The prayer is heard, the Saints have seen, Diffused through form and face, Resolves devotedly serene;
That monumental grace
Of Faith, which doth all passions tame That Reason should control; And shows in the untrembling frame A statue of the soul.
'Tis sung in ancient minstrelsy That Phoebus wont to wear The leaves of any pleasant tree Around his golden hair;
Till Daphne, desperate with pursuit
Of his imperious love,
At her own prayer transformed, took root,
A laurel in the grove.
Then did the Penitent adorn
His brow with laurel green;
And 'mid his bright locks never shorn No meaner leaf was seen.
And poets sage, through every age, About their temples wound
The bay and conquerors thanked the Gods, With laurel chaplets crowned.
Into the mists of fabling Time
So far runs back the praise
Of Beauty, that disdains to climb Along forbidden ways;
That scorns temptation; power defies Where mutual love is not;
And to the tomb for rescue flies
When life would be a blot.
To this fair Votaress, a fate
More mild doth Heaven ordain
Upon her Island desolate;
And words, not breathed in vain, Might tell what intercourse she found,
Her silence to endear;
What birds she tamed, what flowers the ground Sent forth her peace to cheer.
To one mute Presence, above all,
Her soothed affections clung,
A picture on the cabin wall
By Russian usage hung
The Mother-maid, whose countenance bright With love abridged the day; And, communed with by taper light,
Chased spectral fears away.
And oft, as either Guardian came, The joy in that retreat
Might any common friendship shame, So high their hearts would beat; And to the lone Recluse, whate'er They brought, each visiting Was like the crowding of the year With a new burst of spring.
But, when she of her Parents thought, The pang was hard to bear; And, if with all things not enwrought, That trouble still is near. Before her flight she had not dared Their constancy to prove,
Too much the heroic Daughter feared The weakness of their love.
Dark is the past to them, and dark The future still must be,
Till pitying Saints conduct her bark Into a safer sea-
Or gentle Nature close her eyes And set her Spirit free From the altar of this sacrifice, In vestal purity.
Yet, when above the forest-glooms
The white swans southward passed, High as the pitch of their swift plumes Her fancy rode the blast;
And bore her toward the fields of France Her Father's native land, To mingle in the rustic dance, The happiest of the band!
Of those beloved fields she oft Had heard her Father tell
In phrase that now with echoes soft Haunted her lonely cell;
She saw the hereditary bowers,
She heard the ancestral stream; The Kremlin and its haughty towers Forgotten like a dream!
THE ever-changing moon had traced Twelve times her monthly round, When through the unfrequented Waste Was heard a startling sound;
A shout thrice sent from one who chased At speed a wounded deer, Bounding through branches interlaced, And where the wood was clear.
The fainting creature took the marsh, And toward the Island fled,
While plovers screamed with tumult harsh Above his antlered head;
This, Ina saw; and, pale with fear, Shrunk to her citadel;
The desperate deer rushed on, and near The tangled covert fell.
Across the marsh, the game in view, The Hunter followed fast, For paused, till o'er the stag he blew A death-proclaiming blast; Then, resting on her upright mind, Came forth the Maid-" In me Behold," she said, "a stricken Hind Pursued by destiny!
"From your deportment, Sir! I deem That you have worn a sword, And will not hold in light esteem A suffering woman's word; There is my covert, there perchance I might have lain concealed, My fortunes hid, my countenance Not even to you revealed. "Tears might be shed, and I might pray, Crouching and terrified,
That what has been unveiled to-day, You would in mystery hide; But I will not defile with dust
- The knee that bends to adore
The God in heaven;-attend, be just; This ask I, and no more!
"I speak not of the winter's cold, For summer's heat exchanged, While I have lodged in this rough hold, From social life estranged;
Nor yet of trouble and alarms : High Heaven is my defence; And every season has soft arms For injured Innocence.
"From Moscow to the Wilderness It was my choice to come, Lest virtue should be harbourless, And honour want a home; And happy were I, if the Czar Retain his lawless will,
To end life here like this poor deer, Or a lamb on a green hill."
"Are you the Maid," the Stranger cried, "From Gallic parents sprung, Whose vanishing was rumoured wide Sad theme for every tongue; Who foiled an Emperor's eager quest? You, Lady, forced to wear These rude habiliments, and rest Your head in this dark lair!" But wonder, pity, soon were quelled; And in her face and mien The soul's pure brightness he beheld Without a veil between : He loved, he hoped,-a holy flame Kindled 'mid rapturous tears; The passion of a moment came As on the wings of years. "Such bounty is no gift of chance," Exclaimed he; "righteous Heaven, Preparing your deliverance,
To me the charge hath given. The Czar full oft in words and deeds Is stormy and self-willed; But, when the Lady Catherine pleads, His violence is stilled.
"Leave open to my wish the course, And I to her will go;
From that humane and heavenly source, Good, only good, can flow."
