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Hath quaff’d its fill of Nature's loveli- | But ancient Skiddaw green and high 40 ness,
Heard and understood my sigh; Yet still beside the fountain's marge will And now, in tones less stern and rude, stay
As if he wish'd to end the feud, And fain would thirst again, again to Spake he, the proud response renewing quaff;
(His voice was like a monarch woo. Then when the tear, slow travelling on
Nay, but thou dost not know her might, Fills up the wrinkles of a silent laugh- The pinions of her soul how strong! In that sweet mood of sad and humorous But many a stranger in my height thought
Hath sung to me her magic song, A form within me rose, within me Sending forth his ecstasy wrought
In her divinest melody,
She is where'er she wills to be,
Now to the “haunted beach” can fly,
“ Pale moon, thou spectre of the sky!” Along the edges of those spots of light, No wind that hurries o'er my height Those sunny islands on thy smooth green Can travel with so swift a flight. 60 height,
I too, methinks, might merit
To me too might belong
Which most resembles me,
Exempt from wrongs of Time!'
Thus spake the mighty Mount, and I
69 I would, I would that she were here!'
• Thou ancient Skiddaw, by this tear,
I would, I would that she were here!'
In sullen majesty replying,
THE MAD MONK
Where o'er a cavern's mouth
That fronted to the south
But him I could not see:
In melody most like to old Sicilian song:
161, of w
The sun torments me from his western
bed, Oh, let him cease for ever to diffuse
Those crimson spectre hues ! Oh, let me lie in peace, and be for ever
“There was a time when earth, and sea,
and skies, The bright green vale, and forest's
dark recess, With all things, lay before mine eyes
In steady loveliness : But now I feel, on earth's uneasy scene,
Such sorrows as will never cease;
I only ask for peace; If I must live to know that such a time
has been !' A silence then ensued :
Till from the cavern came
A voice: it was the same! And thus, in mournful tone, its dreary
plaint renew'd :
Here ceas'd the voice. In deep dismay, Down thro' the forest I pursu'd my way.
THE TWO ROUND SPACES ON
THE TOMBSTONE !
* Last night, as o'er the sloping turf I
trod, The smooth green turf, to me a vision
gave Beneath mine eyes, the sod
The roof of Rosa's grave! My heart has need with dreams like
these to strive, For, when I woke, beneath mine eyes
I found The plot of mossy ground, On which we oft have sat when Rosa was
alive.Why must the rock, and margin of the
flood, Why must the hills so many flow'rets bear,
30 Whose colours to a murder'd maiden's
[As printed in Morning Post, Dec. 4, 1800.) THE Devil believes that the Lord will
come, Stealing a march without beat of drum, About the same time that he came last On an old Christmas - day in a snowy
blast: Till he bids the trump sound neither
body nor soul stirs For the dead men's heads have slipt
under their bolsters.
Ho! ho ! brother Bard, in our church
And under it lies a Counsellor keen. This tomb would be square, if it were
not too long; And 'tis rail'd round with iron, tall,
spear-like, and strong.
I struck the wound, — this hand of
I lov'd to agony !
Did never love like me?
This fellow from Aberdeen hither did
skip With a waxy face and a blubber lip, And a black tooth in front to show in
part What was the colour of his whole heart.
This Counsellor sweet,
• Is it the stormy clouds above
That flash'd so red a gleam ?
downward trickling stream?-
40 'Tis not the blood of her I love..
On the sixth of January,
The spirit's eager sympathy,
Inclin’d the drooping head.
She droop'd her head, she stretch'd her I swear by our Knight and his forefathers'
She whisper'd low her witching rhymes, That in size and shape they are just like
Fame unreluctant heard the charm,
And bore thee to Pierian climes !
Fear thou no more the Matin Frost
That sparkled on thy bed of snow :
For there, mid laurels ever green, There have sat in the night for an hour
Immortal thou shalt blow. or so, Before sunrise, and after cock-crow
4 (Ile kicking his heels, she cursing her corns,
Thy petals boast a white more soft, All to the tune of the wind in their | The spell hath so perfumed thee, horns),
That careless Love shall deem thee oft The Devil and his Grannam,
A blossom from his Myrtle tree. With the snow-drift to fan 'em; Then laughing o'er the fair deceit Expecting and hoping the trumpet to Shall race with some Etesian wind blow;
To seek the woven arboret For they are cock-sure of the fellow Where Laura lies reclin'd. below!
