And, in disguise, a Milkmaid with her pail
Trips down the pathways of some winding dale;
Or, like a Mermaid, warbles on the shores
To fishers mending nets beside their doors;
Or, Pilgrim-like, on forest moss reclined,
Gives plaintive ditties to the heedless wind,
Or listens to its play among the boughs
Above her head, and so forgets her vows,
If such a Visitant of Earth there be,
And she would deign this day to smile on me
And aid my verse, content with local bounds
Of natural beauty and life's daily rounds,
Thoughts, chances, sights, or doings, which we tell
Without reserve to those whom we love well,
Then haply, Beaumont ! words in current clear
Will flow, and on a welcome page appear
Duly before thy sight, unless they perish here.

What shall I treat of? News from Mona's Isle? Such have we, but unvaried in its style; No tales of Runagates fresh landed, whence And wherefore fugitive or on what pretence; Of feasts, or scandal, eddying like the wind, Most restlessly alive when most confined. Ask not of me, whose tongue can best appease The mighty tumults of the HOUSE OF KEYS; The last year's cup whose Ram or Heifer gained, What slopes are planted, or what mosses drained: of fancy only can I cast

An

eye

On that proud pageant now at hand or past,

When full five hundred boats in trim array,
With nets and sails outspread and streamers gay,
And chanted hymns and stiller voice of prayer,
For the old Manx-harvest to the Deep repair,
Soon as the herring-shoals at distance shine,
Like beds of moonlight shifting on the brine.

Mona from our abode is daily seen,
But with a wilderness of waves between ;
And by conjecture only can we speak
Of aught transacted there in bay or creek;
No tidings reach us hence from town or field,
Only faint news her mountain sunbeams yield,
And some we gather from the misty air,

And some the hovering clouds, our telegraph, declare.

But these poetic mysteries I withhold;

For Fancy hath her fits both hot and cold,
And should the colder fit with you be on
When you might read, my credit would be gone.

Let more substantial themes the pen engage, And nearer interests, culled from the opening stage Of our migration. Ere the welcome dawn Had from the east her silver star withdrawn, The Wain stood ready, at our Cottage-door, Thoughtfully freighted with a various store; And long or ere the uprising of the Sun, O'er dew-damped dust our journey was begun, A needful journey, under favoring skies,

Through peopled Vales; yet something in the guise Of those old Patriarchs when from well to well They roamed through Wastes where now the tented Arabs dwell.

Say first, to whom did we the charge confide, Who promptly undertook the Wain to guide Up many a sharply twining road and down, And over many a wide hill's craggy crown, Through the quick turns of many a hollow nook, And the rough bed of many an unbridged brook? A blooming Lass, who in her better hand

Bore a light switch, her sceptre of command
When, yet a slender Girl, she often led,
Skilful and bold, the horse and burdened sled *
From the peat-yielding Moss on Gowdar's head.
What could go wrong with such a Charioteer
For goods and chattels, or those Infants dear,
A Pair who smilingly sat side by side,
Our hope confirming that the salt-sea tide,
Whose free embraces we were bound to seek,

Would their lost strength restore and freshen the

pale cheek?

Such hope did either Parent entertain

Pacing behind along the silent lane.

Blithe hopes and happy musings soon took flight, For lo! an uncouth, melancholy sight.

* A local word for sledge.

On a green bank a creature stood forlorn,
Just half protruded to the light of morn,

Its hinder part concealed by hedge-row thorn.
The Figure called to mind a beast of
prey
Stripped of its frightful powers by slow decay,
And, though no longer upon rapine bent,
Dim memory keeping of its old intent.

We started, looked again with anxious eyes,
And in that griesly object recognize

The Curate's Dog,- his long-tried friend, for they,
As well we knew, together had grown gray.
The Master died, his drooping servant's grief
Found at the Widow's feet some sad relief;
Yet still he lived in pining discontent,
Sadness which no indulgence could prevent;
Hence whole day wanderings, broken nightly sleeps,
And lonesome watch that out of doors be keeps ;
Not oftentimes, I trust, as we, poor brute!
Espied him on his legs sustained, blank, mute,
And of all visible motion destitute,

So that the very heaving of his breath

Seemed stopped, though by some other power than death.

Long as we gazed upon the form and face,
A mild domestic pity kept its place,
Unscared by thronging fancies of strange hue
That haunted us in spite of what we knew.
Even now I sometimes think of him as lost
In second-sight appearances, or crost
By spectral shapes of guilt, or to the ground

On which he stood by spells unnatural bound,
Like a gaunt, shaggy Porter, forced to wait
In days of old romance at Archimago's gate.

Advancing Summer, Nature's law fulfilled, The choristers in every grove had stilled; But we, we lacked not music of our own, For lightsome Fanny had thus early thrown, 'Mid the gay prattle of those infant tongues, Some notes prelusive, from the round of songs With which, more zealous than the liveliest bird That in wild Arden's brakes was ever heard, Her work and her work's partners she can cheer, The whole day long, and all days of the year.

Thus gladdened, from our own dear Vale we pass,
And soon approach Diana's Looking-glass!
To Loughrigg Tarn, round, clear, and bright as
heaven,

Such name Italian fancy would have given,
Ere on its banks the few gray cabins rose
That yet disturb not its concealed repose
More than the feeblest wind that idly blows.

Ah, Beaumont! when an opening in the road Stopped me at once by charm of what it showed, The encircling region vividly exprest

Within the mirror's depth, a world at rest,
Sky streaked with purple, grove and craggy bield,*

* A word common in the country, signifying shelter, as in Scotland.