of eye-sight linked with these, The hoary peaks of Scotland that give birth To Tiviot's stream, to Annan, Tweed, and Clyde :Crowding the quarter whence the sun comes forth Gigantic mountains rough with crags; beneath, Right at the imperial station's western base Main ocean, breaking audibly, and stretched Far into silent regions blue and pale ;— And visibly engirding Mona's Isle That, as we left the plain, before our sight Stood like a lofty mount, uplifting slowly (Above the convex of the watery globe) Into clear view the cultured fields that streak Her habitable shores, but now appears A dwindled object, and submits to lie At the spectator's feet.-Yon azure ridge, Is it a perishable cloud? Or there Do we behold the line of Erin's coast? Land sometimes by the roving shepherd-swain (Like the bright confines of another world) Not doubtfully perceived.—Look homeward now! In depth, in height, in circuit, how serene The spectacle, how pure!-Of Nature's works, In earth, and air, and earth-embracing sea, A revelation infinite it seems; Display august of man's inheritance, Of Britain's calm felicity and power!

XXXIX.

THE HAUNTED TREE.

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 the time-dismantled Oak
Spreads o'er this tuft of heath, which now, attired
In the whole fulness of its bloom, affords
Couch beautiful as e'er for earthly use
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, wearied with the chase.
O Lady! fairer in thy Poet's sight

Than fairest spiritual creature of the groves,
Approach; and, thus invited, crown with rest
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 deemed)
The Hamadryad, pent within, bewailed
Some bitter wrong. Nor is it unbelieved,
By ruder fancy, that a troubled ghost
Haunts the 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,
O lovely Wanderer of the trackless hills,
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!

1819.

1813.

Black Comb stands at the southern extremity of Cumberland: its base covers a much greater extent of ground than any other mountain in those parts; and, from its situation, the summit commands a more extensive view than any other point in Britain.

Air sparkles round her with a dazzling sheen; But mark her glowing cheek, her vesture green! And, as if wishful to disarm

Or to repay the potent Charm,

She bears the stringèd lute of old romance,
That cheered the trellised arbour's privacy,

And soothed war-wearied knights in raftered hall.
How vivid, yet how delicate, her glee!

So tripped the Muse, inventress of the dance;

Insight as keen as frosty star
Is to her charity no bar,

Nor interrupts her frolic graces
When she is, far from these wild places,
Encircled by familiar faces.

O the charm that manners draw,
Nature, from thy genuine law !

If from what her hand would do,

But the ringlets of that head
Why are they ungarlanded?
Why bedeck her temples less
Than the simplest shepherdess?
Is it not a brow inviting
Choicest flowers that ever breathed,
Which the myrtle would delight in
With Idalian rose enwreathed?
But her humility is well content

With one wild floweret (call it not forlorn)
FLOWER OF THE WINDS, beneath her bosom worn—
Yet more for love than ornament.

Open, ye thickets! let her fly,

Swift as a Thracian Nymph o'er field and height !
For She, to all but those who love her, shy,
Would gladly vanish from a Stranger's sight;
Though where she is beloved and loves,
Light as the wheeling butterfly she moves;
Her happy spirit as a bird is free,

That rifles blossoms on a tree,

Turning them inside out with arch audacity.
Alas! how little can a moment show

Of an eye where feeling plays

In ten thousand dewy rays;

A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!
-She stops-is fastened to that rivulet's side
And there (while, with sedater mien,

O'er timid waters that have scarcely left

Their birth-place in the rocky cleft

She bends) at leisure may be seen
Features to old ideal grace allied,
Amid their smiles and dimples dignified—
Fit countenance for the soul of primal truth;
The bland composure of eternal youth!

What more changeful than the sea?
But over his great tides

Fidelity presides;

;

And this light-hearted Maiden constant is as he.
High is her aim as heaven above,
And wide as ether her good-will;

And, like the lowly reed, her love

Can drink its nurture from the scantiest rill :

Untoward or unfit;

She, in benign affections pure,

In self-forgetfulness secure,

Sheds round the transient harm or vague mis

chance

A light unknown to tutored elegance:
Her's is not a cheek shame-stricken,
But her blushes are joy-flushes;
And the fault (if fault it be)
Only ministers to quicken
Laughter-loving gaiety,
And kindle sportive wit—

Leaving this Daughter of the mountains free
As if she knew that Oberon king of Faery
Had crossed her purpose with some quaint vagary,
And heard his viewless bands

Over their mirthful triumph clapping hands.

