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Thy harvest home, thy wassail

bowle, That's tost up after fox i’ th' hole, Thymummeries, thy twelf-tide

kings And queenes, thy Christmas revel

lings, Thy nut-browne mirth, thy russet

wit, And no man pays too deare for it: To these thou hast thy times to

goe, And trace the hare i’ th' treacherous

snow; Thy witty wiles to draw and get The larke into the trammel net; Thou hast thy cockrood and thy

glade To take the precious pheasant made; Thy lime-twigs, snares, and pit-falls

then To catch the pilfering birds, not O happy life! if that their good The husbandmen but understood; Who all the day themselves do

please, And younglings with such sports as

these; And, lying down, have nought to

affright Sweet sleep, that makes more short the night.


Ran cow and calf, and eke the very

hogges So feared were for barking of the

dogges. And shouting of the men and women

eke, They ronnen so, then thought hir

hertes breke. They yelleden as fendés don in

Helle: The dokès crieden as men wold hem

quelle: The gees for fere flewen over the

trees, Out of the hive came the swarme of

bees, So hideous was the noise, a bene

dicite! Certes he Jakke Straw, and his

meinie, Ne maden never shoutés half so

shrill, When that they wolden any Fleming

kill, As thilké day was made upon the fox. Of brass they broughten beemés

and of box, Of horn and bone, in which they

blew and pouped, And therwithal they shrieked and

they houped; It seemed, as the Heven shuldé

falle. CHAUCER: Nuns' Priest's Tale.







Now wol I turn unto my tale agen. The silly widow and her doughtren

two, Herden these hennés cry and maken

wo, And out of dorés sterten they anon, And saw the fox toward the wode is

gon, And bare upon his back the cock

away: They criden out! “Harow and wala

wa! A ha! the fox!” and after him they

ran, And eke with stavés many another

man; Ran Colle our dog, and Talbot, and

Gerlond; And Malkin, with her distaf in her


O THOU that swing'st upon the wav

ing ear Of some well-filled oaten beard, Drunk every night with a delicious

tear Dropt thee from heaven, where

now thou art reared.

The joys of earth and air are thine

entire That with thy feet and wings dost

hop and fly, And when thy poppy works thou

dost retire, To thy carved acorn-bed to lie.

are we,


of grass

Up with the day, the Sun thou wel Thus richer than untempted kings

com'st then, Sport'st in the gilt plaits of his That asking nothing, nothing beams,

need; And all these merry days mak'st Though lord of all what seas merry men

brace, yet he Thyself and melancholy streams. That wants himself is poor indeed.

RICHARD LOVELACE. But ah! the sickle! golden ears are

cropt; Ceres and Bacchus bid good-night;

TO JOANNA. Sharp frosty fingers all your flowers have topt,

As it befell, And what scythes spared winds One summer morning we had walked shave off quite.


At break of day, Joanna and myself. Poor verdant fool! and now green 'Twas that delightful season when ice, thy joys

the broom, Large and as lasting as thy perch Full-flowered, and visible on every

steep, Bid us lay in 'gainst winter rain, and Along the copses runs in veins of poise

gold. Their floods with an o'erflowing Our pathway led us on to Rotha's glass.


And when we came in front of that Thou best of men and friends, we

tall rock will create

That eastward looks, I there stopped A genuine summer in each other's

short, and stood breast;

Tracing the lofty barrier with my eye And spite of this cold time and From base to summit; such delight frozen fate,

I found Thaw us a warm seat to our rest. To note in shrub and tree, in stone

and flower, Our sacred hearths shall burn eter That intermixture of delicious hues, nally

In one impression, by connecting As vestal flames; the North-wind,

force he

Of their own beauty, imaged in the Shall strike his frost-stretched wings,

heart. dissolve, and fly

When I had gazed perhaps two This Ætna in epitome.

minutes' space,

Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld Dropping December shall

That ravishment of mine, and weeping in,

laughed aloud. Bewail th' usurping of his reign; The Rock, like something starting But when in showers of old Greek*

from a sleep, we begin,

Took up the Lady's voice, and Shall cry, he hath his crown

laughed again; again!

