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The slave of none, of beasts alone the lord
His book he prizes, nor neglects the sword;
Well taught by that to feel his rights, prepared
With this “the blensings he enjoys to guard.”

Then Summer lengthened out his season bland,
And with rock-honey flowed the happy land.
Continual fountains welling cheered the waste,
And plants were wholesome, now of deadly taste.
Nor Winter yet his frozen stores had piled,
Usurping where the fairest herbage smiled :
Nor Hunger forced the herds from pastures bare
For scanty food the treacherous cliffs to dare.
Then the milk-thistle bade those herds demand
Three times a day the pail and welcome hand.
But human vices have provoked the rod
Of angry Nature to avenge her God.
Thus does the father to his sons relate,
On the lone mountain-top, their changed estate.
Still, Nature, ever just, to him imparts
Joys only given to uncorrupted hearts.

And, as his native hills encircle ground For many a wondrous victory renowned, The work of Freedom daring to oppose, With few in arms*, innumerable foes, When to those glorious fields his steps are led, An unknown power connects him with the dead : For images of other worlds are there; Awful the light, and holy is the air. Uncertain through his fierce uncultured soul, Like lighted tempests, troubled transports roll; To viewless realms his Spirit towers amain, Beyond the senses and their little reign.

”T is morn: with gold the verdant mountain glows; More high, the snowy peaks with hues of rose. Far-stretched beneath the many-tinted hills, A mighty waste of mist the valley fills, A solemn sea! whose vales and mountains round Stand motionless, to awful silence bound: A gulf of gloomy blue, that opens wide And bottomless, divides the midway tide: Like leaning masts of stranded ships appear "The pines that near the coast their summits rear; Of cabins, woods, and lawns, a pleasant shore Bounds calm and clear the chaos still and hoar; Loud through that midway gulf ascending, sound Vnnumbered streams with hollow roar profound : Mount through the nearer mist the chant of birds, And talking voices, and the low of herds, The bark of dogs, the drowsy tinkling bell, And wild-wood mountain lutes of saddest swell. * Think not, suspended from the cliff on high, He looks below with undelighted eye. -No vulgar joy is his, at even-tide Stretched on the scented mountain's purple side: For as the pleasures of his simple day Beyond his native valley seldom stray, Nought round its darling precincts can he find But brings some past enjoyment to his mind, While Hope, that ceaseless leans on Pleasure's urn, Binds her wild wreaths, and whispers his return.

And oft, when passed that solemn vision by, He holds with God himself communion high, Where the dread peal of swelling torrents fills The sky-roofed temple of the eternal hills; Or, when upon the mountain's silent brow Reclined, he sees, above him and below, Bright sta of ice and azure fields of snow; While needle peaks of granite shooting bare Tremble in ever-varying tints of air: – Great joy, by horror tamed, dilates his heart, And the near heavens their own delights impart -When the Sun bids the gorgeous scene farewell, Alps overlooking Alps their state upswell; Huge Pikes of Darkness named, of Fear and Stormsı Lift, all serene, their still, illumined forms, In sea-like reach of prospect round him spread, Tinged like an angel's smile all rosy red.

When downward to his winter hut he goes, Dear and more dear the lessening circle grows; That hut which from the hills his eye employs So oft, the central point of all his joys. And as a Swift, by tender cares opprest, Peeps often ere she dart into her nest, So to the untrodden floor, where round him loukr His father, helpless as the babe he rocks, Of he descends to nurse the brother pair, Till storm and driving ice blockade him there, There, safely guarded by the woods behind, He hears the chiding of the baffled wind,

Once Man entirely free, alone and wild, Was blessed as free - for he was Nature's child. He, all superior but his God disdained, Walked none restraining, and by none restrained, Confessed no law but what his reason taught, Did all he wished, and wished but what he ought. As Man, in his primeval dower arrayed, The image of his glorious Sire displayed, Even so, by vestal Nature guarded, here The traces of primeval Man appear; The native dignity no forms debase, The eye sublime, and surly lion-grace.

