Of human life when first allowed to gleam On mortal notice.-Glory of the vale, Such thy meek outset, with a crown, though frail, Kept in perpetual verdure by the steam
Of thy soft breath!-Less vivid wreath entwined Nemean victor's brow; less bright was worn, Meed of some Roman chief—in triumph borne With captives chained; and shedding from his car The sunset splendours of a finished war Upon the proud enslavers of mankind!
IN SIGHT OF THE TOWN OF COCKERMOUTH
(Where the Author was born, and his Father's remains are laid)
POINT of life between my Parent's dust,
And yours, my buried Little ones! am I;
And to those graves looking habitually
In kindred quiet I repose my trust. Death to the innocent is more than just, And, to the sinner, mercifully bent; So may I hope, if truly I repent
And meekly bear the ills which bear I must: And You, my Offspring! that do still remain, Yet may outstrip me in the appointed race, If e'er, through fault of mine, in mutual pain We breathed together for a moment's space, The wrong, by love provoked, let love arraign, And only love keep in your hearts a place.
ADDRESS FROM THE SPIRIT OF COCKERMOUTH CASTLE
HOU look'st upon me, and dost fondly think, Poet! that, stricken as both are by years, We, differing once so much, are now Compeers, Prepared, when each has stood his time, to sink Into the dust. Erewhile a sterner link United us; when thou, in boyish play, Entering my dungeon, didst become a prey To soul-appalling darkness. Not a blink
Of light was there;-and thus did I, thy Tutor,
Make thy young thoughts acquainted with the grave; While thou wert chasing the wing'd butterfly Through my green courts; or climbing, a bold suitor, Up to the flowers whose golden progeny
Still round my shattered brow in beauty wave.'
HE cattle crowding round this beverage clear To slake their thirst, with reckless hoofs have trod
The encircling turf into a barren clod;
Through which the waters creep, then disappear, Born to be lost in Derwent flowing near;
Yet, o'er the brink, and round the lime-stone cell Of the pure spring (they call it the 'Nun's Well,' Name that first struck by chance my startled ear) A tender Spirit broods-the pensive Shade Of ritual honours to this Fountain paid By hooded Votaresses with saintly cheer; Albeit oft the Virgin-mother mild
Looked down with pity upon eyes beguiled Into the shedding of 'too soft a tear.'
(On the banks of the Derwent)
ASTOR and Patriot!-at whose bidding rise These modest walls, amid a flock that need, For one who comes to watch them and to feed, A fixed Abode-keep down presageful sighs. Threats, which the unthinking only can despise, Perplex the Church; but be thou firm,-be true To thy first hope, and this good work pursue, Poor as thou art. A welcome sacrifice Dost Thou prepare, whose sign will be the smoke Of thy new hearth; and sooner shall its wreaths, Mounting while earth her morning incense breathes, From wandering fiends of air receive a yoke, And straightway cease to aspire, than God disdain This humble tribute as ill-timed or vain.
(Landing at the mouth of the Derwent, Workington)
EAR to the Loves, and to the Graces vowed,
The Queen drew back the wimple that she
And to the throng, that on the Cumbrian shore Her landing hailed, how touchingly she bowed!
And like a Star (that, from a heavy cloud Of pine-tree foliage poised in air, forth darts, When a soft summer gale at evening parts The gloom that did its loveliness enshroud) She smiled; but Time, the old Saturnian seer, Sighed on the wing as her foot pressed the strand, With step prelusive to a long array
Of woes and degradations hand in hand- Weeping captivity, and shuddering fear
Stilled by the ensanguined block of Fotheringay!
SUGGESTED IN A STEAMBOAT off saint beeS' HEADS, ON THE
F Life were slumber on a bed of down, Toil unimposed, vicissitude unknown, Sad were our lot: no hunter of the hare Exults like him whose javelin from the lair Has roused the lion; no one plucks the rose, Whose proffered beauty in safe shelter blows 'Mid a trim garden's summer luxuries,
With joy like his who climbs, on hands and knees, For some rare plant, yon Headland of St. Bees.
