That smooths foregone distress, the

lines
Of lingering care subdues,
Long vanished happiness refines,
And clothes in brighter hues ;

Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works
Those Spectres to dilate
That startle Conscience, as she lurks
Within her lonely seat.

Oh! that our lives, which flee so fast,
In purity were such,
That not an image of the past
Should fear that pencil's touch!

SCORN not the Sonnet; Critic, you have

frowned, Mindless of its just honors; with this

key Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the

melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's

wound; A thousand times this pipe did Tasso

sound : With it Camöens soothed an exile's

grief ; The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante

crowned His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp, It cheered mild Spenser, called from

Faeryland To struggle through dark ways; and,

when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his

hand The Thing became a trumpet; whence

he blew Soul-animating strains-alas, too few !

1827 1827.

Retirement then might hourly look
Upon a soothing scene,
Age steal to his allotted nook
Contented and serene;

With heart as calm as lakes that sleep,
In frosty moonlight glistening;
Or mountain rivers, where they creep
Along a channel smooth and deep,
To their own far-off murmurs listening.

1823. 1827.

Sin-blighted though we are, we too,

The reasoning Sons of Men, From one oblivious winter called

Shall rise, and breathe again : And in eternal summer Jose

Our threescore years and ten. To humbleness of heart descends

This prescience from on high, The faith that elevates the just,

Before and when they die ; And makes each soul a separate heaven A court for Deity. 1831 1835.

YARROW REVISITED

THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK Written at Rydal Mount. The Rock stands on the right hand a little way leading up the middle road from Rydal to Grasmere. We have been in the habit of calling it the glow-worin rock from the number of glow-worms we have often seen hanging on it as described. The tuft of primrose has, I fear, been washed away by the heavy rains. (Wordsworth)

See Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, April 24th, 180.. A ROCK there is whose homely front

The passing traveller slights; Yet there the glow-worms hang their

lamps, Like stars, at various heights ; And one coy Primrose to that Rock

The vernal breeze invites.
What hideous warfare hath been waged,

What kingdoms overthrown,
Since first I spied that Primrose-tuft

And marked it for my own;
A lasting link in Nature's chain

From highest heaven let down!
The flowers, still faithful to the stems,

Their fellowship renew ;.
The stems are faithful to the root,

That worketh out of view;
And to the rock the root adheres

In every fibre true.
Close clings to earth the living rock,

Though threatening still to fall;
The earth is constant to her sphere;

And God upholds them all : So blooms this lonely Plant, nor dreads

Her annual funeral.

The following Stanzas are a memorial of a day passed with Sir Walter Scott and other Friends visiting the Banks of the Yarrow under his guidance, immediately before his departure from Abbotsford, for Naples.

The title Yarrow Rerisited will stand in no need of explanation for Readers acquainted with the Author's previous poems suggested by that celebrated Stream. (Wordsworth.) THE gallant Youth, who may have

gained, Or seeks, a " winsome Marrow," Was but an Infant in the lap

When first I looked on Yarrow ; Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate

Long left without a warder, I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee,

Great Minstrel of the Border ! Grave thoughts ruled wide on that

sweet day, Their dignity installing In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves

Were on the bough, or falling ; But breezes played, and sunshine

gleamedThe forest to embolden ; Reddened the fiery hues, and shot

Transparence through the golden.
For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on

In foamy agitation ;
And slept in many a crystal pool

For quiet contemplation :
No public and no private care

The freeborn mind enthralling, We made a day of happy hours,

Our happy days recalling. Brisk Youth appeared, the diorn of

youth, With freaks of graceful folly,Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve,

Her Night not melancholy ; Past, present, future, all appeared

In harmony united,

were

Here closed the meditative strain ;

But air breathed soft that day, The hoary

hoary mountain-heights

cheered, The sunny vale looked gay ; And to the Primrose of the Rock

1 gave this after-lay. I sang-Let myriads of bright flowers,

Like Thee, in field and grove Revive unenvied ;-mightier far,

Than tremblings that reprove Qur vernal tendencies to hope,

Is God's redeeming love ; That love which changed-for wan dis

ease,
For sorrow that had bent
O'er hopeless dust, for withered age-

Their moral element,
And turned the thistles of a curse

To types beneficent.

Like guests that meet, and some from

far, By cordial love invited. And if, as Yarrow, through the woods

And down the meadow ranging, Did meet us with unaltered face, Though we were changed and chang

ing ;
If, then, some natural shadows spread

Our inward prospect orer,
The soul's deep valley was not slow

Its brightness to recover,
Eternal blessings on the Muse,

And her divine employment ! The blameless Muse, who trains lier Sons

For hope and calm enjoyment; Albeit sickness, lingering yet,

Has o'er their pillow brooded ; And Care waylays their steps--a Sprite

Not easily eluded.
For thee, O SCOTT! compelled to change

Green Eildon-hill and Cheviot
For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes ;

And leave thy Tweed and Tiviot
For mild Sorrento's breezy waves;

May classic Fancy, linking With native Fancy her fresh aid,

Preserve thy heart froni sinking!
Oh! while they minister to thee,

Each vying with the other,
May Health return to mellow Age

With Strength, her venturous brother; And Tiber, and each brook and rill

Renowned in song and story,
With unimagined beauty shine,

Nor lose one ray of glory!
For Thou, upon a hundred streams,

By tales of love and sorrow
or laithful love, undanted truth,

Hast shed the power of Yarrow;
And streams unknown, bills yet unseen,

Wherever they invite Thee,
At parent Nature's grateful call,

With gladness must requite Thee.
A gracious welcome shall be thine,

Such looks of love and honor As thy own Yarrow gave to me

When first I gazed upon her ; Beleid what I had feared to see,

Unwilling to surrender Dreams treasured up from early days,

The holy and the tender. And what, for this frail world, were all

That mortals do or suffer,

Did no responsive harp, no pen,

Memorial tribute offer? Yea, what were mighty Nature's self?

