A corner-stone by lightning cut, The last stone of a cottage hut; And in this dell you see
A thing no storm can e'er destroy, The Shadow of a Danish Boy.
In clouds above, the Lark is heard, But drops not here to earth for rest; Within this lonesome nook the Bird Did never build her nest.
No Beast, no Bird hath here his home; Bees, wafted on the breezy air, Pass high above those fragrant bells To other flowers;-to other dells Their burthens do they bear;
The Danish Boy walks here alone: The lovely dell is all his own.
A Spirit of noon-day is he;
He seems a Form of flesh and blood; Nor piping Shepherd shall he be, Nor Herd-boy of the wood. A regal vest of fur he wears, In colour like a raven's wing;
It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew; But in the storm 't is fresh and blue As budding pines in Spring; His helmet has a vernal grace, Fresh as the bloom upon his face.
A harp is from his shoulder slung; He rests the harp upon his knee; And there, in a forgotten tongue, He warbles melody.
Of flocks upon the neighbouring hill He is the darling and the joy; And often, when no cause appears, The mountain ponies prick their ears, -They hear the Danish Boy, While in the dell he sits alone Beside the tree and corner-stone.
There sits he: in his face you spy No trace of a ferocious air, Nor ever was a cloudless sky So steady or so fair.
The lovely Danish Boy is blest
And happy in his flowery cove:
From bloody deeds his thoughts are far; And yet he warbles songs of war,
That seem like songs of love, For calm and gentle is his mien; Like a dead Boy he is serene.
OR, THE STAR AND THE GLOW-WORM.
A PILGRIM, when the summer day Had closed upon his weary way, A lodging begged beneath a castle's roof; But him the haughty Warder spurned;
These Stanzas were designed to introduce a Ballad upon the Story of a Danish Prince who had fled from Battle, and for the sake of the valuables about him, was murdered by the Inhabitant of a Cottage in which he had taken refuge. The House fell under a curse, and the Spirit of the Youth, it was believed, haunted the Valley where the crime had been committed.
« Stranger, 't is no act of courage Which aloft thou dost discern; No bold bird gone forth to forage
Mid the tempest stern;
But such mockery as the Nations See, when public perturbations Lift men from their native stations, Like yon TUFT OF FERN;
« Such it is;—the aspiring Creature Soaring on undaunted wing, (So you fancied) is by nature
A dull helpless Thing,
Dry and withered, light and yellow;— That to be the tempest's fellow! Wait-and you shall see how hollow Its endeavouring!»>
-- Pleasure is spread through the earth
In stray gifts, to be claimed by whoever shall find.
By their floating Mill,
That lies dead and still,
Behold yon Prisoners three,
The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the Thames! The Platform is small, but gives room for them all; And they 're dancing merrily.
From the shore come the notes
To their Mill where it floats,
To their House and their Mill tethered fast;
To the small wooden Isle where, their work to beguile, They from morning to even take whatever is given;And many a blithe day they have past.
In sight of the Spires,
All alive with the fires
Of the Sun going down to his rest,
In the broad open eye of the solitary sky,
They dance, there are three, as jocund as free, While they dance on the calm river's breast.
Man and Maidens wheel,
They themselves make the Reel,
And their Music's a prey which they seize; It plays not for them,-what matter? 't is theirs; And if they had care, it has scattered their cares, While they dance, crying, « Long as ye please!»>
They dance not for me,
Yet mine is their glee!
Thus pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find; Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind, Moves all nature to gladness and mirth.
The Showers of the Spring
Rouse the Birds, and they sing;
If the Wind do but stir for his proper delight, Each Leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss; Each Wave, one and t'other, speeds after his brother; They are happy, for that is their right!
ON SEEING A NEEDLECASE IN THE FORM OF A HARP,
THE WORK OF E. M. S.
FROWNS are on every Muse's face, Reproaches from their lips are sent, That mimickry should thus disgrace The noble Instrument.
A very Harp in all but size!
Needles for strings in apt gradation! Minerva's self would stigmatize
The unclassic profanation.
Even her own Needle that subdued Arachne's rival spirit,
Though wrought in Vulcan's happiest mood, Like station could not merit.
And this, too, from the Laureate's Child, A living Lord of melody!
How will her Sire be reconciled
To the refined indignity?
I spake, when whispered a low voice, «Bard! moderate your ire; Spirits of all degrees rejoice In presence of the Lyre.
<< The Minstrels of Pygmean bands, Dwarf Genii, moonlight-loving Fays, Have shells to fit their tiny hands And suit their slender lays.
