OUR walk was far among the ancient trees; There was no road, nor any woodman's path; But the thick umbrage, checking the wild growth Of weed and sapling, on the soft green turf Beneath the branches, of itself had made
A track, which brought us to a slip of lawn, And a small bed of water in the woods.
All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink On its firm margin, even as from a well,
Or some stone basin which the herdsman's hand Had shaped for their refreshment; nor did sun Or wind from any quarter ever come, But as a blessing, to this calm recess, This glade of water and this one green field. The spot was made by Nature for herself. The travellers know it not, and 'twill remain Unknown to them; but it is beautiful; And if a man should plant his cottage near, Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees. And blend its waters with his daily meal, He would so love it, that in his death hour Its image would survive among his thoughts: And therefore, my sweet Mary, this still nook, With all its beeches, we have named from you.
WHEN, to the attractions of the busy world, Preferring studious leisure, I had chosen A habitation in this peaceful vale,
Sharp season follow'd of continual storm In deepest winter; and, from week to week, Pathway, and lane, and public road were clogg'd With frequent showers of snow. Upon a hill At a short distance from my cottage, stands A stately fir-grove, whither I was wont To hasten, for I found, beneath the roof Of that perennial shade, a cloistral place Of refuge, with an unencumber'd floor. Here, in safe covert, on the shallow snow, And, sometimes, on a speck of visible earth, The redbreast near me hopp'd; nor was I loth To sympathize with vulgar coppice birds That, for protection from the nipping blast, Hither repair'd. A single beech-tree grew Within this grove of firs; and, on the fork Of that one beech, appear'd a thrush's nest; A last year's nest, conspicuously built
At such small elevation from the ground As gave sure sign that they, who in that house Of nature and of love had made their home Amid the fir-trees all the summer long
Dwelt in a tranquil spot. And oftentimes,
A few sheep, stragglers from some mountain flock, Would watch my motions with suspicious stare, From the remotest outskirts of the grove,- Some nook where they had made their final stand. Huddling together from two fears-the fear Of me and of the storm. Full many an hour Here did I lose. But in this grove the trees Had been so thickly planted, and had thriven In such perplex'd and intricate array, That vainly did I seek, between their stems, A length of open space,-where to and fro My feet might move without concern or care: And, baffled thus, before the storm relax'd, I ceased that shelter to frequent,-and prized Less than I wish'd to prize, that calm recess.
The snows dissolved, and genial spring return'd To clothe the fields with verdure. Other haunts Meanwhile were mine; till, one bright April day, By chance retiring from the glare of noon To this forsaken covert, there I found A hoary pathway traced between the trees, And winding on with such an easy line Along a natural opening, that I stood Much wondering at my own simplicity
How I could e'er have made a fruitless search For what was now so obvious. At the sight, Conviction also flash'd upon my mind That this same path (within the shady grove Begun and ended) by my brother's steps Had been impress'd. To sojourn a short while Beneath my roof, he from the barren seas Had newly come-a cherish'd visitant! And much did it delight me te perceive That to this opportune recess allured, He had survey'd it with a finer eye,
A heart more wakeful; that, more loth to part From place so lovely, he had worn the track By pacing here, unwearied and alone,
In that habitual restlessness of foot
With which the sailor measures o'er and c'er His short domain upon the vessel's deck,
While she is travelling through the dreary sea.
