Immagini della pagina
PDF
ePub

He makes his summer couch, and here at noon
Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unshorn, the Sheep,
Panting beneath the burthen of their wool,
Lie round him, even as if they were a part

Of his own Household: nor, while from his bed
He through that door-place looks toward the lake
And to the stirring breezes, does he want
Creations lovely as the work of sleep,
Fair sights and visions of romantic joy!

-

VI.

WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL ON A STONE, ON THE SIDE OF

THE MOUNTAIN OF BLACK COMB.

STAY, bold Adventurer; rest awhile thy limbs
On this commodious Seat! for much remains
Of hard ascent before thou reach the top
Of this huge Eminence, - from blackness named,
And, to far-travelled storms of sea and land,
A favourite spot of tournament and war!
But thee may no such boisterous visitants
Molest; may gentle breezes fan thy brow;
And neither cloud conceal, nor misty air
Bedim, the grand terraqueous spectacle,
From centre to circumference, unveiled!
Know, if thou grudge not to prolong thy rest,
That on the summit whither thou art bound,
A geographic Labourer pitched his tent,
With books supplied and instruments of art,
To measure height and distance; lonely task,
Week after week pursued!—To him was given

Full many a glimpse (but sparingly bestowed
On timid man) of Nature's processes
Upon the exalted hills. He made report
That once, while there he plied his studious work
Within that canvass Dwelling, suddenly

The many-coloured map before his eyes
Became invisible: for all around

Had darkness fallen -- unthreatened, unproclaimed
As if the golden day itself had been
Extinguished in a moment; total gloom,
In which he sate alone, with unclosed eyes,
Upon the blinded mountain's silent top!

See Vol. II. p. 11.

VII.

WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL UPON A STONE, THE LARGEST

OF A HEAP LYING NEAR A DESERTED QUARRY, UPON One of THE ISLANDS AT RYDAL.

STRANGER! this hillock of mis-shapen stones

Is not a Ruin of the ancient time,

Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the Cairn
Of some old British Chief: 'tis nothing more
Than the rude embryo of a little Dome

Or Pleasure-house, once destined to be built
Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle.
But, as it chanced, Sir William having learned
That from the shore a full-grown man might wade,
And make himself a freeman of this spot

At any hour he chose, the Knight forthwith
Desisted, and the quarry and the mound
Are monuments of his unfinished task.

The block on which these lines are traced, perhaps,
Was once selected as the corner-stone

Of the intended Pile, which would have been
Some quaint odd plaything of elaborate skill,
So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush,
And other little builders who dwell here,
Had wondered at the work. But blame him not,
For old Sir William was a gentle Knight,
Bred in this vale, to which he appertained
With all his ancestry. Then peace to him,
And for the outrage which he had devised
Entire forgiveness! — But if thou art one
On fire with thy impatience to become
An inmate of these mountains,

- if, disturbed By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn Out of the quiet rock the elements

Of thy trim Mansion destined soon to blaze

In snow-white splendour, - think again, and, taught
By old Sir William and his quarry, leave
Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose;
There let the vernal Slow-worm sun himself,
And let the Redbreast hop from stone to stone.

VIII.

INSCRIPTIONS SUPPOSED TO BE FOUND IN AND NEAR A HERMIT'S CELL.

[merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small]

What are fears but voices airy?
Whispering harm where harm is not;
And deluding the unwary

Till the fatal bolt is shot!

What is glory?—in the socket

See how dying tapers fare!

What is pride? — a whizzing rocket

That would emulate a star.

What is friendship?

-do not trust her,

Nor the vows which she has made;
Diamonds dart their brightest lustre
From a palsy-shaken head.

What is truth? - a staff rejected;
Duty? an unwelcome clog;

[ocr errors]

Joy? -a moon by fits reflected
In a swamp or watery bog;

Bright, as if through ether steering,
To the Traveller's eye it shone:
He hath hailed it re-appearing —
And as quickly it is gone;

Gone, as if for ever hidden,
Or mis-shapen to the sight,
And by sullen weeds forbidden
To resume its native light.

What is youth? — a dancing billow, (Winds behind, and rocks before!) Age? a drooping, tottering willow

On a flat and lazy shore.

[blocks in formation]

PAUSE, Traveller! whosoe'er thou be
Whom chance may lead to this retreat,
Where silence yields reluctantly
Even to the fleecy straggler's bleat;

« IndietroContinua »