Mild Offspring of infirm humanity, Meek Infant! among all forlornest things The most forlorn, one life of that bright Star, The second glory of the heavens?—Thou hast : Already hast survived that great decay; That transformation through the wide earth felt, And by all nations. In that Being's sight From whom the Race of human kind proceed, A thousand years are but as yesterday; And one day's narrow circuit is to him Not less capacious than a thousand years. But what is time? What outward glory? neither A measure is of Thee, whose claims extend Through heaven's eternal year.»-Yet hail to Thee, Frail, feeble Monthling!-by that name, methinks, Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out Not idly.-Hadst thou been of Indian birth, Couched on a casual bed of moss and leaves, And rudely canopied by leafy boughs, Or to the churlish elements exposed On the blank plains,—the coldness of the night, Or the night's darkness, or its cheerful face Of beauty, by the changing Moon adorned, Would, with imperious admonition, then Have scored thine age, and punctually timed
Thine infant history, on the minds of those Who might have wandered with thee.-Mother's love, Nor less than Mother's love in other breasts, Will, among us warm clad and warmly housed, Do for thee what the finger of the heavens Doth all too often harshly execute For thy unblest Coevals, amid wilds Where fancy hath small liberty to grace The affections, to exalt them or refine; And the maternal sympathy itself, Though strong, is, in the main, a joyless tie Of naked instinct, wound about the heart. Happier, far happier is thy lot and ours! Even now-to solemnize thy helpless state, And to enliven in the mind's regard Thy passive beauty-parallels have risen, Resemblances, or contrasts, that connect, Within the region of a Father's thoughts, Thee and thy Mate and Sister of the sky. And first;-thy sinless progress, through a world By sorrow darkened and by care disturbed, Apt likeness bears to hers, through gathered clouds, Moving untouched in silver purity,
Fair are ye both, and both are free from stain: And cheering oft-times their reluctant gloom. But thou, how leisurely thou fill'st thy horn With brightness!-leaving her to post along, And range about-disquieted in change, And still impatient of the shape she wears. Once up, once down the hill, one journey, Babe, That will suffice thee; and it seems that now Thou hast fore-knowledge that such task is thine; Thou travell'st so contentedly, and sleep'st In such a heedless peace. Alas! full soon Hath this conception, grateful to behold, Changed countenance, like an object sullied o'er By breathing mist; and thine appears to be A mournful labour, while to her is given Hope-and a renovation without end.
-That smile forbids the thought;-for on thy face Smiles are beginning, like the beams of dawn,
To shoot and circulate;-smiles have there been seen,- Tranquil assurances that Heaven supports The feeble motions of thy life, and cheers Thy loneliness;-or shall those smiles be called Feelers of love,-put forth as if to explore This untried world, and to prepare thy way Through a strait passage intricate and dim? Such are they, and the same are tokens, signs, Which, when the appointed season hath arrived, Joy, as her holiest language, shall adopt; And Reason's godlike Power be proud to own.
Poems of the Imagination.
THERE was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye Cliffs And islands of Winander!-many a time, At evening, when the earliest stars began To move along the edges of the hills, Rising or setting, would he stand alone, Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake; And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands
Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,
That they might answer him.—And they would shout Across the watery vale, and shout again, Responsive to his call,-with quivering peals, And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud
Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild
Of mirth and jocund din! And, when it chanced That pauses of deep silence mocked his skill, Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise Hlas carried far into his heart the voice Of mountain torrents; or the visible scene Would enter unawares into his mind With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,
Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received Into the bosom of the steady lake.
This Boy was taken from his Mates, and died In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. Fair is the spot, most beautiful the Vale
Where he was born: the grassy Church-yard hangs Upon a slope above the village-school;
And through that Church-yard when my way has led At evening, I believe, that oftentimes
A long half-hour together I have stood Mute-looking at the grave in which he lies!
ON HER FIRST ASCENT TO THE SUMMIT OF HELVELLYN.
INMATE of a mountain Dwelling, Thou hast clomb aloft, and gazed, From the watch-towers of Helvellyn; Awed, delighted, and amazed!
Potent was the spell that bound thee Not unwilling to obey;
For blue Ether's arms, flung round thee, Stilled the pantings of dismay.
Lo the dwindled woods and meadows! What a vast abyss is there!
Lo! the clouds, the solemn shadows, And the glistenings-heavenly fair!
And a record of commotion Which a thousand ridges yield; Ridge, and gulf, and distant ocean Gleaming like a silver shield!
-Take thy flight;-possess, inherit Alps or Andes-they are thine! With the morning's roseate Spirit, Sweep their length of snowy line;
Or survey the bright dominions In the gorgeous colours drest, Flung from off the purple pinions, Evening spreads throughout the west! Thine are all the choral fountains Warbling in each sparry vault Of the untrodden lunar mountains; Listen to their songs!-or halt,
To Niphate's top invited, Whither spiteful Satan steered; Or descend where the ark alighted, When the green earth re-appeared; For the power of hills is on thee, As was witnessed through thine eye Then, when old Helvellyn won thee To confess their majesty!
