Is then no nook of English ground secure From rash assault?1 Schemes of retirement sown In youth, and 'mid the busy world kept pure As when their earliest flowers of hope were blown, Must perish;-how can they this blight endure? And must he too the ruthless change bemoan Who scorns a false utilitarian lure 'Mid his paternal fields at random thrown? Baffle the threat, bright Scene, from Orresthead Given to the pausing traveller's rapturous glance: Plead for thy peace, thou beautiful romance Of nature; and, if human hearts be dead, Speak, passing winds; ye torrents, with your strong And constant voice, protest against the wrong. October 12, 1844. 1 The degree and kind of attachment which many of the yeomanry feel to their small inheritances can scarcely be over-rated. Near the house of one of them stands a magnificent tree, which a neighbour of the owner advised him to fell for profit's sake. "Fell it!" exclaimed the yeoman, "I had rather fall on my knees and worship it." It happens, I believe, that the intended railway would pass through this little property, and I hope that an apology for the answer will not be thought necessary by one who enters into the strength of the feeling. "PROUD WERE YE, MOUNTAINS, WHEN, IN TIMES OF OLD" PROUD were ye, Mountains, when, in times of old, Your patriot sons, to stem invasive war, Intrenched your brows; ye gloried in each scar: Now, for your shame, a Power, the Thirst of Gold, That rules o'er Britain like a baneful star, Wills that your peace, your beauty, shall be sold, And clear way made for her triumphal car Through the beloved retreats your arms enfold ! Heard YE that Whistle? As her long-linked Train Swept onwards, did the vision cross your view? Yes, ye were startled ;—and, in balance true, Weighing the mischief with the promised gain, Mountains, and Vales, and Floods, I call on you To share the passion of a just disdain. "FORTH FROM A JUTTING RIDGE, AROUND WHOSE BASE" FORTH from a jutting ridge, around whose base But, as chanced, a Cottage-maiden Whirled adown the rocky channel, Winds our deep Vale, two heath-clad Rocks Sinking, rising, on they go, ascend And frequent sharer of their calm delight As they did love. Ye kindred Pinnacles- For MARY'S humble, SARAH'S silent claim, 1845. THE WESTMORELAND GIRL TO MY GRANDCHILDREN PART I SEEK who will delight in fable Far and wide on hill and valley Peace and rest, as seems, before them Only in the lake below. Oh! it was a frightful current Saved by courage that with danger PART II Anglers, bent on reckless pastime, Merciful protectress, kindling Many a captive hath she rescued, Listen yet awhile;-with patience Yes, the wild Girl of the mountains To their echoes gave the sound, Notice punctual as the minute, Warning solemn and profound. She, fulfilling her sire's office, Rang alone the far-heard knell, Tribute, by her hand, in sorrow, Paid to One who loved her well. When his spirit was departed On that service she went forth; Nor will fail the like to render When his corse is laid in earth. What then wants the Child to temper, To control the froward impulse Easily a pious training And a stedfast outward power Thus the fearless Lamb-deliv'rer, Watchful as a wheeling eagle, Leave that thought; and here be uttered June 6, 1845. Among the Ruins, but no idle talk Is heard; to grave demeanour all are bound; And from one voice a Hymn with tuneful sound Hallows once more the long-deserted Quire And thrills the old sepulchral earth, around. Others look up, and with fixed eyes admire That wide-spanned arch, wondering how it was raised, To keep, so high in air, its strength and grace: All seem to feel the spirit of the place, Profane Despoilers, stand ye not reproved, "YES! THOU ART FAIR, YET BE NOT MOVED" YES! thou art fair, yet be not moved To scorn the declaration, That sometimes I in thee have loved Imagination needs must stir; Dear Maid, this truth believe, Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive. Be pleased that nature made thee fit 1845. "WHAT HEAVENLY SMILES! O LADY MINE" WHAT heavenly smiles! O Lady mine 1845. TO A LADY IN ANSWER TO A REQUEST THAT I WOULD WRITE HER A POEM UPON SOME DRAWINGS THAT SHE HAD MADE OF FLOWERS IN THE ISLAND OF MADEIRA FAIR Lady! can I sing of flowers That in Madeira bloom and fade, I who ne'er sate within their bowers, Nor through their sunny lawns have strayed? How they in sprightly dance are worn These eyes have never seen. Yet tho' to me the pencil's art No like remembrances can give, Still as we look with nicer care, Some new resemblance we may trace: A Heart's-ease will perhaps be there, A Speedwell may not want its place. And so may we, with charmed mind Beholding what your skill has wrought, Another Star-of-Bethlehem find, A new Forget-me-not. From earth to heaven with motion fleet From heaven to earth our thoughts will pass, A Holy-thistle here we meet And there a Shepherd's weather-glass; And haply some familiar name Shall grace the fairest, sweetest, plant Whose presence cheers the drooping frame Of English Emigrant. Gazing she feels its powers beguile Sad thoughts, and breathes with easier breath; Alas! that meek that tender smile She says, in faint words by sighs broken, Bear for me to my native land This precious Flower, true love's last token. 1845. It has been said that the English, though their country has produced so many great poets, is now the most unpoetical nation in Europe. It is probably true; for they have more temptation to become so than any other European people. Trade, commerce, and manufactures, physical science, and mechanic arts, out of which so much wealth has arisen, have made our countrymen infinitely less sensible to movements of imagination and fancy than were our forefathers in their simple state of society. How touching and beautiful were, in most instances, the names they gave to our indigenous flowers, or any other they were familiarly acquainted with 1-Every month for many years have we been importing plants and flowers from all quarters of the globe, many of which are spread through our gardens, and some perhaps likely to be met with on the few Commons which we have left. Will their botanical names ever be displaced by plain English appellations, which will bring them home to our hearts by connection with our joys and sorrows? It can never be, unless society treads back her steps towards those simplicities which have been banished by the undue influence of towns spreading and spreading in every direction, so that city-life with every generation takes more and more the lead of rural. Among the ancients, villages were reckoned the seats of barbarism. Refinement, for the most part false, increases the desire to accumulate wealth; and while theories of political economy are boastfully pleading for the practice, inhumanity pervades all our dealings in buying and selling. This selfishness wars against disinterested imagination in all directions, and, evils coming round in a circle, barbarism spreads in every quarter of our island. Oh for the reign of justice, and then the humblest man among us would have more power and dignity in and about him than the highest have now! You call it, "Love lies bleeding,"-so you may, The old mythologists, more impressed than we Of this late day by character in tree Sung to the plaintive lyre in Grecian vales. Nor doubt that something of their spirit swayed The fancy-stricken Youth or heart-sick Maid, Who, while each stood companionless and eyed This undeparting Flower in crimson dyed, Thought of a wound which death is slow to cure, A fate that has endured and will endure, And, patience coveting yet passion feeding, Called the dejected Lingerer, Loves lies bleeding. 1845. THE CUCKOO-CLOCK Of this clock I have nothing further to say than what the poem expresses, except that it must be here recorded that it was a present from the dear friend for whose sake these notes were chiefly undertaken, and who has written them from my dictation. WOULDST thou be taught, when sleep has taken flight, By a sure voice that can most sweetly tell, Better provide thee with a Cuckoo-clock |