* Alluding to several battles which the Swiss in very small numbers have gained over their oppressors, the house of Aus tria; and, in particular, to one fought at Næffels, near Glarus, where three hundred and thirty men defeated an army of te tween fifteen and twenty thousand Austrians. Scattered ovu the valley are to be found eleven stones, with this inscription. 1388, the year the battle was fought, marking out, as I was told upon the spot, the several places where the Austrians attern ing to make a stand were repulsed anew.

† As Schreck-Ilorn, the pike of terror; Wetter-Horn, the piks of storms, &c &c.

Till, Hope-deserted, long in vain his breath
Implores the dreadful untried sleep of Death.
-'Mid savage rocks, and seas of snow that shine
Between interminable tracts of pine,
A Temple stands, which holds an awful shrine,
By an uncertain light revealed, that falls
On the mute Image and the troubled walls:
Pale, dreadful faces round the Shrine appear,
Abortive Joy, and Hope that works in fear;
While strives a secret Power to hush the crowd,
Pain's wild rebellious burst proclaims her rights aloud

Har Mister, calling all his terrors round, za down the living rocks with whirlwind sound. Tech Nature's vale his homely pleasures glide, [amed by enry, discontent, and pride; Torricend of all his vanity, to deck, W: one bright bell, a favourite Heifer's neck ; i. pleased upon some simple annual feast, Brabeced half the year and hoped the rest, IT produce from his inner hoard o circe ten summers consecrate the board.

- Aze! in every clime a flying ray La we have to cheer our wintry way *P, cried a thoughtful Swain, upon whose head The blossotns of the grave" were thinly spread, Laight, while by his dying fire, as closed Tir day, in luxury my limbs reposed, - Hare Poury oft from Misery's mount will guide Era to le summer door his icy tide, Asd bere the avalanche of Death destroy The little cottage of domestic joy. Be wh! the unwilling mind may more than trace Tineral sorrows of the human race: Treburlish gales, that unremitting blow

frren necessity's continual snow, T: 2s the gentle groups of bliss deny Tain the noon-day bank of leisure lie. Y sre;-compelled by Powers which only deign Tiat solitary man disturb their reign, Press that support a never-ceasing strife Win all the tender charities of life, The father, as his sons of strength become Tu pey ihe filial debl, for food to roam, Preais bare nest amid the storms of heaven Deiane, engle-like, those sons as he was driven; Hou dread pleasure watches to the plain – Azi de ver, eagle-like, beholds again!"

When the poor heart has all its joys resigned, W dnes their sad remembrance cleave behind ? L: where through fat Batavia's willowy groves, enphy the lazy Seine, the exile roves; Sco'er the waters mournful measures swell, Pareng tender thought's “memorial cell;" Pee plevures are transformed to mortal pains,

n pusca spreads along the listener's veins, ***, ch not a frame of steel can brave, Bs his young head with sorrow to the grave.*

Gay 'ark of hope, thy silent song resume!
Pas smiling lights the purpled hills illume!
sa gales and dews of life's delicious morn,
And the lost fragrance of the heart, return!
in de the little joy to man allowed,
And grief before him travels like a cloud;
Ferome Diseases on, and Penury's rage,
Layar, and Care, and Pain, and dismal Age,

Oh! give me not that eye of hard disdain That views undimmed Ensiedlen'st wretched fane. 'Mid muttering prayers all sounds of torment meet, Dire clap of hands, distracted chafe of feet; While, loud and dull, ascends the weeping cry, Surely in other thoughts contempt may die. If the sad grave of human ignorance bear One flower of hope — oh, pass and leave it there! — The tall Sun, tiptoe on an Alpine spire, Flings o'er the wilderness a stream of fire; Now let us meet the pilgrims, ere the day Close on the remnant of their weary way; While they are drawing towards the sacred floor Where the charmed worm of pain shall gnaw no more. How gaily murmur and how sweetly taste The fountainsi reared for them amid the waste ! There some with tearful kiss each other greet, And some, with reverence, wash their toil-worn fee Yes, I will see you when ye first behold Those holy turrets tipped with evening gold, In that glad moment when the hands are prest In mute devotion on the thankful breast.

