Of vast circumference and gloom profound
This solitary tree!-a living thing
Produced too slowly ever to decay;
Of form and aspect too magnificent
To be destroyed. But worthier still of

note

Are those fraternal four of Borrowdale, Joined in one solemn and capacious grove; Huge trunks!-and each particular trunk a growth

Of intertwisted fibres serpentine
Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved,-
Nor uninformed with phantasy, and looks
That threaten the profane;-a pillared
shade,
[hue,
Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown
By sheddings from the pining umbrage
tinged

Perennially-beneath whose sable roof
Of boughs, as if for festal purpose decked
With unrejoicing berries, ghostly shapes
May meet at noontide-Fear and trembling
Hope,

Silence and Foresight-Death the Skeleton.
And Time the Shadow,-there to celebrate,
As in a natural temple scattered o'er
With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,
United worship; or in mute repose
To lie, and listen to the mountain flood
Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.

comes forth

Gigantic mountains rough with crags, beneath,

[base, Right at the imperial station's western Main Ocean, breaking audibly and stretched

Far into silent regions blue and pale,—
And visibly engirding Mona's Isle,
That, as we left the plain, before our sight
Stood like a lofty mount, uplifting slowly,
(Above the convex of the watery globe)
Into clear view the cultured fields that
streak

Her habitable shores; but now appears
A dwindled object, and submits to lie
At the spectator's feet. -Yon azure ridge,
Is it a perishable cloud? Or there
Do we behold the frame of Erin's coast?
Land sometimes by the roving shepherd

VIEW FROM THE TOP OF BLACK COMB.*

THIS height a ministering angel might select. [name For from the summit of Black Comb (dread Derived from clouds and storms!) the amplest range

Of unobstructed prospect may be seen That British ground commands ::-low dusky tracts, [Cambrian hills Where Trent is nursed, far southward! To the south-west, a multitudinous show; And, in a line of eye-sight linked with these, The hoary peaks of Scotland that give birth To Teviot's stream, to Annan, Tweed, and Clyde ;

Black Comb stands at the southern extremity of Cumberland; its base covers a much greater extent of ground than any other mountain in these parts; and, from its situation, the summit commands a more extensive view than any other point in Britain.

gracious sign

Of devastation, but the hazels rose [hung, Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters A virgin scene !-A little while I stood, Breathing with such suppression of the

heart

As joy delights in; and with wise restraint
Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed
The banquet,-or beneath the trees I sate
Among the flowers, and with the flowers I
played;

A temper known to those, who, after long
And weary expectation, have been blest
With sudden happiness beyond all hope. -
Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose
leaves

The violets of five seasons re-appear And fade, unseen by any human eye; Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on For ever, and I saw the sparkling foam, And with my cheek on one of those green [trees, That, fleeced with moss, beneath the shady Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep, [sound,

stones

I heard the murmur and the murmuring In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to

pay

Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure,
The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,
Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,
And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,
And dragged to earth both branch and
bough, with crash

And merciless ravage; and the shady nook
Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower,
Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up
Their quiet being: and, unless I now
Confound my present feelings with the
[away
Even then, when from the bower I turned
Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,
I felt a sense of pain when I beheld
The silent trees and the intruding sky.—
Then, dearest maiden! move along these

past,

shades

In gentleness of heart: with gentle hand Touch-for there is a spirit in the woods.

SHE was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;

Like twilight's too, her dusky hair;

From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her upon nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and
smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller betwixt life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
A perfect woman, nobly planned,
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel light.

O NIGHTINGALE! thou surely art
A creature of a fiery heart :- [pierce ;
These notes of thine-they pierce and
Tumultuous harmony and fierce!
Thou sing'st as if the god of wine
Had helped thee to a valentine;
A song in mockery and despite
Of shades, and dews, and silent night;
And steady bliss, and all the loves
Now sleeping in these peaceful groves.

THREE years she grew in sun and shower.
Then nature said, A lovelier flower
On earth was never sown ;

This child I to myself will take;
She shall be mine, and I will make

A lady of my own.

Whence, then, could it come-the thought-
By what evil spirit brought?
Oh! can a brave man wish to take [sake?
His brother's life, for land's and castle's
"Sir!" the ruffians said to Hubert,

Deep he lies in Jordan's flood,"
Stricken by this ill assurance,
Pale and trembling Hubert stood.
"Take your earnings."-Oh! that I
Could have seen my brother die!
It was a pang that vexed him then;
And oft returned, again, and yet again.