"Last of the Three, though eldest born,
Reveal thyself, like pensive Morn
Touched by the skylark's earliest note,
Ere humbler gladness be afloat.

But whether in the semblance drest
Of Dawn-or Eve, fair vision of the west,
Come with each anxious hope subdued
By woman's gentle fortitude,

Each grief, through meekness, settling into rest
-Or I would hail thee when some high-wrought

page

Of a closed volume lingering in thy hand
Has raised thy spirit to a peaceful stand
Among the glories of a happier age.”

Her brow hath opened on me see it there,
Brightening the umbrage of her hair;
So gleams the crescent moon, that loves
To be descried through shady groves.
Tenderest bloom is on her cheek;
Wish not for a richer streak ;

Nor dread the depth of meditative eye;
But let thy love, upon that azure field
Of thoughtfulness and beauty, yield
Its homage offered up in purity.

What would'st thou more? In sunny glade,
Or under leaves of thickest shade,

Was such a stillness e'er diffused

Since earth grew calm while angels mused? Softly she treads, as if her foot were loth

To crush the mountain dew-drops-soon to melt
On the flower's breast; as if she felt

That flowers themselves, whate'er their hue,
With all their fragrance, all their glistening,
Call to the heart for inward listening-

And though for bridal wreaths and tokens true
Welcomed wisely; though a growth
Which the careless shepherd sleeps on,

As fitly spring from turf the mourner weeps onAnd without wrong are cropped the marble tomb to strew.

The Charm is over; the mute Phantoms gone,
Nor will return—but droop not, favoured Youth;
The apparition that before thee shone
Obeyed a summons covetous of truth.
From these wild rocks thy footsteps I will guide
To bowers in which thy fortune may be tried,
And one of the bright Three become thy happy
Bride.

XLI.

THE WISHING-GATE.

1828.

In the vale of Grasmere, by the side of the old high-way leading to Ambleside, is a gate, which, time out of mind, has been called the Wishing-gate, from a belief that wishes formed or indulged there have a favourable issue.

HOPE rules a land for ever green :

All powers that serve the bright-eyed Queen
Are confident and gay;

Clouds at her bidding disappear;
Points she to aught—the bliss draws near,
And Fancy smooths the way.

Not such the land of Wishes-there
Dwell fruitless day-dreams, lawless prayer,

And thoughts with things at strife;
Yet how forlorn, should ye depart
Ye superstitions of the heart,

How poor, were human life!

When magic lore abjured its might, Ye did not forfeit one dear right,

One tender claim abate; Witness this symbol of your sway, Surviving near the public way,

The rustic Wishing-gate!

Inquire not if the faery race
Shed kindly influence on the place,
Ere northward they retired;
If here a warrior left a spell,
Panting for glory as he fell ;

Or here a saint expired.

Enough that all around is fair,
Composed with Nature's finest care,
And in her fondest love-
Peace to embosom and content-
To overawe the turbulent,

The selfish to reprove.

Yea! even the Stranger from afar,
Reclining on this moss-grown bar,

Unknowing, and unknown,
The infection of the ground partakes,
Longing for his Belov'd-who makes
All happiness her own.

Then why should conscious Spirits fear
The mystic stirrings that are here,
The ancient faith disclaim?
The local Genius ne'er befriends
Desires whose course in folly ends,
Whose just reward is shame.
Smile if thou wilt, but not in scorn,
If some, by ceaseless pains outworn,
Here crave an easier lot;

If some have thirsted to renew
A broken vow, or bind a true,
With firmer, holier knot.

And not in vain, when thoughts are cast Upon the irrevocable past,

Some Penitent sincere

May for a worthier future sigh,
While trickles from his downcast eye

No unavailing tear.

The Worldling, pining to be freed
From turmoil, who would turn or speed
The current of his fate,

Might stop before this favoured scene,
At Nature's call, nor blush to lean
Upon the Wishing-gate.

The Sage, who feels how blind, how weak
Is man, though loth such help to seek,
Yet, passing, here might pause,
And thirst for insight to allay
Misgiving, while the crimson day
In quietness withdraws;