ROTHA, my Spiritual Child! this head was gray When at the sacred Font for Thee I stood; Pledged till thou reach the verge of womanhood And shalt become thy own sufficient stay: Too late, I feel, sweet Orphan! was the day For steadfast hope the contract to fulfil; Yet shall my blessing hover o'er thee still, Embodied in the music of this Lay, Breathed forth beside the peaceful mountain Stream* Whose murmur soothed thy languid Mother's ear After her throes, this Stream of name more dear Since thou dost bear it, -a memorial theme For others; for thy future self a spell
To summon fancies out of Time's dark cell.
Nor the whole warbling grove in concert heard When sunshine follows shower, the breast can thrill Like the first summons, Cuckoo! of thy bill, With its twin notes inseparably paired. 'The Captive 'mid damp vaults unsunned, unaired, Measuring the periods of his lonely doom, That cry can reach; and to the sick man's room Sends gladness, by no languid smile declared. The lordly Eagle-race through hostile search May perish; time may come when never more The wilderness shall hear the Lion roar; But, long as Cock shall crow from household perch To rouse the dawn, soft gales shall speed thy wing, And thy erratic voice be faithful to the Spring!
IN HER SEVENTIETH YEAR.
SUCH age how beautiful! O Lady bright, Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined By favouring Nature and a saintly Mind To something purer and more exquisite Than flesh and blood; whene'er thou meet'st my sight When I behold thy blanched unwithered cheek, Thy temples fringed with locks of gleaming white, And head that droops because the soul is meek, Thee with the welcome Snowdrop I compare; That Child of Winter, prompting thoughts that climb From desolation toward the genial prime; Or with the Moon conquering earth's misty air, And filling more and more with crystal light As pensive Evening deepens into night.
UNQUIET Childhood here by special grace Forgets her nature, opening like a flower That neither feeds nor wastes its vital power In painful struggles. Months each other chase, And nought untunes that Infant's voice; a trace Of fretful temper sullies not her cheek; Prompt, lively, self-sufficing, yet so meek That one enrapt with gazing on her face (Which even the placid innocence of Death Could scarcely make more placid, Heaven more bright) Might learn to picture, for the eye of faith, The Virgin, as she shone with kindred light; A Nursling couched upon her Mother's knee, Beneath some shady Palm of Galilee.
A GRAVE-STONE UPON THE FLOOR IN THE CLOISTELS OF WORCESTER CATHEDRAL
"MISERRIMUS!" and neither name nor date,
Prayer, text, or symbol, graven upon the stone; Nought but that word assigned to the unknown, That solitary word-to separate
around the fate
Most wretched one, Himself alone
From all, and cast a cloud Of him who lies beneath. Who chose his Epitaph? Could thus have dared the grave to agitate. And claim, among the dead, this awful crown; Nor doubt that He marked also for his own, Close to these cloistral steps a burial-place, That every foot might fall with heavier tread, Trampling upon his vileness. Stranger, pass Softly! To save the contrite, Jesus bled,
The River Rotha, that flows into Windermere from the Lakes of Grasmere and Rydal.
CHATSWORTH! thy stately mansion, and the pride Of thy domain, strange contrast do present To house and home in many a craggy rent Of the wild Peak; where new-born waters glide Through fields whose thrifty Occupants abide As in a dear and chosen banishment, With every semblance of entire content; So kind is simple Nature, fairly tried! Yet He whose heart in childhood gave her troth To pastoral dales, thin set with modest farms, May learn, if judgment strengthen with his growth, That, not for Fancy only, pomp hath charms; And, strenuous to protect from lawless harms The extremes of favoured life, may honour both.
STOCCHED through all severity of cold, Levadate, whate'er the cottage hearth Ngat need for comfort, or for festal mirth, That Pule of Turf is half a century old: Yes, Traveller! fifty winters have been told Se suddenly the dart of death went forth Gunst him who raised it, his last work on earth; Thence by his Son more prized than aught which gold Cald purchase-watched, preserved by his own hands, That, faithful to the Structure, still repair
DESPONDING Father! mark this altered boug, So beautiful of late, with sunshine warmed, Or moist with dews; what more unsightly now, Its blossoms shrivelled, and its fruit, if formed, Invisible? yet Spring her genial brow Knits not o'er that discolouring and decay As false to expectation. Nor fret thou At like unlovely process in the May Of human life: a Stripling's graces blow, Fade and are shed, that from their timely fall (Misdeem it not a cankerous change) may grow
is waste.-Though crumbling with each breath of air, Rich mellow bearings, that for thanks shall call;
Is annual renovation thus it stands
Rude Mansoleam! but wrens nestle there,
And red-breasts warble when sweet sounds are rare.
In all men, sinful is it to be slow
To hope-in Parents, sinful above all.
TO B. R. HAYDON, ESQ.,
A SEEING HIS PICTURE OF NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE ON THE ISLAND OF ST. HELENA.
