And woodland pleasures,-the resounding

horn,

The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted hare.
So through the darkness and the cold we flew,
And not a voice was idle: with the din
Smitten, the precipices rang aloud;
The leafless trees and every icy crag
Tinkled like iron; while far-distant hills
Into the tumult sent an alien sound

Of melancholy, not unnoticed while the stars,
Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west
The orange sky of evening died away.

Not seldom from the uproar I retired Into a silent bay, or sportively Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng,

To cut across the reflex of a star;

Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed
Upon the glassy plain: and oftentimes,
When we had given our bodies to the wind,
And all the shadowy banks on either side
Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning
still

The rapid line of motion, then at once
Have I, reclining back upon my heels,
Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs
Wheeled by me-even as if the earth had rolled
With visible motion her diurnal round!
Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,
Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched
Till all was tranquil as a summer sea.

1799.

XVII.

THE LONGEST DAY.
ADDRESSED TO MY DAUGHTER.

LET us quit the leafy arbour,
And the torrent murmuring by;
For the sun is in his harbour,
Weary of the open sky.
Evening now unbinds the fetters
Fashioned by the glowing light;
All that breathe are thankful debtors
To the harbinger of night.

Yet by some grave thoughts attended
Eve renews her calm career;
For the day that now is ended,
Is the longest of the year.

Dora! sport, as now thou sportest,
On this platform, light and free;
Take thy bliss, while longest, shortest,
Are indifferent to thee!

Who would check the happy feeling
That inspires the linnet's song?
Who would stop the swallow, wheeling
On her pinions swift and strong?

Yet at this impressive season,
Words which tenderness can speak
From the truths of homely reason
Might exalt the loveliest cheek;

And, while shades to shades succeeding
Steal the landscape from the sight,
I would urge this moral pleading,
Last forerunner of "Good night!"
SUMMER ebbs :-each day that follows
Is a reflux from on high,

Tending to the darksome hollows
Where the frosts of winter lie.
He who governs the creation,
In his providence, assigned
Such a gradual declination
To the life of human kind.

Yet we mark it not ;-fruits redden,
Fresh flowers blow, as flowers have blown,
And the heart is loth to deaden
Hopes that she so long hath known.
Be thou wiser, youthful Maiden!
And when thy decline shall come,
Let not flowers, or boughs fruit-laden,
Hide the knowledge of thy doom.
Now, even now, ere wrapped in slumber,
Fix thine eyes upon the sea

That absorbs time, space, and number;
Look thou to Eternity!

Follow thou the flowing river

On whose breast are thither borne
All deceived, and each deceiver,
Through the gates of night and morn;
Through the year's successive portals;
Through the bounds which many a star
Marks, not mindless of frail mortals,
When his light returns from far.

Thus when thou with Time hast travelled
Toward the mighty gulf of things,
And the mazy stream unravelled
With thy best imaginings;
Think, if thou on beauty leanest,
Think how pitiful that stay,
Did not virtue give the meanest
Charms superior to decay.
Duty, like a strict preceptor,
Sometimes frowns, or seems to frown;
Choose her thistle for thy sceptre,
While youth's roses are thy crown.
Grasp it,-if thou shrink and tremble,
Fairest damsel of the green,
Thou wilt lack the only symbol
That proclaims a genuine queen;
And ensures those palms of honour
Which selected spirits wear,
Bending low before the Donor,
Lord of heaven's unchanging year!
1817.

His flock, along the woodland's edge with relics sprinkled o'er

Of last night's snow, beneath a sky threatening the fall of more,

Where tufts of herbage tempted each, were busy at their feed,

And the poor Boy was busier still, with work of anxious heed.

There was he, where of branches rent and withered and decayed,

For covert from the keen north wind, his hands a hut had made.

A tiny tenement, forsooth, and frail, as needs must be

A thing of such materials framed, by a builder such as he.

The hut stood finished by his pains, nor seemingly lacked aught

That skill or means of his could add, but the architect had wrought

Some limber twigs into a Cross, well-shaped with fingers nice,

To be engrafted on the top of his small edifice. That Cross he now was fastening there, as the surest power and best

For supplying all deficiencies, all wants of the rude nest

In which, from burning heat, or tempest driving far and wide,

The innocent Boy, else shelterless, his lonely head must hide.

That Cross belike he also raised as a standard for the true

And faithful service of his heart in the worst

that might ensue

Of hardship and distressful fear, amid the houseless waste

Where he, in his poor self so weak, by Providence was placed.

-Here, Lady! might I cease; but nay, let us before we part

With this dear holy shepherd-boy breathe a prayer of earnest heart,

That unto him, where'er shall lie his life's appointed way,

The Cross, fixed in his soul, may prove an allsufficing stay.

The Child, as if the thunder's voice spake with articulate call,

Bowed meekly in submissive fear, before the Lord of All;

His lips were moving; and his eyes, upraised to sue for grace,

With soft illumination cheered the dimness of that place.

How beautiful is holiness!-what wonder if the sight,

Almost as vivid as a dream, produced a dream at night?

It came with sleep and showed the Boy, no cherub, not transformed,

But the poor ragged Thing whose ways my human heart had warmed.