At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam
Startles the pensive traveller while he treads
His lonesome path, with unobserving eye
Bent earthwards: he looks up-the clouds are split
Asunder, and above his head he sees
The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. There, in a black blue vault she sails along, Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss Drive as she drives;-how fast they wheel away, Yet vanish not!-the wind is in the tree, But they are silent;-still they roll along Immeasurably distant;-and the vault,
Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, Still deepens its unfathomable depth.
MARK how the feathered tenants of the flood, With grace of motion that might scarcely seem Inferior to angelical, prolong
Their curious pastime! shaping in mid air (And sometimes with ambitious wing that soars High as the level of the mountain tops) A circuit ampler than the lake beneath, Their own domain;-but ever, while intent On tracing and retracing that large round, Their jubilant activity evolves
Hundreds of curves and circlets, to and fro, Upward and downward, progress intricate Yet unperplexed, as if one spirit swayed Their indefatigable flight. -T is done- Ten times, or more, I fancied it had ceased; But lo! the vanished company again Ascending; they approach-I hear their wings Faint, faint at first; and then an eager sound Past in a moment-and as faint again! They tempt the sun to sport amid their plumes; They tempt the water, or the gleaming ice, To shew them a fair image ;- 't is themselves, Their own fair forms, upon the glimmering plain, Painted more soft and fair as they descend Almost to touch;-then up again aloft, Up with a sally and a flash of speed,
As if they scorned both resting-place and rest!
THERE is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, Which to this day stands single, in the midst Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore, Not loth to furnish weapons for the Bands Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched
To Scotland's Heaths; or those that crossed the Sea
And drew their sounding bows at Azincour, Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.
Of vast circumference and gloom profound This solitary Tree!—a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay; Of form and aspect too magnificent
To be destroyed. But worthier still of note Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale, Joined in one solemn and capacious grove; Huge trunks!-and each particular trunk a growth Of intertwisted fibres serpentine Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved,- Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and looks That threaten the profane;-a pillared shade, Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue, By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged Perennially-beneath whose sable roof
Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked With unrejoicing berries, ghostly Shapes May meet at noontide-Fear and trembling Hope, Silence and Foresight-Death the Skeleton, And Time the Shadow,-there to celebrate,
As in a natural temple scattered o'er With altars undisturbed of mossy stone, United worship; or in mute repose
To lie, and listen to the mountain flood Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.
VIEW FROM THE TOP OF BLACK COMB. THIS Height a ministering Angel might select: For from the summit of BLACK COMB (dread name Derived from clouds and storms!) the amplest range Of unobstructed prospect may be seen That British ground commands:-low dusky tracts, Where Trent is nursed, far southward! Cambrian Hills To the south-west, a multitudinous show; And, in a line of eye-sight linked with these, The hoary Peaks of Scotland that give birth To Tiviot's Stream, to Annan, Tweed, and Clyde ;- Crowding the quarter whence the sun comes forth Gigantic Mountains rough with crags; beneath, Right at the imperial Station's western base, Main Ocean, breaking audibly, and stretched Far into silent regions blue and pale;- And visibly engirding Mona's Isle That, as we left the Plain, before our sight Stood like a lofty Mount, uplifting slowly, (Above the convex of the watery globe) Into clear view the cultured fields that streak Her habitable shores; but now appears A dwindled object, and submits to lie At the Spectator's feet.-Yon azure Ridge, Is it a perishable cloud? Or there
Do we behold the frame of Erin's Coast? Land sometimes by the roving shepherd swain (Like the bright confines of another world) Not doubtfully perceived.—Look homeward now! In depth, in height, in circuit, how serene The spectacle, how pure!-Of Nature's works, In earth, and air, and earth-embracing sea, A revelation infinite it seems;
Display august of man's inheritance, Of Britain's calm felicity and power.
NUTTING.
-It seems a day,
(I speak of one from many singled out) One of those heavenly days which cannot die; When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, I left our Cottage-threshold, sallying forth With a huge wallet o'er my shoulder slung, A nutting-crook in hand, and turned my steps Towards the distant woods, a Figure quaint, Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds Which for that service had been husbanded, By exhortation of my frugal Dame. Motley accoutrement, of power to smile
Black Comb stands at the southern extremity of Cumberland : its base covers a much greater extent of ground than any other monntain in these parts; and, from its situation, the summit commands a more extensive view than any other point in Britain.
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