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!
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!
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.
INSCRIPTIONS SUPPOSED TO BE FOUND IN AND NEAR A HERMIT'S CELL.
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.
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;
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.
PAUSE, Traveller! whosoe'er thou be Whom chance may lead to this retreat, Where silence yields reluctantly Even to the fleecy straggler's bleat;
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