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

By Shepherd-groom or May-day queen,

Or holy festal pomps adorn,

These eyes have never seen.

Yet though to me the pencil's art
No like remembrances can give,
Your portraits still may reach the heart
And there for gentle pleasure live;
While Fancy ranging with free scope
Shall on some lovely Alien set
A name with us endeared to hope,
To peace, or fond regret.

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 power beguile

Sad thoughts, and breathes with easier breath; Alas! that meek, that tender smile

Is but a harbinger of death:

And pointing with a feeble hand

She says, in faint words by sighs broken, Bear for me to my native land

This precious Flower, true love's last token.

TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ., P. L., ETC. ETC.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

The Tale of Peter Bell, which I now introduce to your notice, and to that of the Public, has, in its manuscript state, nearly survived its minority-for it first saw the light in the summer of 1798. During this long interval, pains have been taken at different times to make the production less unworthy of a favorable reception; or, rather, to fit it for filling permanently a station, however humble, in the Literature of our country. This has, indeed, been the aim of all my endeavors in Poetry, which, you know, have been sufficiently laborious to prove that I deem the Art not lightly to be approached; and that the attainment of excellence in it, may laudably be made the principal object of intellectual pursuit by any man, who, with reasonable consideration of circumstances, has faith in his own impulses.

The Poem of Peter Bell, as the Prologue will show, was composed under a belief that the Imagination not only does not require for its exercise the intervention of supernatural agency, but that, though such agency be excluded, the faculty may be called forth as imperiously and for kindred results of pleasure, by incidents, within the compass of poetic probability, in the humblest departments of daily life. Since that Prologue was written, you have exhibited most splendid effects of judicious daring, in the opposite and usual course. Let this acknowledgment make my peace with the lovers of the supernatural; and I am persuaded it will be admitted, that to you, as a Master in that province of the art, the following Tale, whether from contrast or congruity, is not an unappropriate offering. Accept it, then, as a public testimony of affectionate admiration from one with whose name yours has been often coupled (to use your own words) for evil and for good; and believe me to be, with earnest wishes that life and health may be granted you to complete the many important works in which you are engaged, and with high respect, Most faithfully yours,

RYDAL MOUNT, April 7, 1819.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

PROLOGUE.

THE

HERE'S something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon; But through the clouds I'll never float Until I have a little Boat,

For shape just like the crescent-moon.

And now I have a little Boat,

In shape a very crescent-moon:

Fast through the clouds my boat can sail;
But if perchance your faith should fail,
Look
up-and you shall see me soon!

The woods, my Friends, are round you roaring, Rocking and roaring like a sea;

The noise of danger 's in your ears,

And ye have all a thousand fears

Both for my little Boat and me!

Meanwhile untroubled I admire
The pointed horns of my canoe;
And, did not pity touch my breast,
To see how ye are all distrest,
Till my ribs ached, I'd laugh at you!

Away we go, my Boat and I-
Frail man ne'er sate in such another;
Whether among the winds we strive,
Or deep into the clouds we drive,
Each is contented with the other.

Away we go-and what care we
For treasons, tumults, and for wars?
We are as calm in our delight
As is the crescent moon so bright
Among the scattered stars.

Up goes my Boat among the stars
Through many a breathless field of light,
Through many a long blue field of ether,
Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her:
Up goes my little Boat so bright!

The Crab, the Scorpion, and the Bull,
We
pry among them all; have shot
High o'er the red-haired race of Mars,
Covered from top to toe with scars;
Such company I like it not!

The towns in Saturn are decayed,

And melancholy Spectres throng them;— The Pleiads, that appear to kiss

Each other in the vast abyss,

With joy I sail among them.

Swift Mercury resounds with mirth,
Great Jove is full of stately bowers;
But these, and all that they contain,
What are they to that tiny grain,
That little Earth of ours?

Then back to Earth, the dear green
Whole if I here should roam,
ages

The world for my remarks and me
Would not a whit the better be;
I've left my heart at home.

Earth:

See! there she is, the matchless Earth!
There spreads the famed Pacific Ocean!
Old Andes thrusts yon craggy spear
Through the grey clouds; the Alps are here,
Like waters in commotion !

Yon tawny slip is Libya's sands;

That silver thread the river Dnieper;

And look, where clothed in brightest green

Is a sweet Isle, of isles the Queen;
Ye fairies, from all evil keep her!

And see the town where I was born!
Around those happy fields we span
In boyish gambols;-I was lost
Where I have been, but on this coast
I feel I am a man.

Never did fifty things at once
Appear so lovely, never, never;-
How tunefully the forests ring!
To hear the earth's soft murmuring
Thus could I hang for ever!