Last let us turn to where Chamoùny shields With rocks and gloomy woods her fertile fields: Five streams of ice amid her cots descend, And with wild flowers and blooming orchards blend ;A scene more fair than what the Grecian feigns Of purple lights and ever-vernal plains; Here lawns and shades by breezy rivulets fanned, Here all the Seasons revel hand in hand. -Red stream the cottage-lights; the landscape fades, Erroneous wavering 'mid the twilight shades. Alone ascends that Hill of matchless height|l, That holds no commerce with the summer Night; From age to age, amid his lonely bounds The crash of ruin fitfully resounds;

+ This shrine is resorted to, from a hope of relief, by multitudes, from every corner of the Catholic world, labouring under mental or bodily afflictions.

| Rude fountains built and covered with sheds for the accommodation of the Pilgrims, in their ascent of the mountain.

$ This word is pronounced upon the spot Chàmouny: I have taken the liberty of changing the accent.

|| It is only from the higher part of the valley of Chåmouny .hat Mont Blace is visible.

The etist of the famong air, called in French Ranz des Perles epon the Swis troope.

Mysterious havoc ! but serene his brow,

When from October clouds a milder light Where daylight lingers ’mid perpetual snow; Fell, where the blue flood rippled into white, Glitter the stars above, and all is black below.

Methought from every cot the watchfal bird

Crowed with ear-piercing power till then unheard; At such an hour I heaved a pensive sigh,

Each clacking mill, that broke the murmuring streains, When roared the sullen Arve in anger by,

Rocked the charmed thought in more delightfri That not for thy reward, delicious Vale!

dreams; Waves the ripe harvest in the autumnal gale;

Chasing those long, long dreams, the falling leaf That thou, the slave of slaves, art doomed to pine;

Awoke a fainte; pang of moral grief; Hard lot!—for no Italian arts are thine,

The measured echo of the distant flail To soothe or cheer, to soften or refine.

Wound in more welcome cadence down the vale; Beloved Freedom! were it mine to stray,

A more majestic tidet the water rolled,
With shrill winds roaring round my lonely way, And glowed the sun-gilt groves in richer gold.
O'er the bleak sides of Cumbria's heath-clad moors, - Though Liberty shall soon, indignant, raise
Or where dank sea-weed lashes Scotland's shores; Red on the hills his beacon's comet blaze;
To scent the sweets of Piedmont's breathing rose, Bid from on high his lonely cannon sound,
And orange gale that o'er Lugano blows;

And on ten thousand hearths his shout rebound;
In the wide range of many a varied round,

His larum-bell from village tower to tower Fleet as my passage was, I still have found

Swing on the astounded ear its dull undying roar; That where despotic courts their gems display, Yet, yet rejoice, though Pride's perverted ire The lillies of domestic joy decay,

Rouse Hell's own aid, and wrap thy hills in fire! While the remotest hamlets blessings share,

Lo! from the innocuous flames, a lovely birth, In thy dear presence known, and only there!

With its own Virtues springs another earth: The casement's shed more luscious woodbine binds, Nature, as in her prime, her virgin reign And to the door a neater pathway winds;

Begins, and Love and Truth compose her train; At early morn, the careful housewife, led

While, with a pulseless hand, and steadfast gaze, To cull her dinner from its garden bed,

Unbreathing Justice her still beam surveys.
Of weedless herbs a healthier prospect sees,
While hum with busier joy her happy bees;

Oh give, great God, to Freedom's waves to ride In brighter rows her table wealth aspires,

Sublime o'er Conquest, Avarice, and Pride, And laugh with merrier blaze her evening fires ;

To sweep where Pleasure decks her guilty bowers, Her infants' cheeks with fresher roses glow,

And dark Oppression builds her thick-ribbed towers And wilder graces sport around their brow;

- Give them, beneath their breast while gladnese By clearer taper lit, a cleanlier board

springs, Receives at supper hour her tempting hoard;

To brood the nations o'er with Nile-like wings; The chamber hearth with fresher boughs is spread,

And grant that every sceptred Child of clay, And whiter is the hospitable bed.