HATION! let worthier judges praise the skill Here by thy pencil shown in truth of lines Asi charm of colours; I applaud those signs thought, that give the true poetic thrill; That unencumbered whole of blank and still, Sy without cloud- ocean without a wave; Aad the one Man that laboured to enslave The World, soie-standing high on the bare hill- Bark tare, arms folded, the unapparent face Ted, we may fancy, in this dreary place With gat reflected from the invisible sun
like his fortunes; but not set for aye
Like them. The unguilty Power pursues his way, Aad before him doth dawn perpetual run.
ROMAN ANTIQUITIES DISCOVERED,
AT BISHOPSTONE, HEREFORDSHIRE.
WHILE poring Antiquarians search the ground Upturned with curious pains, the Bard, a Seer, Takes fire: The men that have been reappear; Romans for travel girt, for business gowned, And some recline on couches, myrtle-crowned, In festal glee: why not? For fresh and clear, As if its hues were of the passing year,
Dawns this time-buried pavement. From that mound Hoards may come forth of Trajans, Maximins, Shrunk into coins with all their warlike toil; Or a fierce impress issues with its foil
Of tenderness the Wolf, whose suckling Twins
The unlettered Ploughboy pities when he wins The casual treasure from the furrowed soil.
ST. CATHERINE OF LEDBURY
WHEN human touch, as monkish books attest, Nor was applied nor could be, Ledbury bells Broke forth in concert flung adown the dells, And upward, high as Malvern's cloudy crest; Sweet tones, and caught by a noble Lady blest To rapture! Mabel listened at the side
Of her loved Mistress: soon the music died, And Catherine said, "Here I set up my rest." Warned in a dream, the Wanderer long had sought A home that by such miracle of sound
TO THE AUTHOR'S PORTRAIT.
[Painted at Rydal Mount, by W. Pickersgill, Esq., for St. John College, Cambridge.]
Go, faithful Portrait! and where long hath knelt Margaret, the saintly Foundress, take thy place; And, if Time spare the colours for the grace Which to the work surpassing skill hath dealt, Thou, on thy rock reclined, though Kingdoms melt, And States be torn up by the roots, wilt seem To breathe in rural peace, to hear the stream, To think and feel as once the Poet felt. Whate'er thy fate, those features have not grown Unrecognized through many a household tear, More prompt more glad to fall than drops of dew By morning shed around a flower half blown; Tears of delight, that testified how true To life thou art, and, in thy truth, how dear!
WHY art thou silent! Is thy love a plant Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air Of absence withers what was once so fair? Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant? Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant (As would my deeds have been) with hourly care, The mind's least generous wish a mendican For nought but what thy happiness could spare. Speak, though this soft warm heart, once free to hold A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, Be left more desolate, more dreary cold Than a forsaken bird's-nest filled with snow 'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine ;
Ir these brief Records, by the Muses' art Produced as lonely Nature or the strife That animates the scenes of public life Inspired, may in thy leisure claim a part; And if these Transcripts of the private heart Have gained a sanction from thy falling tears, Then I repent not: but my soul hath fears Breathed from eternity; for as a dart Cleaves the blank air, Life flies: now every day Is but a glimmering spoke in the swift wheel Of the revolving week. Away, away,
Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know! All fitful cares, all transitory zeal;
So timely Grace the immortal wing may heal, And honour rest upon the senseless clay.
FOUR fiery steeds impatient of the rein Whirled us o'er sunless ground beneath a sky As void of sunshine, when, from that wide Plain, Clear tops of far-off Mountains we descry, Like a Sierra of cerulean Spain,
All light and lustre. Did no heart reply? Yes, there was One; for One, asunder fly The thousand links of that ethereal chain; And green vales open out, with grove and field, And the fair front of many a happy Home; Such tempting spots as into vision come While Soldiers, of the weapons that they wield Weary, and sick of strifeful Christendom, Gaze on the moon by parting clouds revealed.
In my mind's eye a Temple, like a cloud Slowly surmounting some invidious hill, Rose out of darkness: the bright Work stood still, And might of its own beauty have been proud, But it was fashioned and to God was vowed By Virtues that diffused, in every part, Spirit divine through forms of human art: Faith had her arch-her arch, when winds blow loud Into the consciousness of safety thrilled; And Love her towers of dread foundation laid Under the grave of things; Hove had her spire Star-high, and pointing still to something higher; Trembling I gazed, but heard a voice-it said, Hell-gates are powerless Phantoms when we build.
ce the bold wings of poesy affect
The clouds, and wheel around the mountain tops bencing, from her loftiest height she drops
We pleased to skim the plain with wild flowers deckt, se in solemn grove whose shades protect lagering dew-there steals along, or stops Watching the least small bird that round her hops, Or creeping worm, with sensitive respect. Her functions are they therefore less divine, Her thoughts less deep, or void of grave intent
ber simplest fancies? Should that fear be thine, Learng votary, ere thy hand present
the offering, kneel before her modest shrine, W. brow in penitential sorrow bent!
