XXXVII.

1811. — 1815.

HERE pause: the poet claims at least this praise, That virtuous Liberty hath been the scope

Of his pure song, which did not shrink from hope
In the worst moment of these evil days;

From hope, the paramount duty that Heaven lays,
For its own honor, on man's suffering heart.
Never may from our souls one truth depart -
That an accursed thing it is to gaze

On prosperous tyrants with a dazzled eye;
Nor-touched with due abhorrence of their guilt
For whose dire ends tears flow, and blood is spilt,
And justice labors in extremity –

Forget thy weakness, upon which is built,

O wretched man, the throne of tyranny!

XXXVIII.—TO B. R. HAYDON.

1815. — 1816.

HIGH is our calling, Friend!

- Creative Art

(Whether the instrument of words she use,
Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues),
Demands the service of a mind and heart,
Though sensitive yet, in their weakest part,
Heroically fashioned to infuse

Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse,
While the whole world seems adverse to desert.
And, oh! when Nature sinks, as oft she may,
Through long-lived pressure of obscure distress,
Still to be strenuous for the bright reward,
And in the soul admit of no decay,
Brook no continuance of weak-mindedness
Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!

XXXIX. - TO CATHERINE WORDSWORTH. 1815.-1815.

SURPRISED by joy-impatient as the Wind

I turned to share the transport -Oh! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind
But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,

Have I been so beguiled as to be blind

To my most grievous loss?—That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn,
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

YE sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth!
In whose collegiate shelter England's Flowers
Expand, enjoying through their vernal hours
The air of liberty, the light of truth;

Much have ye suffered from Time's gnawing tooth:
Yet, O ye spires of Oxford! domes and towers!
Gardens and groves! your presence overpowers
The soberness of reason; till, in sooth,
Transformed, and rushing on a bold exchange,
I slight my own beloved Cam, to range
Where silver Isis leads my stripling feet;
Pace the long avenue, or glide adown
The stream-like windings of that glorious street -
An eager Novice robed in fluttering gown!

SOLE listener, Duddon! to the breeze that played
With thy clear voice, I caught the fitful sound
Wafted o'er sullen moss and craggy mound
Unfruitful solitudes, that seemed to upbraid
The sun in heaven! - but now, to form a shade
For Thee, green alders have together wound
Their foliage; ashes flung their arms around;
And birch-trees risen in silver colonnade.
And thou hast also tempted here to rise,

'Mid sheltering pines, this Cottage rude and gray;
Whose ruddy children, by the mother's eyes
Carelessly watched, sport through the summer day,
Thy pleased associates: - light as endless May
On infant bosoms lonely Nature lies.

SACRED Religion! "mother of form and fear,"
Dread arbitress of mutable respect,

New rites ordaining when the old are wrecked,
Or cease to please the fickle worshipper:

Mother of Love! (that name best suits thee here)
Mother of Love! for this deep vale, protect
Truth's holy lamp, pure source of bright effect,
Gifted to purge the vapory atmosphere
That seeks to stifle it; as in those days
When this low Pile a Gospel Teacher knew
Whose good works formed an endless retinue:
A Pastor such as Chaucer's verse portrays;
Such as the heaven-taught skill of Herbert drew;
And tender Goldsmith crowned with deathless praise!

RETURN, Content! for fondly I pursued,
Even when a child, the Streams

unheard, unseen;

Through tangled woods, impending rocks between ;
Or, free as air, with flying inquest viewed

The sullen reservoirs whence their bold brood
Pure as the morning, fretful, boisterous, keen,
Green as the salt-sea billows, white and green
Poured down the hills, a choral multitude!
Nor have I tracked their course for scanty gains;
They taught me random cares and truant joys,
That shield from mischief and preserve from stains
Vague minds, while men are growing out of boys;
Maturer Fancy owes to their rough noise
Impetuous thoughts that brook not servile reins.

XLIV.

1820.-1820.

WHO swerves from innocence, who makes divorce
Of that serene companion
a good name,

Recovers not his loss: but walks with shame,
With doubt, with fear, and haply with remorse :
And oft-times he, who, yielding to the force
Of chance-temptation, ere his journey end,
From chosen comrade turns, or faithful friend
In vain shall rue the broken intercourse.
Not so with such as loosely wear the chain
That binds them, pleasant River! to thy side:
Through the rough copse wheel thou with hasty stride;
I choose to saunter o'er the grassy plain,
Sure, when the separation has been tried,
That we, who part in love, shall meet again.

XLV. AFTERTHOUGHT.

1820. - 1820.

I THOUGHT of Thee, my partner and my guide,
As being past away. - Vain sympathies !
For, backward, Duddon! as I cast my eyes,
I see what was, and is, and will abide ;
Still glides the Stream, and shall forever glide;
The Form remains, the Function never dies;
While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise,
We Men, who in our morn of youth defied
The elements, must vanish; be it so !
Enough, if something from our hands have power
To live, and act, and serve the future hour;
And if, as toward the silent tomb we go,

Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.

I, WHO accompanied with faithful pace
Cerulean Duddon from his cloud-fed spring,
And loved with spirit ruled by his to sing
Of mountain-quiet and boon nature's grace;
I, who essayed the nobler Stream to trace
Of Liberty, and smote the plausive string
Till the checked torrent, proudly triumphing,
Won for herself a lasting resting-place;

Now seek upon the heights of Time the source
Of a HOLY RIVER, on whose banks are found

Sweet pastoral flowers, and laurels that have crowned
Full oft the unworthy brow of lawless force;
And, for delight of him who tracks its course,
Immortal amaranth and palms abound.