Who scorns a false utilitarian lure Mid his paternal fields at random thrown?
WHILE beams of orient light shoot wide and high, Baffle the threat, bright Scene, from Orrest-head
Deep in the vale a little rural Town *
Breathes forth a cloud-like creature of its own, That mounts not toward the radiant morning sky,
But, with a less ambitious sympathy, Hangs o'er its Parent waking to the cares Troubles and toils that every day prepares. So Fancy, to the musing Poet's eye, Endears that Lingerer. And how blest her sway (Like influence never may my soul reject)
If the calm Heaven, now to its zenith decked With glorious forms in numberless array, To the lone shepherd on the hills disclose Gleams from a world in which the saints repose.
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; Hope 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."
ON THE PROJECTED KENDAL AND WINDERMERE RAILWAY.
Is then no nook of English ground secure From rash assault?+ Schemes of retirement sown In youth, and mid the busy world kept pure As when their earliest flowers of hope were blown, Must perish; how can they this blight endure? And must he too the ruthless change bemoan
The degree and kind of attachment which many of the yeomanry feel to their small inheritances can scarcely be over-rated. Near the house of one of them stands a magnificent tree, which a neighbour of the owner advised him to fell for profit's sake. "Fell it!" exclaimed the yeoman, "I had rather fall on my knees and worship it." It happens, I believe, that the intended railway would pass through this little property, and I hope that an apology for the answer will not be thought necessary by one who enters into the strength of the feeling.
Given to the pausing traveller's rapturous glance: Plead for thy peace, thou beautiful romance
Of nature; and, if human hearts be dead, Speak, passing winds; ye torrents, with your strong And constant voice, protest against the wrong. October 12th, 1844.
PROUD were ye, Mountains, when, in times of old, Your patriot sons, to stem invasive war, Intrenched your brows; ye gloried in each scar: Now, for your shame, a Power, the Thirst of Gold, That rules o'er Britain like a baneful star, Wills that your peace, your beauty, shall be sold, And clear way made for her triumphal car Through the beloved retreats your arms enfold! Heard YE that Whistle? As her long-linked Train Swept onwards, did the vision cross your view? Yes, ye were startled;-and, in balance true, Weighing the mischief with the promised gain, Mountains, and Vales, and Floods, I call on you To share the passion of a just disdain.
HERE, where, of havoc tired and rash undoing, Man left this Structure to become Time's prey A soothing spirit follows in the way That Nature takes, her counter-work pursuing. See how her Ivy clasps the sacred Ruin Fall to prevent or beautify decay; And, on the mouldered walls, how bright, how gay, The flowers in pearly dews their bloom renewing! Thanks to the place, blessings upon the hour; Even as I speak the rising Sun's first smile Gleams on the grass-crowned top of yon tall Tower Whose cawing occupants with joy proclaim Prescriptive title to the shattered pile Where, Cavendish, thine seems nothing but a name!
WELL have yon Railway Labourers to THIS ground Withdrawn for noontide rest. They sit, they walk Among the Ruins, but no idle talk
Is heard; to grave demeanour all are bound; And from one voice a Hymn with tuneful sound Hallows once more the long-deserted Quire
FROM THE VALE OF GRASMERE. AUGUST, 1803.
THE gentlest Shade that walked Elysian plains Might sometimes covet dissoluble chains; Even for the tenants of the zone that lies Beyond the stars, celestial Paradise, Methinks 'twould heighten joy, to overleap At will the crystal battlements, and peep Into some other region, though less fair,
To see how things are made and managed there. Change for the worse might please, incursion bold Into the tracts of darkness and of cold; O'er Limbo lake with aëry flight to steer, And on the verge of Chaos hang in fear. Such animation often do I find,
Power in my breast, wings growing in my mind, Then, when some rock or hill is overpast, Perchance without one look behind me cast, Some barrier with which Nature, from the birth Of things, has fenced this fairest spot on earth. O pleasant transit, Grasmere! to resign Such happy fields, abodes so calm as thine; Not like an outcast with himself at strife; The slave of business, time, or care for life, But moved by choice; or, if constrained in part, Yet still with Nature's freedom at the heart;— To cull contentment upon wildest shores, And luxuries extract from bleakest moors; With prompt embrace all beauty to enfold, And having rights in all that we behold. -Then why these lingering steps?-A bright
For a brief absence, proves that love is true; Ne'er can the way be irksome or forlorn That winds into itself for sweet return.
SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH.
I SHIVER, Spirit fierce and bold, At thought of what I now behold: As vapours breathed from dungeons cold Strike pleasure dead,
So sadness comes from out the mould Where Burns is laid.
And have I then thy bones so near, And thou forbidden to appear? As if it were thyself that's here I shrink with pain;
And both my wishes and my fear Alike are vain.
Off weight-nor press on weight!-away Dark thoughts!-they came, but not to stay; With chastened feelings would I pay
To him, and aught that hides his clay From mortal view.
Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth He sang, his genius 'glinted' forth, Rose like a star that touching earth,
For so it seems,
Doth glorify its humble birth
With matchless beams.
The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow, The struggling heart, where be they now?— Full soon the Aspirant of the plough,
The prompt, the brave,
Slept, with the obscurest, in the low And silent grave.
Proud thoughts that Image overawes, Before it humbly let us pause, And ask of Nature, from what cause
She trained her Burns to win applause
That shames the Schools.
Through busiest street and loneliest glen Are felt the flashes of his pen;
He rules mid winter snows, and when Bees fill their hives;
Deep in the general heart of men
His power survives.
What need of fields in some far clime Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime, And all that fetched the flowing rhyme From genuine springs, Shall dwell together till old Time
Folds up his wings?
Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven; The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour,
And memory of Earth's bitter leaven, Effaced for ever.
But why to Him confine the prayer, When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear On the frail heart the purest share
With all that live?
The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive !*
AFTER VISITING THE GRAVE OF THEIR FATHER. The Poet's grave is in a corner of the churchyard. We looked at it with melancholy and painful reflections,
⚫ repeating to each other his own verses
Is there a man whose judgment clear,' &c.' Extract from the Journal of my Fellow-traveller.
'MID crowded obelisks and urns
I sought the untimely grave of Burns; Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns With sorrow true;
And more would grieve, but that it turns Trembling to you!
Through twilight shades of good and ill Ye now are panting up life's hill, And more than common strength and skill Must ye display;
If ye would give the better will Its lawful sway.
Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear Intemperance with less harm, beware! But if the Poet's wit ye share, Like him can speed
The social hour-of tenfold care There will be need;
For honest men delight will take To spare your failings for his sake, Will flatter you, and fool and rake Your steps pursue;
And of your Father's name will make A snare for you.
Far from their noisy haunts retire, And add your voices to the quire That sanctify the cottage fire With service meet;
There seek the genius of your Sire, His spirit greet;
Or where, 'mid 'lonely heights and hows,' He paid to Nature tuneful vows;
Or wiped his honourable brows
Bedewed with toil,
While reapers strove, or busy ploughs Upturned the soil;
His judgment with benignant ray Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way; But ne'er to a seductive lay
Nor deem that light which leads astray, Is light from Heaven.'
Let no mean hope your souls enslave; Be independent, generous, brave; Your Father such example gave, And such revere ;
But be admonished by his grave, And think, and fear!
But many days, and many months, And many years ensuing,
This wretched Knight did vainly seek The death that he was wooing.
So, coming his last help to crave, Heart-broken, upon Ellen's grave His body he extended,
And there his sorrow ended.
Now ye, who willingly have heard The tale I have been telling, May in Kirkonnel churchyard view The grave of lovely Ellen: By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid; And, for the stone upon his head, May no rude hand deface it, And its forlorn Hic jacet !
(AT INVERSNEY DE, UPON LOCH LOMOND.)
SWEET Highland Girl, a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower! Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head:
And these grey rocks; that household lawn ; Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn ; This fall of water that doth make A murmur near the silent lake; This little bay; a quiet road That holds in shelter thy Abode— In truth together do ye seem Like something fashioned in a dream; Such Forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep! But, O fair Creature! in the light Of common day, so heavenly bright, I bless Thee, Vision as thou art, I bless thee with a human heart; God shield thee to thy latest years! Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers; And yet my eyes are filled with tears.
With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when I am far away: For never saw I mien, or face, In which more plainly I could trace Benignity and home-bred sense Ripening in perfect innocence.
Here scattered, like a random seed,
Remote from men, Thou dost not need
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