Benjamin, among the stars,

Beheld a dancing, and a glancing;
Such retreating and advancing

As, I ween, was never seen

In bloodiest battle since the days of Mars!

CANTO FOURTH.

THUS they, with freaks of proud delight, Beguile the remnant of the night; And many a snatch of jovial song Regales them as they wind along; While to the music, from on high, The echoes make a glad reply. — But the sage Muse the revel heeds No farther than her story needs; Nor will she servilely attend The loitering journey to its end. -Blithe spirits of her own impel The Muse, who scents the morning air, To take of this transported pair A brief and unreproved farewell; To quit the slow-paced wagon's side, And wander down the hawthorn dell, With murmuring Greta for her guide. -There doth she ken the awful form

Of Raven-crag

Glimmering through the twilight pale;

:

And Ghimmer-crag, his tall twin brother,
Each peering forth to meet the other:
And, while she roves through St. John's Vale,
Along the smooth, unpathwayed plain,
By sheep-track or through cottage lane,
Where no disturbance comes to intrude
Upon the pensive solitude,

Her unsuspecting eye, perchance,

With the rude shepherd's favored glance,
Beholds the Faeries in array,

Whose party-colored garments gay
The silent company betray:

Red, green, and blue; a moment's sight!
For Skiddaw-top with rosy light

Is touched, and all the band take flight.

- Fly also, Muse! and from the dell Mount to the ridge of Nathdale Fell; Thence, look thou forth o'er wood and lawn Hoar with the frost-like dews of dawn; Across yon meadowy bottom look,

Where close fogs hide their parent brook;
And see, beyond that hamlet small,
The ruined towers of Threlkeld Hall,
Lurking in a double shade,

By trees and lingering twilight made!
There, at Blencathara's rugged feet,
Sir Lancelot gave a safe retreat
To noble Clifford; from annoy

*The crag of the ewe lamb.

Concealed the persecuted boy,

Well pleased in rustic garb to feed
His flock, and pipe on shepherd's reed
Among this multitude of hills,

Crags, woodlands, waterfalls, and rills;
Which soon the morning shall enfold,
From east to west, in ample vest
Of massy gloom and radiance bold.

The mists, that o'er the streamlet's bed

Hung low, begin to rise and spread ;
Even while I speak, their skirts of gray
Are smitten by a silver ray;

And lo!

-up Castrigg's naked steep (Where, smoothly urged, the vapors sweep Along, and scatter and divide, Like fleecy clouds self-multiplied) The stately wagon is ascending, With faithful Benjamin attending, Apparent now beside his team, Now lost amid a glittering steam: And with him goes his Sailor-friend, By this time near their journey's end; And, after their high-minded riot, Sickening into thoughtful quiet; As if the morning's pleasant hour, Had for their joys a killing power. And, sooth, for Benjamin a vein Is opened of still deeper pain, As if his heart by notes were stung

From out the lowly hedge-rows flung;
As if the warbler lost in light
Reproved his soarings of the night,
In strains of rapture pure and holy
Upbraided his distempered folly.

Drooping is he, his step is dull;
But the horses stretch and pull;
With increasing vigor climb,
Eager to repair lost time;

Whether, by their own desert,
Knowing what cause there is for shame,
They are laboring to avert

As much as may be of the blame,
Which, they foresee, must soon alight
Upon his head, whom, in despite
Of all his failings, they love best;
Whether for him they are distrest;
Or, by length of fasting roused,
Are impatient to be housed:
Up against the hill they strain,
Tugging at the iron chain,
Tugging all with might and main,
Last and foremost, every horse
To the utmost of his force!
And the smoke and respiration,

Rising like an exhalation,

Blend with the mist, a moving shroud To form, an undissolving cloud; Which, with slant ray, the merry sun

Takes delight to play upon.

Never golden-haired Apollo,

Pleased some favorite chief to follow
Through accidents of peace or war,
In a perilous moment threw
Around the object of his care
Veil of such celestial hue;
Interposed so bright a screen

Him and his enemies between !

Alas! what boots it?-who can hide,

When the malicious Fates are bent

On working out an ill intent?

Can destiny be turned aside?

No,

sad progress of my story!

Benjamin, this outward glory
Cannot shield thee from thy Master,
Who from Keswick has pricked forth,
Sour and surly as the north;

And, in fear of some disaster,

Comes to give what help he may,
And to hear what thou canst say;

If, as needs he must forebode,

Thou hast been loitering on the road!

His fears, his doubts, may now take flight, –

The wished-for object is in sight;

Yet, trust the Muse, it rather hath
Stirred him up to livelier wrath ;
Which he stifles, moody man!
With all the patience that he can;