By a bright ladder to the world above. Open your gates, ye monuments of love Divine! thou, Lincoln, on thy sovereign hill! Thou, stately York! and ye, whose splendours cheer

Isis and Cam, to patient science dear!

INSIDE OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL,

CAMBRIDGE.

TAX not the royal saint with vain expense, With ill-matched aims the architect who planned,

Albeit labouring for a scanty band

Of white-robed scholars only, this immense And glorious work of fine intelligence! Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore

Of nicely-calculated less or more; So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense [roof These lofty pillars, spread that branching Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells, [dwells Where light and shade repose, where music Lingering- and wandering on as loth to die; Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof

That they were born for immortality.

roam;

[foam Where bubbles burst, and folly's dancing Melts, if it cross the threshold; where the wreath [path Of awe-struck wisdom droops: or let my Lead to that younger pile, whose sky-like dome

Hath typified by reach of daring art Infinity's embrace; whose guardian crest, The silent cross, among the stars shall spread

As now, when she hath also seen her breast Filled with mementos, satiate with its part Of grateful England's overflowing dead.

Studious of that pure intercourse begun When first our infant brows their lustre [bright

won;

So, like the mountain, may we grow more From unimpeded commerce with the sun, At the approach of all-involving night.

CONCLUSION.

WHY sleeps the future, as a snake enrolled Coil within coil, at noon-tide? For the Word [plored, Yields, if with unpresumptuous faith exPower at whose touch the sluggard shall unfold,

[behold, His drowsy rings. Look forth! that stream That stream upon whose bosom we have passed

Floating at ease while nations have effaced Nations, and death has gathered to his fold Long lines of mighty kings-look forth, my soul !

(Nor in this vision be thou slow to trust) The living waters, less and less by guilt Stained and polluted, brighten as they roll, Till they have reached the eternal citybuilt

For the perfected spirits of the just !

IN trellised shed with clustering roses gay,
And, Mary! oft beside our blazing fire,
When years of wedded life were as a day
Whose current answers to the heart's desire,
Did we together read in Spenser's lay,
How Una, sad of soul-in sad attire,
The gentle Una, born of heavenly birth,
To seek her knight went wandering o'er

the earth.

Ah, then, beloved! pleasing was the smart, And the tear precious in compassion shed For her, who, pierced by sorrow's thrilling dart,

Did meekly bear the pang unmerited; Meek as that emblem of her lowly heart The milk-white lamb which in a line she led.

And faithful, loyal in her innocence, Like the brave lion slain in her defence.

Notes could we hear as of a faery shell Attuned to words with sacred wisdom fraught;

Free fancy prized each specious miracle,
And all its finer inspiration caught;
Till, in the bosom of our rustic cell,
We by a lamentable change were taught
That "
bliss with mortal man may not

abide:"-
How nearly joy and sorrow are allied!

For us the stream of fiction ceased to flow,
For us the voice of melody was mute.
But, as soft gales dissolve the dreary snow,
And give the timid herbage leave to shoot,

See Notes at end of poem, page 251.

| Heaven's breathing influence failed not to

bestow

A timely promise of unlooked-for fruit, Fair fruit of pleasure and serene content From blossoms wild of fancies innocent.

It soothed us-it beguiled us-then, to hear
Once more of troubles wrought by magic
spell;
[near
And griefs whose aery motion comes not
The pangs that tempt the spirit to rebel;
Then, with mild Una in her sober cheer,
High over hill and low adown the dell
Again we wandered, willing to partake
All that she suffered for her dear lord's sake.

Then, too, this song of mine once more could please, [less sleep, Where anguish, strange as dreams of restIs tempered and allayed by sympathies Aloft ascending, and descending deep, Even to the inferior kinds; whom forest trees [sweep Protect from beating sunbeams, and the Of the sharp winds;-fair creatures!—to whom Heaven

A calm and sinless life, with love, hath given.

Of female patience winning firm repose; This tragic story cheered us: for it speaks And of the recompense which conscience seeks

Needful when o'er wide realms the tempest A bright, encouraging example shows;

Needful amid life's ordinary woes; breaks, Hence, not for them unfitted who would

bless

A happy hour with holier happiness.

He serves the muses erringly and ill,
Whose aim is pleasure light and fugitive:
Oh, that my mind were equal to fulfil
The comprehensive mandate which they
give-

Vain aspiration of an earnest will!

Yet in this moral strain a power may live,
Beloved wife! such solace to impart
As it hath yielded to thy tender heart.
Rydal Mount, Westmoreland,
April 20, 1815.

CANTO I.

"They that deny a God, destroy man's nobility: for certainly man is of kinn to the beasts by

his body and if he be not of kinn to God by his spirit, he is a base ignoble creature. It destroys likewise magnanimity, and the raising of humane nature: for take an example of a dogg, and mark what a generosity and courage he will put on, when he finds himself maintained by a man, who to him is instead of a God, or melior natura. Which courage is manifestly such, as that creature without that confidence of a better nature than his own could never attain. So man, when he resteth and assureth himself upon Divine protection and favour, gathereth a force and faith which

human nature in itself could not obtain.' LORD BACON.

"

FROM Bolton's old monastic tower(2)
The bells ring loud with gladsome power;
The sun is bright; the fields are gay
With people in their best array
Of stole and doublet, hood and scarf,
Along the banks of crystal Wharf,
Through the vale retired and lowly,
Trooping to that summons holy.
And, up among the moorlands, see
What sprinklings of blithe company!
Of lasses and of shepherd grooms,
That down the steep hills force their way,
Like cattle through the budded brooms;
Path, or no path, what care they?
And thus in joyous mood they hie
To Bolton's mouldering Priory.

