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, on the soft green turf
Beneath the branches, of itself had made
A track, which 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
Had 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 'twill 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,
He would so love it, that in his death hour
Its image would survive among his thoughts:
And therefore, my sweet Mary, 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 follow'd of continual storm
In deepest winter; and, from week to week,
Pathway, and lane, and public road were clogg'd
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 unencumber'd floor.
Here, in safe covert, on the shallow snow,
And, sometimes, on a speck of visible earth,
The redbreast near me hopp'd; nor was I loth
To sympathize with vulgar coppice birds
That, for protection from the nipping blast,
Hither repair'd. A single beech-tree grew
Within this grove of firs; and, on the fork
Of that one beech, appear'd 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 perplex'd 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 relax'd,
I ceased that shelter to frequent,-and prized
Less than I wish'd to prize, that calm recess.
The snows dissolved, and genial spring return'd
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 pathway traced between the trees,
And winding on with such an easy line
Along a natural opening, that I stood
Much wondering at my own simplicity
How I could e'er have made a fruitless search
For what was now so obvious. At the sight,
Conviction also flash'd upon my mind
That this same path (within the shady grove
Begun and ended) by my brother's steps
Had been impress'd. To sojourn a short while
Beneath my roof, he from the barren seas
Had newly come-a cherish'd visitant!
And much did it delight me te perceive
That to this opportune recess allured,
He had survey'd it with a finer eye,
A heart more wakeful; that, more loth to part
From place so lovely, he 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 playground of thy youth, Year follow'd year, my brother! and we two, Conversing not, knew little in what mould Each other's minds were fashion'd; and at length,
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;
And now I call the pathway by thy name,
And 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 placid 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
Oí 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 mutter'd first
Among the mountains, through the midnight watch
Art pacing to and fro 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 earnest wishes for the day
When we, and others whom we love, shall meet
A second time, in Grasmere's happy vale.*
WRITTEN WITH A SLATE-PENCIL, UPON A STONE, THE LARGEST OF A HEAP LYING NEAR A DESERTED QUARRY, UPON ONE OF THE ISLANDS AT RYDALE.
STRANGER! this hillock of misshapen stones
Is not a ruin of the ancient time,
Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the cairn
Of some old British chief: 'tis nothing more
This wish was not granted; the lamented person, not long after, perished by ship. reck, in discharge of his duty, as commander of the Hon. East-India Company's ves.el Earl of Abergavenny.
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 learn'd
That from the shore a full-grown man might wade,
And make himself a freeman of this spot
At any hour he chose, the knight forthwith
Desisted, and the quarry and the mound
Are monuments of his unfinish'd task.
The block on which these lines are traced, perhaps,
Was once selected as the corner-stone
Of the 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 wonder'd at the work. But blame him not,
For old Sir William was a gentle knight
Bred in this vale, to which he appertain'd
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, disturb'd
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.
WRITTEN WITH A SLATE-PENCIL, ON A STONE, ON THE SIDE OF
THE MOUNTAIN OF BLACK COMB, CUMBERLAND.
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-travell'd storms of sea and land,
A favourite spot of tournament and war!
But thee may no such boist'rous visitants
Molest; may gentle breezes fan thy brow:
And neither cloud conceal, nor misty air
Bedim, the grand terraqueous spectacle,
From centre to circumference, unveil'd!
Know, if thou grudge not to prolong thy rest.
That, on the summit whither thou art bound,
A geographic labourer pitch'd 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 bestow'd
On timid man) of Nature's processes
Upon the exalted hills. He made report
That once, while there he plied his studious work
Within that canvas dwelling, suddenly
The many-colour'd map before his eyes
Became invisible; for all around
Had darkness fallen-unthreaten'd, unproclaim'd→
As if the golden day itself had been
Extinguish'd in a moment; total gloom,
In which he sate alone, with unclosed eyes,
Upon the blinded mountain's silent top!
IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON, THE SEAT OF SIR GEORGE
BEAUMONT, BART., LEICESTERSHIRE.
TH' 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 woo'd 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,
And to a favourite resting-place invite,
For coolness grateful and a sober light;
Here may some painter sit in future days,
Some future Poet meditate his lays;
Not mindless of that distant age renown'd,
When inspiration hover'd 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 pass'd away,
This little niche, unconscious of decay,
Perchance may still survive. And be it known
That it was scoop'd within the living stone,-
• Beaumont, the dramatic poet.
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