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IO

Hath quaff'd its fill of Nature's loveli- | But ancient Skiddaw green and high 40 ness,

Ileard 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

ing):

• 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,
With such strong magic, that I cried And hence I know her soul is free,
aloud,

She is where'er she wills to be,
• Thou ancient Skiddaw by thy helm of Unfetter'd by mortality!
cloud,

Now to the “haunted beach ” can fly,
And by thy many-colour'd chasms deep, Beside the threshold scourged with
And by their
shadows that for ever sleep,

waves,
By yon small flaky mists that love to Now where the maniac wildly raves,
creep

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
And by yon shepherds with their The presence of her spirit !
sheep,

To me too might belong
And dogs and boys, a gladsome crowd, The honour of her song and witching
That rush even now with clamour

melody,
loud

Which most resembles me,
Sudden from forth thy topmost cloud, Soft, various, and sublime,
And by this laugh, and by this tear,

Exempt from wrongs of Time!'
I would, old Skiddaw, she were here!
A lady of sweet song is she,

Thus spake the mighty Mount, and I
Her soft blue eye was made for thee!

Made answer, with a deep-drawn O ancient Skiddaw, by this tear,

sigh :

69 I would, I would that she were here!'

Thou ancient Skiddaw, by this tear,

I would, I would that she were here!' Then ancient Skiddaw, stern and proud,

November 1800.

tik rep In sullen majesty replying, Thus spake from out his helm of cloud

30
(His voice was like an echo dying !):-

THE MAD MONK
“She dwells belike in scenes more fair,
And scorns a mount so bleak and bare.' I HEARD a voice from Etna's side;

Where o’er a cavern's mouth
I only sigh'd when this I heard,

That fronted to the south
Such mournful thoughts within me stirr'd | A chesnut spread its umbrage wide :
That all my heart was faint and weak, A hermit or a monk the man might be ;
So sorely was I troubled!

But him I could not see:
No laughter wrinkled on my cheek,

And thus the music flow'd along,
But O the tears were doubled !

In melody most like to old Sicilian song:

20

THE TWO ROUND SPACES ON THE TOMBSTONE

157

161 4 29TWO ROUND SPACES ON THE TOMBSTONE

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

dead !!

JO

“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 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.

1801.

а

THE TWO ROUND SPACES ON

THE TOMBSTONE

20

[As printed in Niorning Post, Dec. 4, 1800.]

'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, Whose colours to a murder'd maiden's

blood
Such sad resemblance wear ?

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.

30

Ho! ho! brother Bard, in our church

yard
Both beds and bolsters are soft and

green;
Save one alone, and that's of stone,

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

mine!
For Oh, thou maid divine,

I lov'd to agony !
The youth whom thou call'd'st thine

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,
This Scotchman complete
(The Devil scotch him for a snake!),
I trust he lies in his grave awake.

Is it the stormy clouds above

That flash'd so red a gleam ?
On yonder

downward trickling stream?

40 'Tis not the blood of her I love...

20

30

On the sixth of January,

The spirit's eager sympathy,
When all around is white with snow Now trembled with thy trembling stem
As a Cheshire yeoman's dairy, And while thou droopedst o'er thy bed
Brother Bard, ho! ho! believe it, With sweet unconscious sympathy
or no,

Inclin'd the drooping head.
On that stone tomb to you I'll show
After sunset, and before cock-crow,

3
Two round spaces clear of snow.

She droop'd her head, she stretch'd her I swear by our Knight and his forefathers'

arm, souls,

She whisper'd low her witching rhymes, That in size and shape they are just like

Fame unreluctant heard the charm,
the holes

And bore thee to Pierian climes !
In the large house of privity

Fear thou no more the Matin Frost
Of that ancient family,

That sparkled on thy bed of snow :
On those two places clear 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 I

Her nest the Phoenix Bird conceals,

And where by cypresses o’erhung FEAR thou no more, thou timid Flower !

The heavenly Lethe steals.

40 Fear thou no more the winter's might, The whelming thaw, the ponderous

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
Her eye with tearful meanings fraught,

Its earthly martyrdom.
My fancy saw her gaze on thee :
Interpreting the spirit's thought,

MS.

? 1800.

IO

*

*

Who late and lingering seeks thy ON REVISITING THE SEA-SHORE

shrine, AFTER LONG ABSENCE, UNDER STRONG

On him but seldom, Power divine, 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

stalks behind. Dissuading spake the mild Physician, • Those briny waves for thee

are

But me thy gentle hand will lead Death !'

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

heart attune, 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 !

smile!

1801. I cannot die, if Life be Love. August 1801.

DEJECTION : AN ODE
ODE TO TRANQUILLITY

WRITTEN APRIL 4, 1802
TRANQUILLITY! thou better name

Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,
Than all the family of Fame !

With the old Moon in her arms;
Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age And I fear, I fear, my Master dear!
To low intrigue, or factious rage ; We shall have a deadly storm.
For oh ! dear child of thoughtful

Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence.
Truth,

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.

Spence,

go hence

II

III

This night, so tranquil now, will not And those thin clouds above, in flakes

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 bedimmel, 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

grew lute,

In its own cloudless, starless lake of Which better far were mute.

blue; For lo! the New-moon winter-bright! I see them all so excellently fair, And overspread with phantom light, I see, not feel, how beautiful they are ! (With swimming phantom light o'er

spread But rimmed and circled by a silver

thread) I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling My genial spirits fail ; The coming-on of rain and squally And what can these avail

40 blast.

To lift the smothering weight from off And oh ! that even now the gust were

my breast ? swelling,

It were a vain endeavour, And the slant night-shower driving Though I should gaze for ever loud and fast !

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

are within. Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live !

IV

give,

20

II

A grief without a pang, void, dark, and

drear, A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, Which finds no natural outlet, no

relief,

In word, or sigh, or tear-
O Lady! in this wan and heartless

mood,
To other thoughts by yonder throstle

woo'd, All this long eve, so balmy and serene, Have I been gazing on the western sky,

And its peculiar tint of yellow green: And still I gaze--and with how blank

an eye!

O Lady! we receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does Nature live:
Ours is her wedding garment, ours her

shroud!
And would we aught behold, of higher
worth,

50 Than that inanimate cold world

allowed To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd, Ah ! from the soul itself must issue

forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud

Enveloping the Earth-
And from the soul itself must there be

sent
A sweet and potent voice, of its own

birth, Of all sweet sounds the life and element!

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