Hath quaff'd its fill of Nature's loveli

ness,

Yet still beside the fountain's marge will stay

But ancient Skiddaw green and high 40 Heard and understood my sigh;

And now, in tones less stern and rude, As if he wish'd to end the feud,

quaff;

Then when the tear, slow travelling on

ing):

Nay, but thou dost not know her might,
The pinions of her soul how strong!
But many a stranger in my height
Hath sung to me her magic song,
Sending forth his ecstasy

In her divinest melody,
And hence I know her soul is free,
She is where'er she wills to be,
Unfetter'd by mortality!

50

Now to the "haunted beach" can fly, Beside the threshold scourged with waves,

Now where the maniac wildly raves, "Pale moon, thou spectre of the sky!" No wind that hurries o'er my height Can travel with so swift a flight. I too, methinks, might merit The presence of her spirit! To me too might belong

60

The honour of her song and witching melody,

Which most resembles me,

Soft, various, and sublime,
Exempt from wrongs of Time!'

Thus spake the mighty Mount, and I Made answer, with a deep - drawn sigh:

69

Thou ancient Skiddaw, by this tear, I would, I would that she were here!' November 1800.

THE MAD MONK

I HEARD a voice from Etna's side;
Where o'er a cavern's mouth
That fronted to the south

A chesnut spread its umbrage wide:
A hermit or a monk the man might be ;
But him I could not see:

And thus the music flow'd along,

In melody most like to old Sicilian song:

On the sixth of January,
When all around is white with snow
As a Cheshire yeoman's dairy,

Brother Bard, ho! ho! believe it,
or no,

On that stone tomb to you I'll show
After sunset, and before cock-crow,
Two round spaces clear of snow.

I swear by our Knight and his forefathers' souls,

That in size and shape they are just like the holes

In the large house of privity
Of that ancient family.

On those two places clear of snow
There have sat in the night for an hour

GOD be with thee, gladsome Ocean!
How gladly greet I thee once more!
Ships and waves, and ceaseless motion,
And men rejoicing on thy shore.
Dissuading spake the mild Physician,
'Those briny waves for thee are
Death!'

But my soul fulfilled her mission,

And low! I breathe untroubled breath!

Fashion's pining sons and daughters,

That seek the crowd they seem to fly, Trembling they approach thy waters;

And what cares Nature, if they die?

Me a thousand hopes and pleasures,

A thousand recollections bland, Thoughts sublime, and stately measures, Revisit on thy echoing strand : Dreams (the Soul herself forsaking), Tearful raptures, boyish mirth; Silent adorations, making

A blessed shadow of this Earth!

O ye hopes, that stir within me,
Health comes with you from above
God is with me, God is in me !
I cannot die, if Life be Love.
August 1801.

ODE TO TRANQUILLITY
TRANQUILLITY! thou better name
Than all the family of Fame !
Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age
To low intrigue, or factious rage;
For oh dear child of thoughtful
Truth,

To thee I gave my early youth,

And left the bark, and blest the steadfast

shore,

Ere yet the tempest rose and scared me. with its roar.

Who late and lingering seeks thy

shrine,

On him but seldom, Power divine,
Thy spirit rests! Satiety

And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee,
Mock the tired worldling. Idle Hope
And dire Remembrance interlope,
To vex the feverish slumbers of the
mind :

The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind.

But me thy gentle hand will lead
At morning through the accustomed
mead;

And in the sultry summer's heat
Will build me up a mossy seat;
And when the gust of Autumn crowds,
And breaks the busy moonlight clouds,
Thou best the thought canst raise, the
heart attune,

Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding moon.

The feeling heart, the searching soul,
To thee I dedicate the whole!
And while within myself I trace
The greatness of some future race,
Aloof with hermit-eye I scan

The present works of present man— A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile,

Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile!

DEJECTION: AN ODE

WRITTEN APRIL 4, 1802

1801.

Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,
With the old Moon in her arms;
And I fear, I fear, my Master dear!
We shall have a deadly storm.

Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence.

I

WELL! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made

The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick
Spence,

But rimmed and circled by a silver thread)

I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling The coming-on of rain and squally blast.

And oh that even now the gust were swelling,

And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast!

Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed,

And sent my soul abroad,

give,

are within.

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!

Enveloping the Earth

And from the soul itself must there be

sent