That ancient Woman seated

Helm-crag Night as clear Hesper shall our Was ready with her cavern; Hamtapers whip

mar-scar, From the light casements where And the tall Steep of Silver-how, we play,

sent forth And the dark hag from her black A noise of laughter; southern mantle strip,

Loughrigg heard, And stick there everlasting day. And Fairfield answered with

mountain tone; + Greek wine.

Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky




Carried the Lady's voice, -old Skid

daw blew His speaking-trumpet; back out of

the clouds Of Glaramara southward came the

voice; And Kirkstone tossed it from his

misty head. “Now whether" (said I to our

cordial friend, Who in the hey-day of astonishment Smiled in my face), this were in

simple truth A work accomplished by the brother

hood Of ancient mountains, or my ear

was touched With dreams and visionary impulses To me alone imparted, sure I am That there was a loud uproar in the

hills." And while we both were listening,

to my side The fair Joanna drew, as if she

wished To shelter from some object of her

fear. And hence long afterwards, when

eighteen moons Were wasted, as I chanced to walk

alone Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a

calm And silent morning, I sat down, and

there, In memory of affections old and true, I chiselled out in those rude charac

ter's Joanna's name deep in the living

stone; And I and all who dwell by my

fireside Have called the lovely rock, “Joanna's Rock."


As thick and numberless
As the gay motes that people the

sunbeams, Or likest hovering dreams The fickle pensioners of Mor

pheus' train. But hail thou Goddess, sage and

holy, Hail divinest Melancholy, Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And therefore to our weaker view O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's

hue; Black, but such as in esteem Prince Memnon's sister might be

seem, Or that starr’d Ethiop queen that

strove To set her beauty's praise above The Sea-Nymphs, and their powers

offended: Yet thou art higher far descended; Thee bright-hair'd Vesta, long of

yore, To solitary Saturn bore; His daughter she (in Saturn's reign, Such mixture was not held a stain). Oft in glimmering bowers and glades He met her, and in secret shades Of woody Ida's inmost grove, While yet there was no fear of Jove. Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain, Flowing with majestic train, And sable stole of cyprus-lawn, Over thy decent shoulders drawn. Come, but keep thy wonted state, With even step, and musing gait, And looks commercing with the

skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes: There held in holy passion still, Forget thyself to marble, till With a sad leaden downward cast Thou fix them on the earth as fast: And join with thee calm Peace, and

Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with Gods dotlı

diet, And hears the Muses in a ring Aye round about Jove's altar sing: And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens takes his pleas

ure; But first, and chiefest, with thee



HENCE, vain deluding joys,
The brood of Folly without father

bred, How little you bestead, Or fill the fixed mind with all your

toys! Dwell in some idle brain, And fancies fond with gaudy

shapes possess,

Him that yon soars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
The Cherub Contemplation;
And the mute Silence hist along,
'Less Philomel will deign a song,
In her sweetest, saddest plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of night,
While Cynthia checks her dragon

yoke, Gently o’er th' accustomed oak; Sweet bird, that shum'st the noise

of folly, Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chauntress, oft the woods

among I woo, to hear thy even-song; And missing thee, I walk unseen On the dry smooth-shaven green, To behold the wandering moon, Riding near her highest noon, Like one that had been led astray Through the heav'n's wide pathless

way; And oft, as if her head she bow'd, Stooping through a fleecy cloud. Oft on a plat of rising grouud, I hear the far-off curfew sound, Over some wide-water'd shore, Swinging slow with sullen roar; Or, if the air will not permit, Some still removed place will fit, Where glowing embers through the

room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom; Far from all resort of mirth, Save the cricket on the hearth, Or the bellman's drowsy charm, To bless' the doors from nightly

harm: Or let my lamp at midnight hour Be seen in some high lonely tow'r, Where I may oft outwatch the Bear, With thrice-great Hermes, or un

sphere The spirit of Plato, to unfold What worlds, or what vast regions

hold The immortal mind, that hath for

sook Her mansion in this fleshly nook: And of those Demons that are

found In fire, air, flood, or under ground, Whose power hatlı a true consent With planet, or with element. Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In sceptred pall come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,