Me had the dream equipped with wings, so I took him in my arms,

And

lifted from the grassy floor, stilling his faint alarms,

And

bore him high through yielding air my debt of love to pay,

By

giving him, for both our sakes, an hour of holiday.

I whispered, "Yet a little while, dear Child! thou art my own,

To show thee some delightful thing, in country or in town.

What shall it be? a mirthful throng? or that holy place and calm

St Denis, filled with royal tombs, or the Church of Notre Dame?

"St Quen's golden Shrine? Or choose what else would please thee most

Of any wonder, Normandy, or all proud France, can boast!"

Pleasure on pleasure crowded in, each livelier

from whom it flowed,

Was nothing, scarcely can be aught, yet 'twas bounteously bestowed,

If I

Not

may dare to cherish hope that gentle eyes will read

loth, and listening Little-ones, hearttouched, their fancies feed.

Shrine, Altar, Image, Offerings hung in sign of gratitude;

Sight that inspired accordant thoughts; and speech I thus renewed:

"Hither the Afflicted come, as thou hast heard thy Mother say,

And, kneeling, supplication make to our Lady de la Paix;

What mournful sighs have here been heard, and, when the voice was stopt what bitter tears have on this pavement dropt!

By sudden pangs,

Yet not the less, in children's hymns and lonely prayer, delights.

"God for his service needeth not proud work of human skill;

They please him best who labour most to do in peace his will:

So let us strive to live, and to our Spirits will be given

Such wings as, when our Saviour calls, shall bear us up to heaven."

The Boy no answer made by words, but, so earnest was his look,

Sleep fled, and with it fled the dream-recorded in this book,

Lest all that passed should melt away in silence from my mind,

As visions still more bright have done, and left no trace behind.

But oh ! that Country-man of thine, whose eye, loved Child, can see

A pledge of endless bliss in acts of early piety, In verse, which to thy ear might come, would treat this simple theme,

Nor leave untold our happy flight in that adventurous dream.

XX.

THE WESTMORELAND GIRL.

TO MY GRANDCHILDREN.
PART I.

SEEK who will delight in fable,
I shall tell you truth. A Lamb
Leapt from this steep bank to follow
'Cross the brook its thoughtless dam.
Far and wide on hill and valley
Rain had fallen, unceasing rain,
And the bleating mother's Young-one
Struggled with the flood in vain:
But, as chanced, a Cottage-maiden
(Ten years scarcely had she told)
Seeing, plunged into the torrent,
Clasped the Lamb and kept her hold.
Whirled adown the rocky channel,
Sinking, rising, on they go,

Peace and rest, as seems, before them
Only in the lake below.

Oh! it was a frightful current

Whose fierce wrath the Girl had braved;
Clap your hands with joy, my Hearers,
Shout in triumph, both are saved;
Saved by courage that with danger
Grew, by strength the gift of love,
And belike a guardian angel
Came with succour from above.

PART II.

Now, to a maturer Audience,
Let me speak of this brave Child
Left among her native mountains
With wild Nature to run wild.

So, unwatched by love maternal,
Mother's care no more her guide,
Fared this little bright-eyed Orphan

Even while at her father's side.
Spare your blame,-remembrance makes
him

Loth to rule by strict command;
Still upon his check are living
Touches of her infant hand,
Dear caresses given in pity,
Sympathy that soothed his grief,
As the dying mother witnessed
To her thankful mind's relief.
Time passed on; the Child was happy,
Like a Spirit of air she moved,
Wayward, yet by all who knew her
For her tender heart beloved.
Scarcely less than sacred passions,
Bred in house, in grove, and field,
Link her with the inferior creatures,
Urge her powers their rights to shield.

Anglers, bent on reckless pastime,

Learn how she can feel alike
Both for tiny harmless minnow
And the fierce and sharp-toothed pike.
Merciful protectress, kindling
Into anger or disdain ;

Many a captive hath she rescued,
Others saved from lingering pain.
Listen yet awhile ;-with patience
Hear the homely truths I tell,
She in Grasmere's old church-steeple
Tolled this day the passing-bell.
Yes, the wild Girl of the mountains
To their echoes gave the sound,
Notice punctual as the minute,
Warning solemn and profound.
She, fulfilling her sire's office,
Rang alone the far-heard knell,
Tribute, by her hand, in sorrow,
Paid to One who loved her well.
When his spirit was departed
On that service she went forth;

Nor will fail the like to render

When his corse is laid in earth.

What then wants the Child to temper,
In her breast, unruly fire,

To control the froward impulse
And restrain the vague desire?

Easily a pious training

And a stedfast outward power
Would supplant the weeds and cherish,
In their stead, each opening flower.
Thus the fearless Lamb-deliv'rer,
Woman-grown, meek-hearted, sage,
May become a blest example
For her sex, of every age.
Watchful as a wheeling eagle,
Constant as a soaring lark,

Should the country need a heroine,
She might prove our Maid of Arc.
Leave that thought; and here be uttered
Prayer that Grace divine may raise
Her humane courageous spirit

Up to heaven, thro' peaceful ways.