What would they there?-Full fifty years
That sumptuous pile, with all its peers,
Too harshly hath been doomed to taste
The bitterness of wrong and waste :
Its courts are ravaged; but the tower
Is standing with a voice of power,
That ancient voice which wont to call
To mass or some high festival;
And in the shattered fabric's heart
Remaineth one protected part;

A rural chapel, neatly drest, (3)
In covert like a little nest;
And thither old and young repair,
This Sabbath day, for praise and prayer.

Fast the church-yard fills ;-anon
Look again, and they all are gone;
The cluster round the porch, and the folk
Who sate in the shade of the Prior's
Oak. (4)

And scarcely have they disappeared
Ere the prelusive hymn is heard:-
With one consent the people rejoice,
Filling the church with a lofty voice!
They sing a service which they feel:
For 'tis the sun-rise now of zeal,
And faith and hope are in their prime,
In great Eliza's golden time.

A moment ends the fervent din,
And all is hushed, without and within ;
For though the priest, more tranquilly,
Recites the holy liturgy,

The only voice which you can hear
Is the river murmuring near.
When soft !-the dusky trees between,
And down the path through the open green,
Where is no living thing to be seen;
And through yon gateway, where is found,
Beneath the arch with ivy bound,
Free entrance to the church-yard ground;
And right across the verdant sod
Towards the very house of God ;-
Comes gliding in with lovely gleam,
Comes gliding in serene and slow,
Soft and silent as a dream,
A solitary doe!

White she is as lily of June,

And beauteous as the silver moon

When out of sight the clouds are driven,
And she is left alone in heaven;

Or like a ship some gentle day
In sunshine sailing far away,

A glittering ship, that hath the plain
Of ocean for her own domain.

Lie silent in your graves, ye dead!
Lie quiet in your church-yard bed!
Ye living, tend your holy cares;

Ye multitude, pursue your prayers;
And blame not me if my heart and sight
Are occupied with one delight!
"Tis a work for Sabbath hours
If I with this bright creature go,
Whether she be of forest bowers,
From the bowers of earth below;
Or a spirit, for one day given,
A gift of grace from purest heaven.

What harmonious pensive changes
Wait upon her as she ranges
Round and through this pile of state,
Overthrown and desolate !
Now a step or two her way
Is through space of open day,
Where the enamoured sunny light
Brightens her that was so bright;
Now doth a delicate shadow fall,
Falls upon her like a breath,
From some lofty arch or wall,
As she passes underneath :
Now some gloomy nook partakes
Of the glory that she makes, —
High-ribbed vault of stone, or cell
With perfect cunning framed as well
Of stone, and ivy, and the spread
Of the elder's bushy head;
Some jealous and forbidding cell,
That doth the living stars repel,

And where no flower hath leave to dwell.

The presence of this wandering doe
Fills many a damp obscure recess
With lustre of a saintly show;
And, re-appearing, she no less
To the open day gives blessedness.
But say, among these holy places,
Which thus assiduously she paces,
Comes she with a votary's task,
Rite to perform, or boon to ask?
Fair pilgrim! harbours she a sense
Of sorrow, or of reverence?

Can she be grieved for quire or shrine,
Crushed as if by wrath divine?

For what survives of house where God
Was worshipped, or where man abode;
For old magnificence undone ;
Or for the gentler work begun
By nature, softening and concealing,
And busy with a hand of healing, -
For altar, whence the cross was rent,
Now rich with mossy ornament,
Or dormitory's length laid bare,
Where the wild rose blossoms fair;
And sapling ash, whose place of birth
Is that lordly chamber's hearth?
She sees a warrior carved in stone,
Among the thick weeds, stretched alone;
A warrior, with his shield of pride
Cleaving humbly to his side,
And hands in resignation prest,
Palm to palm, on his tranquil breast:
Methinks she passeth by the sight,
As a common creature might:
if she be doomed to inward care,
Or service, it must lie elsewhere.

But hers are eyes serenely bright,
And on she moves-with pace how light?
Nor spares to stoop her head, and taste
The dewy turf with flowers bestrown;
And thus she fares, until at last
Beside the ridge of a grassy grave
In quietness she lays her down;
Gently as a weary wave

Sinks, when the summer breeze hath died,
Against an anchored vessel's side;
Even so, without distress, doth she
Lie down in peace, and lovingly.

The day is placid in its going, To a lingering motion bound, Like the river in its flowingCan there be a softer sound? So the balmy minutes pass, While this radiant creature lies Couched upon the dewy grass, Pensively with downcast eyes. When now again the people rear A voice of praise, with awful cheer! It is the last, the parting song; And from the temple forth they throngAnd quickly spread themselves abroadWhile each pursues his several road. But some, a variegated band, Of middle-aged, and old, and young, And little children by the hand Upon their leading mothers hung, Turn, with obeisance gladly paid, Towards the spot, where, full in view, The lovely doe of whitest hue, Her Sabbath couch has made.

It was a solitary mound;

Which two spears' length of level ground
Did from all other graves divide:
As if in some respect of pride;
Or melancholy's sickly mood,
Still shy of human neighbourhood;
Or guilt, that humbly would express
A penitential loneliness.

"Look, there she is, my child! draw near; She fears not, wherefore should we fear? She means no harm ;"-but still the boy, To whom the words were softly said, Hung back, and smiled and blushed for joy, A shame-faced blush of glowing red! Again the mother whispered low, "Now you have seen the famous doe; From Rylstone she hath found her way Over the hills this Sabbath-day; Her work, whate'er it be, is done, And she will depart when we are gone;