When thou hadst quitted Esthwaite's pleasant shore, And taken thy first leave of those green hills And rocks that were the playground of thy youth, Year follow'd year, my brother! and we two, Conversing not, knew little in what mould Each other's minds were fashion'd; and at length,
When once again we met in Grasmere Valo, Between us there was little other bond Than common feelings of fraternal love. But thou, a school-boy, to the sea hadst carrie Undying recollections. Nature there
Was with thee; she who loved us both, she still Was with thee; and even so didst thou become A silent poet; from the solitude
Of the vast sea didst bring a watchful heart Still couchant, an inevitable ear,
And an eye practised like a blind man's touch. Back to the joyless ocean thou art gone; And now I call the pathway by thy name, And love the fir-grove with a perfect love. Thither do I withdraw when cloudless suns Shine hot, or wind blows troublesome and strong: And there I sit at evening, when the steep Of Silver How, and Grasmere's placid lako, And one green island, gleam between the stems Of the dark firs, a visionary scene;
And, while I gaze upon the spectacle
Of clouded splendour, on this dream-like sight Of solemn loveliness, I think on thee,
My brother, and on all which thou hast lost. Nor seldom, if I rightly guess, while thou, Muttering the verses which I mutter'd first
Among the mountains, through the midnight watch Art pacing to and fro the vessel's deck
In some far region, here, while o'er my head, At every impulse of the moving breeze,
The fir-grove murmurs with a sea-like sound, Alone I tread this path-for aught I know, Timing my steps to thine; and, with a store Of undistinguishable sympathics,
Mingling most earnest wishes for the day When we, and others whom we love, shall meet A second time, in Grasmere's happy vale.*
WRITTEN WITH A SLATE-PENCIL, UPON A STONE, THE LARGEST OF A HEAP LYING NEAR A DESERTED QUARRY, UPON ONE OF THE ISLANDS AT RYDALE.
STRANGER! this hillock of misshapen 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
This wish was not granted; the lamented person, not long after, perished by ship wreck, in discharge of his duty, as commander of the Hon. East-India Company's vesse Le Earl of Abergavenny.
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 learn'd That from the shore a full-grown man might wado, 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 unfinish'd 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 wonder'd at the work. But blame him not, For old Sir William was a gentle knight Bred in this vale, to which he appertain'd 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, disturb'd 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.
WRITTEN WITH A SLATE-PENCIL, ON A STONE, ON THE SIDE OV THE MOUNTAIN OF BLACK COMB, CUMBERLAND.
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-travell'd storms of sea and land, A favourite spot of tournament and war! But thee may no such boist'rous visitants Molest; may gentle breezes fan thy brow: And neither cloud conceal, nor misty air Bedim, the grand terraqueous spectacle, From centre to circumference, unveil'd! Know, if thou grudge not to prolong thy rest, That, on the summit whither thou art bound, A geographic labourer pitch'd 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 bestow'd
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 canvas dwelling, suddenly
The many-colour'd map before his eyes Became invisible; for all around
Had darkness fallen-unthreaten'd, unproclaim'd- As if the golden day itself had been Extinguish'd in a moment; total gloom, In which he sate alone, with unclosed eyes, Upon the blinded mountain's silent top!
IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON, THE SEAT OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART., LEICESTERSHIRE.
TH' embowering rose, the acacia, and the pine, Will not unwillingly their place resign;
If but the cedar thrive that near them stands,
Planted by Beaumont's and by Wordsworth's hands. One woo'd the silent Art with studious pains,-
These groves have heard the other's pensive strains; Devoted thus, their spirits did unite
By interchange of knowledge and delight. May Nature's kindliest powers sustain the tree, And love protect it from all injury!
And when its potent branches, wide out-thrown, Darken the brow of this memorial stone, And to a favourite resting-place invite, For coolness grateful and a sober light; Here may some painter sit in future days, Some future Poet meditate his lays;
Not mindless of that distant age renown'd, When inspiration hover'd o'er this ground, The haunt of him who sang how spear and shield In civil conflict met on Bosworth field;
And of that famous youth,* full soon removed From earth, perhaps by Shakspeare's self approved, Fletcher's associate, Jonson's friend beloved.
IN A GARDEN OF THE SAME.
OFT is the medal faithful to its trust
When temples, columns, towers are laid in dust; And 'tis a common ordinance of fate
That things obscure and small outlive the great:. Hence, when yon mansion and the flowery trim Of this fair garden, and its alleys dim, And all its stately trees, are pass'd away, This little niche, unconscious of decay,
Perchance may still survive. And be it known That it was scoop'd within the living stone,-
Beaumont, the dramatic poet,
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