Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone - 1800. SONNET. T is a beauteous evening, calm and free, IT The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity; The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea Listen the mighty Being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder-everlastingly. Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here, If thou appear untouched by solemn thought, Thy nature is not therefore less divine: *In Cumberland and Westmoreland are several inscriptions upon the native rock, which, from the wasting of time, and the rudeness of the workmanship, have been mistaken for Runic. They are without doubt Roman. The Rotha, mentioned in this poem, is the River which, flowing through the lakes of Grasmere and Rydale, falls into Wynandermere. On Helmerag, that impressive single mountain at the head of the Vale of Grasmere, is a rock which from most points of view bears a striking resemblance to an old Woman cowering. Close by this rock is one of those fissures or caverns, which in the language of the country are called dungeons. Most of the mountains here mentioned immediately surround the Vale of Grasmere; of the others, some are at a considerable distance, but they belong to the same cluster. TO A SEXTON. LET thy wheel-barrow alone- In a field of battle made, Where three thousand skulls are laid; These died in peace each with the other,Father, sister, friend, and brother. Mark the spot to which I point! From this platform, eight feet square, Take not even a finger-joint: Andrew's whole fire-side is there. Simon's sickly daughter lies, From weakness now, and pain defended, Whom he twenty winters tended. Look but at the gardener's pride— By the heart of Man, his tears, By his hopes and by his fears, Thou, too, heedless art the Warden Of a far superior garden. Thus then, each to other dear, Let them all in quiet lie, Andrew there, and Susan here, Neighbors in mortality. And, should I live through sun and rain 1799. ODE. COMPOSED ON MAY MORNING. WHILE from the purpling east departs The star that led the dawn, Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts, A quickening hope, a freshening glee, Whose first-drawn breath, from bush and tree, All Nature welcomes Her whose sway The tremulous heart excite; And hums the balmy air to still The balance of delight. Time was, blest Power! when youths and maids At peep of dawn would rise, And wander forth in forest glades Thy birth to solemnize. Though mute the song-to grace the rite Untouched the hawthorn bough, Thy Spirit triumphs o'er the slight; Man changes, but not Thou! Thy feathered Lieges bill and wings Warmed by thy influence, creeping things Awake to silent joy: Queen art thou still for each gay plant And served in depths where fishes haunt Cloud-piercing peak, and trackless heath, Nor wants the dim-lit cave a wreath Where cities fanned by thy brisk airs Their puniest flower-pot nursling dares And if, on this thy natal morn, game; Still from the village-green a vow Wherever peace is on the brow, Or love within the breast. Yes! where Love nestles thou canst teach The soul to love the more; Hearts also shall thy lessons reach That never loved before. Stript is the haughty one of pride, Hush, feeble lyre! weak words refuse His voice shall chant, in accents clear, LIFE. HAST thou seen, with flash incessant, Bodied forth and evanescent, No one knows by what device? Such are thoughts!-A wind-swept meadow Mimicking a troubled sea, Such is life; and death a shadow From the rock eternity! |