This independence upon oar and sail, This new indifference to breeze or gale, This straight-lined progress, furrowing a flat lea, And regular as if locked in certainty- Depress the hours. Up, Spirit of the storm! That Courage may find something to perform; That Fortitude, whose blood disdains to freeze At Danger's bidding, may confront the seas, Firm as the towering Headlands of St. Bees.
Dread cliff of Baruth! that wild wish may sleep, Bold as if men and creatures of the Deep Breathed the same element; too many wrecks Have struck thy sides, too many ghastly decks Hast thou looked down upon, that such a thought Should here be welcome, and in verse enwrought: With thy stern aspect better far agrees
Utterance of thanks that we have past with ease, As millions thus shall do, the Headlands of St. Bees.
Yet, while each useful Art augments her store, What boots the gain if Nature should lose more? And Wisdom, as she holds a Christian place In man's intelligence sublimed by grace? When Bega sought of yore the Cumbrian coast, Tempestuous winds her holy errand crossed:
She knelt in prayer-the waves their wrath appease; And, from her vow well weighed in Heaven's decrees, Rose, where she touched the strand, the Chantry of St. Bees.
'Cruel of heart were they, bloody of hand,'
Who in these Wilds then struggled for command; The strong were merciless, without hope the weak ; Till this bright Stranger came, fair as day-break, And as a cresset true that darts its length Of beamy lustre from a tower of strength; Guiding the mariner through troubled seas, And cheering oft his peaceful reveries,
Like the fixed Light that crowns yon Headland of St. Bees.
To aid the Votaress, miracles believed
Wrought in men's minds, like miracles achieved;
So piety took root; and Song might tell
What humanizing virtues near her cell
Sprang up, and spread their fragrance wide around; 50 How savage
bosoms melted at the sound
Of gospel-truth enchained in harmonies
Wafted o'er waves, or creeping through close trees, From her religious Mansion of St. Bees.
When her sweet Voice, that instrument of love, Was glorified, and took its place, above The silent stars, among the angelic quire, Her chantry blazed with sacrilegious fire, And perished utterly; but her good deeds
Had sown the spot, that witnessed them, with seeds 60 Which lay in earth expectant, till a breeze
With quickening impulse answered their mute pleas,
And lo! a statelier pile, the Abbey of St. Bees.
There are the naked clothed, the hungry fed;
And Charity extendeth to the dead
Her intercessions made for the soul's rest
Of tardy penitents; or for the best
Among the good (when love might else have slept, Sickened, or died) in pious memory kept:
Thanks to the austere and simple Devotees, Who, to that service bound by venial fees, Keep watch before the altars of St. Bees.
Are not, in sooth, their Requiems sacred ties Woven out of passion's sharpest agonies, Subdued, composed, and formalized by art, To fix a wiser sorrow in the heart?
The prayer for them whose hour is past away Says to the Living, profit while ye may! A little part, and that the worst, he sees Who thinks that priestly cunning holds the keys That best unlock the secrets of St. Bees.
Conscience, the timid being's inmost light, Hope of the dawn and solace of the night, Cheers these Recluses with a steady ray In many an hour when judgment goes astray. Ah! scorn not hastily their rule who try Earth to despise, and flesh to mortify; Consume with zeal, in wingèd ecstasies Of prayer and praise forget their rosaries, Nor hear the loudest surges of St. Bees.
Yet none so prompt to succour and protect The forlorn traveller, or sailor wrecked
On the bare coast; nor do they grudge the boon Which staff and cockle hat and sandal shoon Claim for the pilgrim: and, though chidings sharp May sometimes greet the strolling minstrel's harp, It is not then when, swept with sportive ease, It charms a feast-day throng of all degrees, Brightening the archway of revered St. Bees. How did the cliffs and echoing hills rejoice What time the Benedictine Brethren's voice, Imploring, or commanding with meet pride, Summoned the Chiefs to lay their feuds aside, And under one blest ensign serve the Lord In Palestine. Advance, indignant Sword! Flaming till thou from Paynim hands release That Tomb, dread centre of all sanctities Nursed in the quiet Abbey of St. Bees.
But look we now to them whose minds from far Follow the fortunes which they may not share. While in Judea Fancy loves to roam,
She helps to make a Holy-land at home:
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