Or the tale of Troy divine,
Or what (though rare) of later age.
Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage.
But, ( sad Virgin, that thy power
Might raise Musæus from his bower,
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
Such notes as warbled to the string,
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
And made Hell grant what love did

Or call up him that left half told
The story of Cambuscan boldi,
Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
And who had Canacé to wife,
That ownd the virtuous ring and

glass, And of the wondrous horse of brass, On which the Tartar king did ride; And if aught else great bards be

side, In sage and solemn tunes have sung, Of turneys and of trophies hung, Of forests, and enchantments drear, Where more is meant than meets the

ear. Thus Night oft see me in thy pale

career, Till civil-suited Morn appear, Not trick'd and frounc'd as she was

wont With the Attic boy to hunt, But kerchiefed in a comely cloud, While rocking winds are piping loud, Or usher'd with a shower still, When the gust hath blown his fill, Ending on the rustling leaves, With minute drops from off the And when the sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, Goddess,

bring To arched walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown that Sylvan

loves Of pine, or monumental oak, Where the rude axe with heavéd

stroke Was never heard the Nymphis to

daunt, Or fright them from their hallow'd

haunt. There in close covert by some brock, Where no profaner eye may look, Hide me from day's garish eye, While the bee with lonied thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring With such consort as they keep,



Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep; And let some strange mysterious

dream Wave at his wings in aery stream Of lively portraiture display'd, Softly on my eyelids laid. And as I wake, sweet music breathe Above, about, or underneath, Sent by some Spirit to mortals good, Or the unseen Genius of the wood. But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloisters pale, And love the high embowed roof, With antique pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light: There let the pealing organ blow, To the full voic'd quire below, In service high, and anthems clear, As may with sweetness, through mine

ear, Dissolve me into ecstasies, And bring all heav'n before mine

eyes. And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heav’n doth show, And every herb that sips the dew; Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain. These pleasures Melancholy give, And I with thee will choose to live.


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Met and blocked by a huge interpos

ing mass of granite, Scarce by a channel deep-cut, raging

up and raging onward, Forces its flood through a passage

so narrow a lady would step

it, There,

the great rocky wharves, a wooden bridge

goes, Carrying a path to the forest; be

low, three hundred yards, say Lower in level some twenty-five

feet, through flats of shingle, Stepping-stones and a cart-track

cross in the open valley. But in the interval here the boiling,

pent-up water Frees itself by a final descent, at

taining a basin, Ten feet wide and eighteen long,

with whiteness and fury Occupied partly, but mostly pellucid,

pure, a mirror; Beautiful there for color derived

from green rocks under; Beautiful, most of all, where beads

of foam uprising Mingle their clouds of white with the

delicate hue of the stillness. Cliff overcliff for its sides, with rowan

and pendent birch-boughs, Here it lies, unthought of above at

the bridge and pathway, Still more enclosed from below by

wood and rocky projection. You are shut in, left alone with

yourself and perfection of

water, Hid on all sides, left alone with

yourself and the goddess of

bathing Here, the pride of the plunger, you

stride the fall and clear it; Here, the delight of the bather, you

roll in beaded sparklings, Here into pure green depth drop

down froin lofty ledges. Hither, a month agone, they had

conne, and discovered it;

hither (Long a design, but long unaccounta

bly left uaccomplished), Leaving the well-known bridge and

pathway above to the forest, Turning below from the track of the carts

over stone and shingle,

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THERE is a stream, I name not its

name, lest inquisitive tourist Hut it, and inake it a lion, and get

it at last into guide-books, Springing far off from a loch unex

plored in the folds of great

mountains, Falling two miles through rowan

and stunted alder, enveloped Then for four more in a forest of

pine, where broad and ample Spreads, to convey it, the glen with

heathery slopes on both sides: Broad and fair the stream, with

occasional falls and narrows; But, where the glen of its course

approaches the vale of the river,

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