Who cries, presumptuous, "Here their tides shall stay," And oh, fair France ! though now along the shade, Swept in their anger from the affrighted shore, Where erst at will the gray-clad peasant strayed,

With all his creatures sink-to rise no more!
Gleam war's discordant vestments through the trees,
And the red banner fluctuates in the breeze;

To-night, my friend, within this humble cot
Though martial songs have banished songs of love, Be the dead load of mortal ills forgot
And nightingales forsake the village grove,

In timely sleep; and, when at break of day,
Scared by the fife and rumbling drum’s alarms, On the tall peaks the glistening sunbeams play,
And the short thunder, and the flash of arms;

With lighter heart our course we may renew, While, as Night bids the startling uproar die, The first whose footsteps print the mountain dew. Sole sound, the Sourd* renews his mournful cry! -- Yet, hast thou found that Freedom spreads her + The duties upon many parts of the French rivers were so power

exorbitant, that the poorer people, deprived of the benefit of Beyond the cottage hearth, the cottage door :

water carriage were obliged to transport their goods by land. All nature smiles, and owns beneath her eyes Her fields peculiar, and peculiar skies. Yes, as I roamed where Loiret's waters glide Through rustling aspens heard from side to side,

* An insect is so called, which emits a short, melancholy cry, heard at the close of the summer evenings, on the banks of the Loire.

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Such as did once the Poet bless,

Who murmuring here a later* ditty,
Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.

Could find no refuge from distress
The kine are couched upon the dewy grass;

But in the milder grief of pity.
The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,

Now let us, as we float along,
Is cropping audibly his later meal:

For him suspend the dashing oar;
Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal
O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky.

And pray that never child of song
Now, in this blank of things, a harmony

May know that Poet's sorrows more.

How calm! how still! the only sound,
Homefelt, and home created, seems to heal
That grief for which the senses still supply

The dripping of the oar suspended !
Fresh food; for only then, when memory

– The evening darkness gathers round Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends! restrain

By virtue's holiest Powers attended.t
Those busy cares that would allay my pain;
Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feel
The officious touch that makes me droop again.

Left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, which stands near the Lake
of Esthwaite, on a desolate part of the Shore, commanding a


beautiful Prospect. LINES

Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands
WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENING. Far from all human dwelling; what if here
How richly glows the water's breast

No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb?
Before us, tinged with evening hues,

What if the bee love not these barren boughs ?
While, facing thus the crimson west,

Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves, The boat her silent course pursues !

That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind
And see how dark the backward stream!

By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.
A little moment passed so smiling!
And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam,

-Who he was
Some other loiterers beguiling.

That piled these stones, and with the mossy sod

First covered, and here taught this aged Tree Such views the yoathful bard allure;

With its dark arms to form a circling bower, But, heedless of the following gloom,

I well remember. - He was one who owned He dreams their colours shall endure

No common soul. In youth by science nursed, Till peace go with him to the tomb.

And led by nature into a wild scene -- And let him nurse his fond deceit,

Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth And what if he must die in sorrow!

A favoured Being, knowing no desire Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,

Which genius did not hallow; 'gainst the taint
Though grief and pain may come to-morrow?

Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate,
And scorn, – against all enemies prepared,
All but neglect. The world, for so it thought,

Owed him no service; wherefore he at once

With indignation turned himself away,

And with the food of pride sustained his soul

In solitude. - Stranger! these gloomy boughs
Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit,

His only visitants a straggling sheep,
may see

The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper:
As lovely visions by thy side

And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath,
And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er,
Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour


GLIDE gently, thus for ever glide,
O Thames! that other bards

As now, fair river! come to me.
O glide, fair stream! for ever so,
Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,
Till all our minds for ever flow
As thy deep waters now are flowing.

Voin thought!-Yet be as now thou art,
That in thy waters may be seen
The image of a poet's heart,
How bright, how solemn, how serene !

* Collins's Ode on the Death of Thomson, the last written,
I believe, of the poems which were published during his
lifetime. This Ode is also alluded to in the next stanza.
t["* Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore

When Thames in summer wreaths is drest,
And oft suspend the dashing oar,
To bid his gentle spirit resti!”