Months passed on, and no Sir Eustace!
Nor of him were tidings heard.
Wherefore, bold as day, the murderer
Back again to England steered.
To his castle Hubert sped;

He has nothing now to dread.
But silent and by stealth he came,

And at an hour which nobody could name.

None could tell if it were night-time,
Night or day, at even or morn;

For the sound was heard by no one
Of the proclamation-horn.
But bold Hubert lives in glee :
Months and years went smilingly;
With plenty was his table spread;

And bright the lady is who shares his bed.

Likewise he had sons and daughters;
And, as good men do, he sate

At his board by these surrounded,
Flourishing in fair estate.

And while thus in open day
Once he sate, as old books say,

A blast was uttered from the horn,
Where by the castle-gate it hung forlorn.

'Tis the breath of good Sir Eustace!
He is come to claim his right:
Ancient castle, woods, and mountains
Hear the challenge with delight.
Hubert! though the blast be blown
He is helpless and alone :

Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word!
And there he may be lodged, and thou be

lord.

Speak!-astounded Hubert cannot ;
And if power to speak he had,
All are daunted, all the household
Smitten to the heart, and sad.
'Tis Sir Eustace; if it be
Living man, it must be he!

Thus Hubert thought in his dismay,
And by a postern-gate he slunk away.

Long, and long was he unheard of:
To his brother then he came,
Made confession, asked forgiveness,
Asked it by a brother's name,
And by all the saints in heaven;
And of Eustace was forgiven :
Then in a convent went to hide
His melancholy head, and there he died.

But Sir Eustace, whom good angels
Had preserved from murderers' hands,
And from pagan chains had rescued,
Lived with honour on his lands.
Sons he had, saw sons of theirs :
And through ages, heirs of heirs,
A long posterity renowned, [sound.
Sounded the horn which they alone could

GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL.

A TRUE STORY.

OH! what's the matter? what's the matter?
What is't that ails young Harry Gill?
That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chatter, chatter, chatter still!
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
Good duffle grey, and flannel fine,
He has a blanket on his back,
And coats enough to smother nine.

In March, December, and in July,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still!
At night, at morning, and at noon,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still!

Young Harry was a lusty drover,
And who so stout of limb as he?
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover;
His voice was like the voice of three.
Old Goody Blake was old and poor;
Ill fed she was, and thinly clad;
And any man who passed her door
Might see how poor a hut she had.

All day she spun in her poor dwelling:
And then her three hours' work at night,
Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling,
It would not pay for candle-light.
Remote from sheltered village green,
On a hill's northern side she dwelt,
Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean,
And hoary dews are slow to melt.

By the same fire to boil their pottage,
Two poor old dames, as I have known,
Will often live in one s all cottage;
But she, poor woman! housed alone.
'Twas well enough when summer came,
The long, warm, lightsome summer-day,
Then at her door the canty Dame
Would sit, as any linnet gay.

But when the ice our streams did fetter,
Oh! then how her old bones would shake,
You would have said, if you had met her,
"Twas a hard time for Goody Blake.
Her evenings then were dull and dead!
Sad case it was, as you may think,
For very cold to go to bed;
And then for cold not sleep a wink.

Oh, joy for her! whene'er in winter
The winds at night had made a rout;
And scattered many a lusty splinter
And many a rotten bough about.
Yet never had she, well or sick,
As every man who knew her says,
A pile beforehand, turf or stick,
Enough to warm her for three days.

Now, when the frost was past enduring,
And made her poor old bones to ache,
Could anything be more alluring
Than an old hedge to Goody Blake?
And, now and then, it must be said,
When her old bones were cold and chill,
She left her fire, or left her bed,
To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.

Now Harry he had long suspected
This trespass of old Goody Blake;
And vowed that she should be detected,
And he on her would vengeance take.
And oft from his warm fire he'd go,
And to the fields his road would take..
And there, at night, in frost and snow,
He watched to seize old Goody Blake.

And once, behind a rick of barley,
Thus looking out did Harry stand:
The moon was full and shining clearly,
And crisp with frost the stubble land.
He hears a noise- he's all awake-
Again !-on tip-toe down the hill
He softly creeps-'Tis Goody Blake,
She's at the hedge of Harry Gill.

Right glad was he when he beheld her :
Stick after stick did Goody pull:
He stood behind a bush of elder,
Till she had filled her apron full.