5 All them whom Love and Fancy grace,
When grosser eyes are clos'd in sleep, THE SNOW-DROP
The gentle spirits of the place
Waft up the insuperable steep, [A FRAGMENT]
On whose vast summit broad and smooth
Her nest the Phoenix Bird conceals,
And where by cypresses o’erhung
The heavenly Lethe steals.
6 shower, The silence of the freezing night! A sea-like sound the branches breathe, Since Laura murmur'd o'er thy leaves Stirr'd by the Breeze that loiters there ; The potent sorceries of song,
And all that stretch their limbs beneath, To thee, meek Flowret! gentler gales Forget the coil of mortal care. And cloudless skies belong.
Strange mists along the margins rise,
To heal the guests who thither come, 2
And fit the soul to re-endure
Its earthly martyrdom.
Who late and lingering seeks thy ON REVISITING THE SEA-SHORE
On him but seldom, Power divine, AFTER LONG ABSENCE, UNDER STRONG MEDICAL RECOMMENDATION NOT
Thy spirit rests ! Satiety TO BATHE
And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee,
Mock the tired worldling. Idle Hope God be with thee, gladsome Ocean !
And dire Remembrance interlope, How gladly greet I thee once more ! To vex the feverish slumbers of the Ships and waves, and ceaseless motion,
mind : And men rejoicing on thy shore. The bubble floats before, the spectre
But me thy gentle hand will lead
At morning through the accustomed But my soul fulfilled her mission,
mead; And low! I breathe untroubled
And in the sultry summer's heat breath!
Will build me up a mossy seat ; Fashion's pining sons and daughters,
And when the gust of Autumn crowds, That seek the crowd they seem to fly,
And breaks the busy moonlight clouds, Trembling they approach thy waters;
Thou best the thought canst raise, the And what cares Nature, if they die?
Light as the busy clouds, calm as the Me a thousand hopes and pleasures,
gliding moon. A thousand recollections bland, Thoughts sublime, and stately measures, The feeling heart, the searching soul, Revisit on thy echoing strand :
To thee I dedicate the whole !
And while within myself I trace Dreams (the Soul herself forsaking),
The greatness of some future race, Tearful raptures, boyish mirth ;
Aloof with hermit-eye I scan Silent adorations, making
The present works of present manA blessed shadow of this Earth!
A wild and dream - like trade of blood O ye hopes, that stir within me,
and guile, Health comes with you from above
Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a God is with me, God is in me !
1801. I cannot die, if Life be Love. August 1801.
DEJECTION : AN ODE
WRITTEN APRIL 4, 1802
Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,
With the old Moon in her arms;
Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence.
I To thee I gave my early youth, And left the bark, and blest the steadfast Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, shore,
who made Ere yet the tempest rose and scared me The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick with its roar.
This night, so tranquil now, will not And those thin clouds above, in flakes go hence
and bars, Unroused by winds, that ply a busier That give away their motion to the stars; trade
Those stars, that glide behind them or Than those which mould yon cloud in
between, lazy flakes,
Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans
always seen : and rakes
Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it Upon the strings of this Æolian
In its own cloudless, starless lake of Which better far were mute.
And what can these avail
To lift the smothering weight from off And oh! that even now the gust were swelling,
It were a vain endeavour,
On that green light that lingers in the Those sounds which oft have raised me,
west : whilst they awed,
I may not hope from outward forms to And sent my soul abroad,
win Might now perhaps their wonted impulse The passion and the life, whose fountains give,
O Lady! we receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does Nature live: A grief without a pang, void, dark, and Ours is her wedding garment, ours her drear,
shroud ! A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, , And would we aught behold, of higher Which finds no natural outlet, no
Than that inanimate cold world allowed rd, or sigh, or tear
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd, O Lady! in this wan and heartless Ah ! from the soul itself must issue mood,
Enveloping the Earth-
birth, an eye!
Of all sweet sounds the life and element!