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In mem

Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone
Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm
And silent morning, I sat down, and there,

emory of affections old and true,
I chiselled out in those rude characters
Joanna's name deep in the living stone :-
And I, and all who dwell by my fireside,
Have called the lovely rock, Joanna's Rock."*



IT is a beauteous evening, calm and free,

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: Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year ; And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not.

* 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.


LET thy wheel-barrow alone

Wherefore, Sexton, piling still In thy bone-house bone on bone ? 'T is already like a hill 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.
Here, alone, before thine eyes,
Simon's sickly daughter lies,
From weakness now, and pain defended,
Whom he twenty winters tended.

Look but at the gardener's pride-
How he glories, when he sees
Roses, lilies, side by side,
Violets in families !
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
Seven widowed



O Sexton, do not then remove her,
Let one grave hold the Loved and Lover!




WHILE from the purpling east departs

The star that led the dawn,
Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts,

For May is on the lawn.
A quickening hope, a freshening glee,

Fortran the expected Power,
Whose first-drawn breath, from bush and tree,

Shakes off that pearly shower.

All Nature welcomes Her whose sway

Tempers the year's extremes ;
Who scattereth lustres o'er noon-day,

Like morning's dewy gleams;
While mellow warble, sprightly trill

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

In Love's disport employ;
Warmed by thy influence, creeping things

Awake to silent joy :
Queen art thou still for each gay plant

Where the slim wild deer roves,
And served in depths where fishes haunt

Their own mysterious groves.
Cloud-piercing peak, and trackless heath,

Instinctive homage pay;
Nor wants the dim-lit cave a wreath

To honor thee, sweet May !
Where cities fanned by thy brisk airs

Behold a smokeless sky,
Their puniest flower-pot nursling dares

To open a bright eye.

And if, on this thy natal morn,

The pole, from which thy name Hath not departed, stands forlorn

Of song and dance and game; Still from the village-green a vow

Aspires to thee addrest, 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,

The bashful freed from fear,
While rising, like the ocean-tide,

In flows the joyous year.

Hush, feeble lyre! weak words refuse

The service to prolong!
To yon exulting-thrush the Muse

Intrusts the imperfect song;
His voice shall chant, in accents clear,

Throughout the live-long day,
Till the first silver star appear,

The sovereignty of May.



FAST thou seen, with flash incessant,

Bubbles gliding under ice, 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!

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