Her features, could they win us, Unhelped by the poetic voice

That hourly speaks within us ? Nor deem that localized Romance

Plays false with our affections ;
Unsanctifies our tears—made sport

For fanciful dejections :
Ah, no! the visions of the past

Sustain the heart in feeling
Life as she is our changeful Life,

With friends and kindred dealing. Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that

day In Yarrow's groves were centred ; Who through the silent portal arch

Of mouldering Newark entered ; And clomb the winding stair that once

Too timidly was mounted
By the “last Minstrel," (not the last !)

Ere he his Tale recounted.
Flow on for ever, Yarrow Stream !

Fulfil thy pensive duty,
Well pleased that future Bards should

chant For simple hearts thy beauty ; To dream-light clear while yet unseen,

Dear to the common sunshine,
And dearer still, as now I feel,
To memory's shadowy moonshine !

1831. 1835,

THE TROSACHS

As recorded in my sister's Journal, I had first seen the Trosachs in her and Coleridge's com: pany. The sentiment that runs through this Sonnet was natural to the season in which I again saw this beautiful spot ; but this and some other sonnets that follow were colored by the remembrance of my recent visit to Sir Walter Scott, and the melancholy errand on which he was going. (Wordsworth.) THERE's not a nook within this solemn

Pass, But were an apt confessional for Oue Taught by his summer spent, his autumn

gone, That Life is but a tale of morning grass Withered at ere. From scenes of art

which chase That thought away, turn, and with

watchful eyes Feed it ’mid Nature's old felicities, Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more

clear than glass

Untouched, unbreathed upon, Thrice

happy quest, If from a golden perch of aspen spray (October's workmanship to rival May) The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught

lay, Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!

1831. 1835. IF THOU INDEED DERIVE THY

LIGHT FROM HEAVEN IF thou indeed derive thy light from

Heaven, Then, to the measure of that heaven

born light, Shine, Poet ! in thy place, and be content: The stars pre-eminent in magnitude, And they that from the zenith dart their

beams, (Visible though they be to half the earth, Though half a sphere be conscious of

their brightness) Are 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. All are the undying offspring of one Sire: Then, to the measure of the light vouch

safed, Shine, Poet! in thy place, and be content.

1832. 1836.

• Is Mosgiel Farm; and that's the very

field Where Burns ploughed up the Daisy."

Far and wide A plain below stretched seaward, while,

descried Above sea-clouds, the Peaks of Arran

rose ; And, by that simple notice, the repose Of earth, sky, sea and air, was vivilied. Beneath “the random bield of clod or

stone Myriads of daisies have slione forth in

flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural

hour Have passed away ; less happy than the

One That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died

to prove

The tender charm of poetry and love.

1833. 1835.

MOST SWEET IT IS WITH UN

UPLIFTED EYES Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes To pace the ground, if path be there or

none, While a fair region the traveller

lies Which he forbears again to look upon ; Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene, The work of Fancy, or some happy tone Of meditation, slipping in between The beauty coming and the beauty gone. If Thought and Love desert us, from that

day Let us break off all commerce with the

Muse : With Thought and Love companions of

our way, Whate'er the senses take or may refuse, The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her

dews Of inspiration on the humblest lay.

1833. 1835. EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE

DEATH OF JAMES IIOGG 1 WHEN first, descending from the moor.

lands, I saw the Stream of Yarrow glide

IF THIS GREAT WORLD OF JOY

AND PAIN
If this great world of joy and pain

Revolve in one sure track ;
If freedom, set, will rise again,

And virtue, flown, come back :
Woe to the purblind crew who fill

The heart with each day's care ; Nor gain, from past or future, skill To bear, and to forbear!

1833. 1835.

“THERE!” SAID A STRIPLING,

POINTING WITH MEET PRIDE “ THERE ?” said a Stripling, pointing

with meet pride Towards a low roof with green trees

half concealea,

died Sept. 21, 1832

July 25, 1831
Dec. 27, 1831
Feb.

A POETI-HE HATH PUT HIS

HEART TO SCHOOL

Along a bare and open valley,
The Éttrick Shepherd was my guide.
When last along its banks I wandered
Through groves that had begun to shed
Their golden leaves upon the pathways,
My steps the Border-minstrel led.
The mighty Minstrel breathes no longer,
'Mid mouldering ruins low he lies;
And death upon the braes of Yarrow,
Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes :
Nor has the rolling year twice measured,
From sign to sign, its steadfast course,
Since every mortal power of Coleridge
Was frozen at its marvellous source;

A Poet!-- He hath put his heart to

school, Nor dares to move unpropped upon the

staff Which Art hath lodged within his hand

-must laugh By precept only, and shed tears by rule. Thy Art be Nature; the live current

quaff, And let the groveller sip his stagnant

pool, In fear that else, when Critics grave and

cool Have killed him, Scorn should write his

epitaph. How does the Meadow-flower its bloom

unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free Down to its root, and, in that freedom,

bold ; And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree Comes not by casting in a formal mould, But from its own divine vitality.

184?? 18-12.

The rapt One, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in

earth : And Lamh, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.

Like clouds that rake the mountain

summits, Or waves that own no curbing hand, How fast has brother followed brother From sunshine to the sunless land !