A POET-He hath put his heart to school, Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff Which Art hath lodged within his hand—must laugh By precept only, and shed tears by rule. Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff, And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool, In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph. How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free
Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold; And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree
Comes not by casting in a formal mould But from its own divine vitality.
XLVIII. THE PINE OF MONTE MARIO AT ROME.
I SAW far off the dark top of a Pine
Look like a cloud-a slender stem the tie
That bound it to its native earth-poised high 'Mid evening hues, along the horizon line, Striving in peace each other to outshine. But when I learned the Tree was living there Saved from the sordid axe by Beaumont's care, Oh, what a gush of tenderness was mine! The rescued Pine-tree, with its sky so bright And cloud-like beauty, rich in thoughts of home, Death-parted friends, and days too swift in flight, Supplanted the whole majesty of Rome
(Then first apparent from the Pincian Height) Crowned with St. Peter's everlasting Dome.
XLIX. TO THE MEMORY OF RAISLEY CALVERT.
CALVERT! it must not be unheard by them Who may respect my name, that I to thee Owed many years of early liberty.
This care was thine when sickness did condemn Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem- That I, if frugal and severe, might stray Where'er I liked; and finally array My temples with the Muse's diadem.
Hence, if in freedom I have loved the truth; If there be aught of pure, or good, or great, In my past verse; or shall be, in the lays Of higher mood which now I meditate ;— It gladdens me, O worthy, short-lived Youth! To think how much of this will be thy praise.
L.-TO ROTHA QUILLINAN.
ROTHA, my Spiritual Child! this head was grey When at the sacred font for thee I stood : Pledged till thou reach the verge of womanhood, And shalt become thy own sufficient stay: Too late, I feel, sweet Orphan! was the day For steadfast hope the contract to fulfil; Yet shall my blessing hover o'er thee still, Embodied in the music of this Lay,
Breathed forth beside the peaceful mountain Stream1 Whose murmur soothed thy languid Mother's ear After her throes, this Stream of name more dear Since thou dost bear it,—a memorial theme
For others; for thy future self, a spell
To summon fancies out of Time's dark cell.
1 The river Rotha, that flows into Windermere from the Lakes of Grasmere and Rydal.
THERE'S not a nook within this solemn Pass, But were an apt confessional for One
Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, That Life is but a tale of morning grass
Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,
Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy Guest, If from a golden perch of aspen spray (October's workmanship to rival May) The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!
LII.-COMPOSED ON A MAY MORNING, 1838.
LIFE with yon Lambs, like day, is just begun, Yet Nature seems to them a heavenly guide. Does joy approach? they meet the coming tide, And sullenness avoid, as now they shun Pale twilight's lingering glooms and in the sun Couch near their dams, with quiet satisfied; Or gambol-each with his shadow at his side, Varying its shape wherever he may run. As they from turf yet hoar with sleepy dew All turn, and court the shining and the green, Where herbs look up and opening flowers are seen, Why to God's goodness cannot we be true? And so, His gifts and promises between, Feed to the last on pleasures ever new?
SEE what gay wild flowers deck this earth-built Cot, Whose smoke, forth-issuing whence and how it may, Shines in the greeting of the sun's first ray
Like wreaths of vapour without stain or blot. The limpid mountain rill avoids it not,
And why shouldst thou?—If rightly trained and bred, Humanity is humble, finds no spot
Which her Heaven-guided feet refuse to tread. The walls are cracked, sunk is the flowery roof, Undressed the pathway leading to the door. But love, as Nature loves, the lonely Poor!
Search, for their worth, some gentle heart wrong-proof, Meek, patient, kind,—and, were its trials fewer, Belike less happy.-Stand no more aloof!
"THERE!" said a Stripling, pointing with meet pride Towards a low roof with green trees half concealed, "Is Mosgiel Farm; and that's the very field
Where Burns ploughed up the Daisy." Far and wide A plain below stretched seaward, while, descried Above sea-clouds, the Peaks of Arran rose ; And, by that simple notice, the repose Of earth, sky, sea, and air, was vivified. Beneath "the random bield of clod or stone" Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away; less happy than the One That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.
WHO HAD PAINTED MRS. WORDSWORTH'S PORTRAIT.
ALL praise the Likeness by thy skill pourtrayed;
But 'tis a fruitless task to paint for me,
Who, yielding not to changes Time has made,
By the habitual light of memory see
Eyes unbedimmed, see bloom that cannot fade, And smiles that from their birth-place ne'er shall flee Into the land where ghosts and phantoms be; And, seeing this, own nothing in its stead. Couldst thou go back into far distant years, Or share with me, fond thought! that inward eye, Then, and then only, Painter ! could thy Art The visual powers of Nature satisfy,
Which hold, whate'er to common sight appears, Their sovereign empire in a faithful heart.
LVI.-ON THE SAME SUBJECT.
THOUGH I beheld at first with blank surprise This Work, I now have gazed on it so long I see its truth with unreluctant eyes; O, my Beloved! I have done thee wrong, Conscious of blessedness, but, whence it sprung, Ever too heedless, as I now perceive : Morn into noon did pass, noon into eve, And the old day was welcome as the young, As welcome, and as beautiful-in sooth More beautiful, as being a thing more holy : Thanks to thy virtues, to the eternal youth Of all thy goodness, never melancholy; To thy large heart and humble mind, that cast Into one vision, future, present, past.
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