A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here
An emblem of his own unfruitful life:
And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze
On the more distant scene,- how lovely 'tis

Thou seest,- and he would gaze till it became
Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain
"The beauty, still more beauteous! Nor, that time,
When nature had subdued him to herself,
Would he forget those Beings to whose minds,
Warm from the labours of benevolence,
The world and human life appeared a scene
Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh,
Inly disturbed, to think that others felt
What he must never feel: and so, lost Man!
On visionary views would fancy feed,
Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale
He died, - this seat his only monument.

sistible arms of Great Britain being added to those of the allies, . was assured in my own mind would be of long continuance, and productive of distress and misery beyond all possible calculation This conviction was pressed upon me by having been a witness, during a long residence in revolutionary France, of the spirit which prevailed in that country. After leaving the Isle of Wight, I spent two days in wandering on foot over Salisbury Plain, which, though cultivation was then widely spread through parts of it, had upon the whole a still more impressive appearance than it now retains.

The monuments and traces of antiquity, scattered in abundance over that region, led ine unavoidably to compare what we know or guess of those remote times with certain aspects of modern society, and with calamities, principally those consequent upon war, to which, more than other classes of men, the poor are subject.lv those reflections, joined with particular facts that had come to my knowledge, the following stanzas originated.

In conclusion, to obviato nome distraction in the minds of those who are well acquainted with Salisbury Plain, it may be proper 10 say, that of the features described as belonging to it, one or two are taken from other desolate parts of England.

If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms
Of young imagination have kept pure
Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride,
Howe'er disguised in its own majesty,
Is littleness; that he who feels contempt
For any living thing, hath faculties
Which he has never used; that thought with him
Is in its infancy. The man whose eye
Is ever on himself doth look on one,
The least of Nature's works, one who might move
The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds
Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, thou !
Instructed that true knowledge leads to love;
True dignity abides with him alone
Who, in the silent hour of inward thought,
Can still suspect, and still revere himself,
In lowliness of heart.

A TRAVELLER on the skirt of Sarum's Plain
Pursued his vagrant way, with feet half bare;
Stooping his gait, but not as if to gain
Help from the staff he bore; for mien and air
Were hardy, though his cheek seemed worn with care
Both of the time to come, and time long fled:
Down fell in straggling locks his thin grey hair ;
A coat he wore of military red,
But faded, and stuck o'er with many a patch and shred


While thus he journeyed, step by step led on,
He saw and passed a stately inn, full sure
That welcome in such house for him was none.
No board inscribed the needy to allure
Hung there, no bush proclaimed to old and poor
And desolate, “ Here you will find a friend!"
The pendent grapes glittered above the door;-
On he must pace, perchance 'till night descend,
Where'er the dreary roads their bare white lines extend.



bugun 179


The gathering clouds grew red with stormy fire,
In streaks diverging wide and mounting high;

That inn he long had passed; the distant spire,

Which oft as he looked back had fixed his eye,

Was lost, though still he looked, in the blank sky. ADVERTISEMENT,

Perplexed and comfortless he gazed around, PREFIXED TO THE FIRST EDITION OF THIS POEM, PUBLISHED IN 1842. And scarce could any trace of man descry,

Save cornfields stretched and stretching without bound; Not less than one-third of the following poem, though it has But where the sower dwelt was nowhere to be found. from time to time been altered in the expression, was published so far back as the year 1798, under the title of "The Female Vagrant." The extract is of such length that an apology seems to be required No tree was there, no meadow's pleasant green, for reprinting it here: but it was necessary to restore it to its origi. nal position, or the rest would have been unintelligible. The whole

No brook to wet his lip or soothe his ear; was written before the close of the year 1794, and I will detail, Long files of corn-stacks here and there were seen, rather as matter of literary biography than for any other reason, the circumstances under which it was produced.

But not one dwelling-place his heart to cheer. During the latter part of the summer of 1793, having passed a

Some labourer, thought he, may perchance be near; month in the Isle of Wight, in view of the fleet which was then And so he sent a feeble shout- in vain; preparing for sea off Portsmouth at the commencement of the war, No voice made answer, he could only hear i left the place with melancholy forebodings. The American war was still fresh in memory. The struggle which was beginning, and

Winds rustling over plots of unripe grain, which many thought would be brought to a speedy close by the irre. I or whistling thro' thin grass along the unfurrowed plain,


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