LVII.-IN SIGHT OF THE TOWN OF COCKERMOUTH.
(Where the Author was born, and his Father's remains are laid.)
A POINT of life between my Parents' dust, And yours, my buried Little-ones! am I ; And to those graves looking habitually In kindred quiet I repose my trust. Death to the innocent is more than just, And, to the sinner, mercifully bent; So may I hope, if truly I repent
And meekly bear the ills which bear I must: And You, my Offspring! that do still remain, Yet may outstrip me in the appointed race, If e'er, through fault of mine, in mutual pain We breathed together for a moment's space, The wrong, by love provoked, let love arraign, And only love keep in your hearts a place.
TRANQUILLITY! the sovereign aim wert thou In heathen schools of philosophic lore; Heart-stricken by stern destiny of yore
The Tragic Muse thee served with thoughtful vow; And what of hope Elysium could allow Was fondly seized by Sculpture, to restore
Peace to the Mourner. But when He, who wore The crown of thorns around His bleeding brow, Warmed our sad being with His glorious light, Then Arts, which still had drawn a softening grace From shadowy fountains of the Infinite, Communed with that Idea face to face; And move around it now, as planets run, Each in its orbit, round the central Sun.
Intended more particularly for the Perusal of those who may have happened to be enamoured of some beautiful Place of Retreat, in the Country of the Lakes.
YES, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!
-The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook
Hath stirred thee deeply; with its own dear brook,
Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!
But covet not the Abode ;-forbear to sigh, As many do, repining while they look ; Intruders-who would tear from Nature's book This precious leaf, with harsh impiety.
Think what the Home must be if it were thine,
Even thine, though few thy wants !-Roof, window, door, The very flowers are sacred to the Poor ;
The roses to the porch which they entwine.
Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day On which it should be touched, would melt away.
WANSFELL!' this Household has a favoured lot, Living with liberty on thee to gaze,
To watch while Morn first crowns thee with her rays, Or when along thy breast serenely float
Evening's angelic clouds. Yet ne'er a note Hath sounded (shame upon the Bard!) thy praise For all that thou, as if from heaven, hast brought Of glory lavished on our quiet days. Bountiful Son of Earth! when we are gone From every object dear to mortal sight, As soon we shall be, may these words attest How oft, to elevate our spirits, shone Thy visionary majesties of light,
How in thy pensive glooms our hearts found rest.
1 The Hill that rises to the south-east, above Ambleside,
IF Thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven, Shine, Poet, in thy place, and be content! The Star that from the zenith darts its beams, Visible though it be to half the Earth,
Though half a sphere be conscious of its brightness,
Is yet of no diviner origin,
No purer essence, than the One that burns,
Like an untended watch-fire, on the ridge
Of some dark mountain; or than those which seem Humbly to hang, like twinkling winter lamps, Among the branches of the leafless trees.
INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS
IN CALLING FORTH AND STRENGTHENING THE IMAGINATION IN BOYHOOD AND EARLY YOUTH.
WISDOM and Spirit of the Universe!
Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought! And givest to forms and images a breath And everlasting motion ! not in vain, By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me The passions that build up our human soul Not with the mean and vulgar works of man, But with high objects, with enduring things, With life and nature; purifying thus The elements of feeling and of thought, And sanctifying by such discipline Both pain and fear,—until we recognise A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me With stinted kindness. In November days, When vapours rolling down the valleys made A lonely scene more lonesome; among woods At noon; and mid the calm of summer nights, When, by the margin of the trembling Lake, Beneath the gloomy hills, I homeward went In solitude, such intercourse was mine:
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