Faint sanction given, the Cavalier Was eager to depart
Though question followed question, dear To the Maiden's filial heart.
Light was his step,-his hopes, more light, Kept pace with his desires;
And the fifth morning gave him sight Of Moscow's glittering spires. He sued:-heart-smitten by the wrong, To the lorn Fugitive
The Emperor sent a pledge as strong As sovereign power could give.
O more than mighty change! If e'er Amazement rose to pain,
And joy's excess produced a fear
Of something void and vain;
'Twas when the Parents, who had mourned So long the lost as dead, Beheld their only Child returned, The household floor to tread. Soon gratitude gave way to love Within the Maiden's breast: Delivered and Deliverer move
In bridal garments drest
Meek Catherine had her own reward; The Czar bestowed a dower;
And universal Moscow shared
The triumph of that hour.
Flowers strewed the ground; the nuptial feast Was held with costly state;
And there, 'mid many a noble guest, The Foster-parents sate; Encouraged by the imperial eye, They shrank not into shade;
Great was their bliss, the honour high To them and nature paid!
IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON, THE SEAT OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART., LEICESTERSHIRE.
THE embowering rose, the acacia, and the pine Will not unwillingly their place resign; If but the Cedar thrive that near them stands, Planted by Beaumont's and by Wordsworth's hands.
One wooed the silent Art with studious pains: These groves have heard the Other's pensive strains;
Devoted thus, their spirits did unite By interchange of knowledge and delight. May Nature's kindliest powers sustain the Tree, And Love protect it from all injury! And when its potent branches, wide out-thrown, Darken the brow of this memorial Stone, Here may some Painter sit in future days, Some future Poet meditate his lays; Not mindless of that distant age renowned When Inspiration hovered o'er this ground, The haunt of him who sang how spear and shield
In civil conflict met on Bosworth-field; And of that famous Youth, full soon removed From earth, perhaps by Shakspeare's self approved, Fletcher's Associate, Jonson's Friend beloved.
IN A GARDEN OF THE SAME.
OFT is the medal faithful to its trust When temples, columns, towers, are laid in dust;
And 'tis a common ordinance of fate That things obscure and small outlive the great: Hence, when yon mansion and the flowery trim Of this fair garden, and its alleys dim, And all its stately trees, are passed away, This little Niche, unconscious of decay, Perchance may still survive. And be it known That it was scooped within the living stone,- Not by the sluggish and ungrateful pains Of labourer plodding for his daily gains, But by an industry that wrought in love; With help from female hands, that proudly
To aid the work, what time these walks and bowers
Were shaped to cheer dark winter's lonely hours.
WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART., AND IN HIS NAME, FOR AN URN, PLACED BY HIM AT THE TERMINATION OF A NEWLY-PLANTED AVENUE, IN THE SAME GROUNDS.
YE Lime-trees, ranged before this hallowed Urn,
Shoot forth with lively power at Spring's re
And be not slow a stately growth to rear Of pillars, branching off from year to year, Till they have learned to frame a darksome aisle ;-
That may recal to mind that awful Pile Where Reynolds, 'mid our country's noblest dead,
In the last sanctity of fame is laid. -There, though by right the excelling Painter sleep
Where Death and Glory a joint sabbath keep, Yet not the less his Spirit would hold dear Self-hidden praise, and Friendship's private
Hence, on my patrimonial grounds, have I Raised this frail tribute to his memory; From youth a zealous follower of the Art That he professed; attached to him in heart; Admiring, loving, and with grief and pride Feeling what England lost when Reynolds died.
FOR A SEAT IN THE GROVES OF COLEORTON.
BENEATH yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound, Rugged and high, of Charnwood's forest ground, Stand yet, but, Stranger! hidden from thy view, The ivied Ruins of forlorn GRACE DIEU; Erst a religious House, which day and night With hymns resounded, and the chanted rite: And when those rites had ceased, the Spot gave birth
To honourable Men of various worth: There, on the margin of a streamlet wild, Did Francis Beaumont sport, an cager child;
There, under shadow of the neighbouring | rocks,
Sang youthful tales of shepherds and their flocks;
Unconscious prelude to heroic themes, Heart-breaking tears, and melancholy dreams Of slighted love, and scorn, and jealous rage, With which his genius shook the buskined stage.
Communities are lost, and Empires die, And things of holy use unhallowed lie;" They perish-but the Intellect can raise, From airy words alone, a Pile that ne'er de- .cays 1808.
WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL UPON A STONE IN
Bedim, the grand terraqueous spectacle, From centre to circumference, unveiled! Know, if thou grudge not to prolong thy rest, That on the summit whither thou art bound A geographic Labourer pitched his tent, With books supplied and instruments of art, To measure height and distance; lonely task, Week after week pursued !- To him was given Full many a glimpse (but sparingly bestowed On timid man) of Nature's processes Upon the exalted hills. He made report That once, while there he plied his studious
Within that canvas dwelling, colours, lines, And the whole surface of the out-spread map, Became invisible for all around
Had darkness fallen-unthreatened, unpro- claimed-
THE WALL OF THE HOUSE (AN OUT-HOUSE), As if the golden day itself had been
ON THE ISLAND AT GRASMERE.
