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Rich prospect left behind of stream and vale, And mountain-tops, a barren ridge we scale ; Descend, and reach, in Yewdale's depths, a plain With haycocks studded, striped with yellowing grainAn area level as a Lake and spread Under a rock too steep for man to tread, Where sheltered from the north and bleak northwest Aloft the Raven hangs a visible nest, Fearless of all assaults that would her brood molest. Hot sunbeams fill the steaming vale; but hark, At our approach, a jealous watch-dog's bark, Noise that brings forth no liveried Page of state, But the whole household, that our coming wait. With Young and Old warm greetings we exchange, And jocund smiles, and toward the lowly Grange Press forward by the teasing dogs unscared. Entering, we find the morning meal prepared : So down we sit, though not till each had cast Pleased looks around the delicate repast, Rich cream, and snow-white


fresh from the nest,
With amber honey from the mountain's breast;
Strawberries from lane or woodland, offering wild
Of children's industry, in hillocks piled ;
Cakes for the nonce, and butter fit to lie
Upon a lordly dish; frank hospitality
Where simple art with bounteous nature vied,
And cottage comfort shunned not seemly pride.

Kind Hostess! Handmaid also of the feast,
If thou be lovelier than the kindling East,
Words by thy presence unrestrained may speak
Of a perpetual dawn from brow and cheek
Instinct with light whose sweetest promise lies,
Never retiring, in thy large dark eyes,

Dark but to every gentle feeling true,
As if their lustre flowed from ether's purest blue.

Let me not ask what tears may have been wept
By those bright eyes, what weary vigils kept,
Beside that hearth what sighs may have been heaved
For wounds inflicted, nor what toil relieved
By fortitude and patience, and the grace
Of heaven in pity visiting the place.
Not unadvisedly those secret springs
I leave unsearched: enough that memory clings,
Here as elsewhere, to notices that make
Their own significance for hearts awake,
To rural incidents, whose genial powers
Filled with delight three summer morning hours.

More could my pen report of grave or gay
That through our gipsy travel cheered the way;
But, bursting forth above the waves, the Sun
Laughs at my pains, and seems to say, “Be done.”
Yet, Beaumont, thou wilt not, I trust, reprove
This humble offering made by Truth to Love,
Nor chide the Muse that stooped to break a spell
Which might have else been on me yet:-




Soon did the Almighty Giver of all rest
Take those dear young Ones to a fearless nest;
And in Death's arms has long reposed the Friend
For whom this simple Register was penned.
Thanks to the moth that spared it for our eyes ;

And Strangers even the slighted Scroll may prize,
Moved by the touch of kindred sympathies.
For-save the calm, repentance sheds o'er strife
Raised by remembrances of misused life,
The light from past endeavours purely willed
And by Heaven's favour happily fulfilled;
Save hope that we, yet bound to Earth, may share
The joys of the Departed—what so fair
As blameless pleasure, not without some tears,
Reviewed through Love's transparent veil of years ?

Note.-LOUGHRIGG TARN, alluded to in the foregoing Epistle, resembles, though much smaller in compass, the Lake Nemi, or Speculum Dianæ as it is often called, not only in its clear waters and circular form, and the beauty immediately surrounding it, but also as being overlooked by the eminence of Langdale Pikes as Lake Nemi is by that of Monte Calvo. Since this Epistle was written Loughrigg Tarn has lost much of its beauty by the felling of many natural clumps of wood, relics of the old forest, particularly upon the farm called “The Oaks,” so called from the abundance of that tree which grew there.

It is to be regretted, upon public grounds, that Sir George Beaumont did not carry into effect his intention of constructing here a Summer Retreat in the style I have described; as his taste would have set an example how buildings, with all the accommodations modern society requires, might be introduced even into the most secluded parts of this country without injuring their native character.



[TAEY were a present from Miss Jewsbury, of whom mention is many months they continued to prosper in their new place of abode;

made in the note at the end of the next poem. The fish were healthy to all appearance in their confinement for a long time, but at last, for some cause we could not make out, they languished, and, one of them being all but dead, they were taken to the pool under the old Pollard-oak. The apparently dying one lay on its side unable to move. I used to watch it, and about the tenth day it began to right itself, and in a few days more was able to swim about with its companions. For

but one night by an unusually great flood they were swept out of the pool, and perished to our great regret.] THE soaring lark is blest as proud

When at heaven's gate she sings;
The roving bee proclaims aloud

Her flight by vocal wings;
While Ye, in lasting durance pent,

Your silent lives employ
For something more than dull content,

Though haply less than joy.
Yet might your glassy prison seem

A place where joy is known,
Where golden flash and silver gleam

Have meanings of their own;
While, high and low, and all about,

Your motions, glittering Elves !
Ye weave—no danger from without,

And peace among yourselves.
Type of a sunny human breast

Is your transparent cell;
Where Fear is but a transient guest,

No sullen Humours dwell;
Where, sensitive of every ray

That smites this tiny sea,
Your scaly panoplies repay

The loan with usury.

How beautiful !—Yet none knows why

This ever-graceful change, Renewed-renewed incessantly

Within your quiet range.

Is it that ye with conscious skill

For mutual pleasure glide;
And sometimes, not without your will,

Are dwarfed, or magnified ?

Fays, Genii of gigantic size!

And now, in twilight dim,
Clustering like constellated eyes,

In wings of Cherubim,
When the fierce orbs abate their glare ;-


express, Whate'er ye seem,

whate'er All leads to gentleness.

ye are


Cold though your nature be, 'tis pure;

Your birthright is a fence
From all that haughtier kinds endure

Through tyranny of sense.
Ah! not alone by colours bright

Are Ye to heaven allied,
When, like essential Forms of light,

Ye mingle, or divide.

For day-dreams soft as e'er beguiled

Day-thoughts while limbs repose; For moonlight fascinations mild,

Your gift, ere shutters closeAccept, mute Captives! thanks and praise ; And may this tribute

prove That gentle admirations raise Delight resembling love.

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