A Poet!-He hath put his heart to school,
Viz dares to move unpropped upon the staff
THE most alluring clouds that mount the sky Owe to a troubled element their forms, Their hues to sunset. If with raptured eye We watch their splendour, shall we covet storms, And wish the lord of day his slow decline Would hasten, that such pomp may float on high? Behold, already they forget to shine, Dissolve-and leave to him who gazed a sigh. Not loth to thank each moment for its boon Of pure delight, come whensoe'er it may, Peace let us seek, to steadfast things attune Calm expectations, leaving to the gay And volatile their love of transient bowers, The house that cannot pass away be ours.
ON A PORTRAIT OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON UPON THE FIELD OF WATERLOO, BY HAYDON.
By art's bold privilege Warrior and War-horse stand On ground yet strewn with their last battle's wreck; Let the steed glory while his master's hand Lies fixed for ages on his conscious neck; But by the chieftain's look, though at his side
Wach art hath lodired within his hand-must laugh Hangs that day's treasured sword, how firm a check
precept only, and shed tears by rule.
art be nature; the live current quaff,
Aset the groveller sip his stagnant pool,
Is given to triumph and all human pride! Yon trophied mound shrinks to a shadowy speck In his calm presence! Him the mighty deed Elates not, brought far nearer the grave's rest, As shows that time-worn face, for he such seed Has sown as yields, we trust, the fruit of fame In Heaven; hence no one blushes for thy name, Conqueror, mid some sad thoughts, divinely blest!
Mis not the ocension: by the forelock take That subtle Power, the never halting Time, Lest a mere moment's putting off should make Muchance almost as heavy as a crime.]
Warr, prithee, wait!" this answer Lesbia threw Tea to her dowe, and took no further heed, here was busy, while her fingers flew vers the harp, with soul-engrossing speed; Be from that bondage when her thoughts were freed ree, and toward the close-shut casement drew, re the poor unregarded favourite, true affections, had been heard to plead flaps.ng wing for entrance. What a shriek fran that voice so lately tuned to a strain taray-a shriek of terror, pain,
freproach! for, from aloft, a kite e-and the dove, which from its ruthless beak hould not rescue, perished in her sight!
ALL praise the likeness by thy skill portrayed; But 't is a fruitless task to paint for me, Who, yielding not to changes time has made, By the habitual light of memory see Eyes unbedimmed, see bloom that cannot fade, And smiles that from their birth-place ne'er shall flee Into the land where ghosts and phantoms be; And, seeing this, own nothing in its stead. Couldst thou go back into far-distant years, Or share with me, fond thought! that inward eye, Then, and then only, painter! could thy art The visual powers of nature satisfy, Which hold, whate'er to common sight appears, Their sovereign empire in a faithful heart.
THOUGH I beheld at first with blank surprise This work, I now have gazed on it so long I see its truth with unreluctant eyes; O, my beloved! I have done thee wrong, Conscious of blessedness, but, whence it sprung, Ever too heedless, as I now perceive: Morn into noon did pass, noon into eve, And the old day was welcome as the young, As welcome, and as beautiful-in sooth More beautiful, as being a thing more holy: Thanks to thy virtues, to the eternal youth Of all thy goodness, never melancholy; To thy large heart and humble mind, that cast Into one vision, future, present, past.
HARK! 'tis the thrush, undaunted, undeprest, By twilight premature of cloud and rain; Nor does that roaring wind deaden his strain Who carols thinking of his love and nest, And seems, as more incited, still more blest.
And in a moment charmed my cares to rest. Yes, I will forth, bold bird! and front the blast, That we may sing together, if thou wilt, So loud, so clear, my partner through life's day, Mute in her nest love-chosen, if not love-built Like thine, shall gladden, as in seasons past, Thrilled by loose snatches of the social lay.
'Tis he whose yester-evening's high disdain Beat back the roaring storm- but how subdued
His day-break note, a sad vicissitude! Does the hour's drowsy weight his glee restram? Or, like the nightingale, her joyous vein Pleased to renounce, does this dear thrush attune His voice to suit the temper of yon moon Doubly depressed, setting, and in her wane? Rise, tardy sun! and let the songster prove (The balance trembling between night and morn No longer) with what ecstasy upborne
He can pour forth his spirit. In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.
On what a wreck! how changed in mien and speech Yet though dread Powers, that work in myster
spin Entanglings of the brain; though shadows stretch O'er the chilled heart-reflect; far, far within Hers is a holy being, freed from sin.
She is not what she seems, a forlorn wretch, But delegated Spirits comfort fetch To her from heights that reason may not win. Like children, she is privileged to hold Divine communion; both do live and move, Whate'er to shallow faith their ways unfold, Inly illumined by Heaven's pitying love; Love pitying innocence not long to last, In them in her our sins and sorrows past.
INTENT on gathering wool from hedge and brake Yon busy little-ones rejoice that soon A poor old dame will bless them for the boon: Great is their glee while flake they add to flake With rival earnestness; far other strife Than will hereafter move them, if they make Pastime their idol, give their day of life To pleasure snatched for reckless pleasure's sake.
Thanks; thou hast snapped a fire-side prisoner's chain, Can pomp and show allay one heart-born grief?
Exulting warbler! eased a fretted brain,
Pains which the world inflicts can she requite!
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