RUDE is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained Proportions more harmonious, and approached To closer fellowship with ideal grace. But take it in good part:-alas! the poor Vitruvius of our village had no help From the great City; never, upon leaves Of red Morocco folio saw displayed, In long succession, pre-existing ghosts Of Beauties yet unborn-the rustic Lodge Antique, and Cottage with verandah graced, Nor lacking, for fit company, alcove, Green-house, shell-grot, and moss-lined hermi- tage.
Thou see'st a homely Pile, yet to these walls The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here The new-dropped lamb finds shelter from the wind.
And hither does one Poet sometimes row His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled With plenteous store of heath and withered fern,
(A lading which he with his sickle cuts, Among the mountains) and beneath this roof He makes his summer couch, and here at noon Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unshorn, the Sheep,
Panting beneath the burthen of their wool, Lie round him, even as if they were a part Of his own Household: nor, while from his bed He looks, through the open door-place, toward the lake
And to the stirring breezes, does he want Creations lovely as the work of sleep- Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy!
WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL ON A STONE, ON THE SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN OF BLACK COMB.
STAY, bold Adventurer; rest awhile thy limbs On this commodious Seat! for much remains Of hard ascent before thou reach the top Of this huge Eminence,-from blackness named,
And, to far-travelled storms of sea and land, A favourite spot of tournament and war! But thee may no such boisterous visitants Molest may gentle breezes fan thy brow: And neither cloud conceal, nor misty air
Extinguished in a moment; total gloom, In which he sate alone, with unclosed eyes, Upon the blinded mountain's silent top! 1813.
Of some old British Chief: 'tis nothing more Than the rude embryo of a little Dome Or Pleasure-house, once destined to be built Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle. But, as it chanced, Sir William having learned That from the shore a full-grown man might wade,
And make himself a freeman of this spot At any hour he chose, the prudent Knight Desisted, and the quarry and the mound Are monuments of his unfinished task. The block on which these lines are traced, perhaps,
Was once selected as the corner-stone Of that intended Pile, which would have been Some quaint odd plaything of elaborate skill, So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush, And other little builders who dwell here, Had wondered at the work. But blame him
For old Sir William was a gentle Knight, Bred in this vale, to which he appertained With all his ancestry. Then peace to him, And for the outrage which he had devised Entire forgiveness!-But if thou art one On fire with thy impatience to become An inmate of these mountains,-if, disturbed By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn Out of the quiet rock the elements
Of thy trim Mansion destined soon to blaze In snow-white splendour,-think again; and, taught
By old Sir William and his quarry, leave Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose; There let the vernal slow-worm sun himself, And let the redbreast hop from stone to stone. 1800.
HOPES what are they?-Beads of morning Strung on slender blades of grass; Or a spider's web adorning In a strait and treacherous pass. What are fears but voices airy?
Whispering harm where harm is not; And deluding the unwary Till the fatal bolt is shot!
What is glory? in the socket See how dying tapers fare! What is pride?-a whizzing rocket That would emulate a star.
What is friendship?-do not trust her, Nor the vows which she has made; Diamonds dart their brightest lustre From a palsy-shaken head. What is truth?-a staff rejected; Duty?-an unwelcome clog: Joy?-a moon by fits reflected In a swamp or watery bog;
Bright, as if through ether steering, To the Traveller's eye it shone : He hath hailed it re-appearing- And as quickly it is gone; Such is Joy-as quickly hidden Or mis-shapen to the sight, And by sullen weeds forbidden To resume its native light. What is youth?-a dancing billow, (Winds behind, and rocks before!) Age?-a drooping, tottering willow On a flat and lazy shore.
What is peace?-when pain is over, And love ceases to rebel,
Let the last faint sigh discover That precedes the passing-knell!
INSCRIBED UPON A ROCK. II.
PAUSE, Traveller! whosoe'er thou be Whom chance may lead to this retreat, Where silence yields reluctantly Even to the fleecy straggler's bleat; Give voice to what my hand shall trace, And fear not lest an idle sound Of words unsuited to the place Disturb its solitude profound.
I saw this Rock, while vernal air Blew softly o'er the russet heath, Uphold a Monument as fair As church or abbey furnisheth. Unsullied did it meet the day, Like marble, white, like ether, pure; As if, beneath, some hero lay, Honoured with costliest sepulture. My fancy kindled as I gazed; And, ever as the sun shone forth, The flattered structure glistened, blazed, And seemed the proudest thing on earth. But frost had reared the gorgeous Pile Unsound as those which Fortune builds- To undermine with secret guile, Sapped by the very beam that gilds. And, while I gazed, with sudden shock Fell the whole Fabric to the ground; And naked left this dripping Rock, With shapeless ruin spread around!
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