To and fro, for his delight.
He knew the rocks which angels haunt
On the mountains visitant;
He hath kenned them taking wing;
And the caves where fairies sing
He hath entered; and been told
By voices how men lived of old.
Among the heavens his eye can see
Face of thing that is to be;
And, if men report him right,
He could whisper words of might.
Now another day is come,
Fitter hope, and nobler doom:
He hath thrown aside his crook,
And hath buried deep his book;
Armour rusting in his halls
On the blood of Clifford calls;
'Quell the Scot,' exclaims the lance-
'Bear me to the heart of France,'
Is the longing of the shield-
Tell thy name, thou trembling field;
Field of death, where'er thou be,
Groan thou with our victory!
Happy day, and mighty hour,
When our shepherd, in his power,
Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword,
To his ancestors restored,
Like a re-appearing star,
Like a glory from afar,
First shall head the flock of war!"
Alas! the fervent harper did not know
That for a tranquil soul the lay was framed,
Who, long compelled in humble walks to go,
Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed.
Love had he found in huts where poor men lie; His daily teachers had been woods and rills, The silence that is in the starry sky,
The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
In him the savage virtue of the race,
Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead:
Nor did he change; but kept in lofty place
The wisdom which adversity had bred.
Glad were the vales, and every cottage hearth;
The shepherd lord was honoured more and more:
And, ages after he was laid in earth,
'The good Lord Clifford' was the name he bore.
YES, it was the mountain echo,
Solitary, clear, profound,
Answering to the shouting cuckoo,
Giving to her sound for sound!
Unsolicited reply
To a babbling wanderer sent;
Like her ordinary cry,
Like-but oh, how different!
Hears not also mortal life?
Hear not we, unthinking creatures!
Slaves of folly, love, and strife,
Voices of two different natures?
Have not we too-yes we have-
Answers, and we know not whence;
Echoes from beyond the grave,
Recognised intelligence?
Such rebounds our inward ear
Often catches from afar;
Giddy mortals! hold them dear;
For of God-of God they are.
ETHEREAL minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!
Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,
Those quivering wings composed, that music still!
To the last point of vision, and beyond,
Mount, daring warbler! that love-prompted strain,
(Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond)
Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain:
Yet mightst thou seem, proud privilege! to sing
All independent of the leafy spring.
Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;
A privacy of glorious light is thine;
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
Of harmony, with rapture more divine;
Type of the wise who soar, but never roam;
True to the kindred points of heaven and home!
"IT IS NO SPIRIT WHO FROM HEAVEN HATH FLOWN."
It is no spirit who from heaven hath flown,
And is descending on his embassy;
Nor traveller gone from earth the heavens to espy! 'Tis Hesperus-there he stands with glittering crown, First admonition that the sun is down!
For yet it is broad daylight! clouds pass by,
A few are near him still-and now the sky,
He hath it to himself-'tis all his own.
O most ambitious star! thy presence brought
A startling recollection to my mind
Of the distinguished few among mankind,
Who dare to step beyond their natural race,
As thou seem'st now to do: nor was a thought
Denied that even I might one day trace
Some ground not mine; and, strong her strength above,
My soul, an apparition in the place,
Tread there, with steps that no one shall reprove!
THE PASS OF KIRKSTONE.
WITHIN the mind strong fancies work,
A deep delight the bosom thrills,
Oft as I pass along the fork
Of these fraternal hills :
Where, save the rugged road, we find
No appanage of human kind;
Nor hint of man; if stone or rock
Seem not his handiwork to mock
By something cognizably shaped ;
Mockery-or model roughly hewn,
And left as if by earthquake strewn,
Or from the flood escaped :-
Altars for Druid service fit;
But where no fire was ever lit,
Unless the glowworm to the skies
Thence offer nightly sacrifice;
Wrinkled Egyptian monument;
Green, moss-grown tower; or hoary tent;
Tents of a camp that never shall be raised;
On which four thousand years have gazed!
Ye ploughshares sparkling on the slopes !
Ye snow-white lambs that trip
Imprisoned mid the formal props
Of restless ownership!
Ye trees, that may to-morrow fall
To feed the insatiate prodigal !
Lawns, houses, chattels, groves, and fields,
All that the fertile valley shields;
Wages of folly-baits of crime,-
Of life's uneasy game the stake,
Playthings that keep the eyes awake
Of drowsy, dotard Time ;-
O care! O guilt !-O vales and plains,
Here, mid his own unvexed domains
A genius dwells, that can subdue
At once all memory of you,-
Most potent when mists veil the sky,
Mists that distort and magnify;
While the coarse rushes, to the sweeping breeze,
Sigh forth their ancient melodies!
List to those shriller notes! that march
Perchance was on the blast,
When, through this height's inverted arch,
Rome's earliest legion passed!
They saw, adventurously impelled,
And older eyes than theirs beheld,
This block-and yon, whose church-like frame
Gives to the savage pass its name.
Aspiring road! that lov'st to hide
Thy daring in a vapoury bourn,
Not seldom may the hour return
When thou shalt be my guide;
And I (as often we find cause,
When life is at a weary pause,
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