TO

HAPPY the feeling from the bosom thrown
In perfect shape (whose beauty Time shall
spare

Though a breath made it) like a bubble blown
For summer pastime into wanton air;
Happy the thought best likened to a stone
Of the sea-beach, when, polished with nice care,
Veins it discovers exquisite and rare,

PART I. I.

NUNS fret not at their convent's narrow room;
And hermits are contented with their cells;
And students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy: bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,
Will mumur by the hour in foxglove bells:
In truth the prison, unto which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me,
In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound
Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground:
Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs
must be)

Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find brief solace there, as I have found.

II.

ADMONITION.

Intended more particularly for the perusal of those who may have happened to be enamoured of some beautiful Place of Retreat, in the Country of the Lakes.

WELL may'st thou halt--and gaze with brightening eye!

The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook
Hath stirred thee deeply with its own dear
brook,

Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!
But covet not the Abode:-forbear to sigh,
As many do, repining while they look ;
Intruders-who would tear from Nature's book
This precious leaf, with harsh impiety.
Think what the Home must be if it were thine,
Even thine, though few thy wants!-Roof,
window, door,

The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,
The roses to the porch which they entwine:
Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day
On which it should be touched, would melt
away.

A seemly Cottage in this sunny Dell, BEAUMONT! it was thy wish that I should rear

On favoured ground, thy gift, where I might dwell

In neighbourhood with One to me most dear,
That undivided we from year to year

Might work in our high Calling-a bright hope
To which our fancies, mingling, gave free scope
Till checked by some necessities severe.
And should these slacken, honoured BEAU-
MONT! still

Even then we may perhaps in vain implore
Leave of our fate thy wishes to fulfil.
Whether this boon be granted us or not,
Old Skiddaw will look down upon the Spot
With pride, the Muses love it evermore.

V.

1801.

PELION and Ossa flourish side by side, Together in immortal books enrolled:

HER only pilot the soft breeze, the boat Lingers, but Fancy is well satisfied;

Nor would permit the thin smoke to escape, Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day; Which stopped that band of travellers on their

way,

Ere they were lost within the shady wood :
And showed the Bark upon the glassy flood
For ever anchored in her sheltering bay.
Soul-soothing Art! whom Morning, Noon-tide,
Even,

Do serve with all their changeful pageantry;
Thou, with ambition modest yet sublime,
Here, for the sight of mortal man, hast given
To one brief moment caught from fleeting time
The appropriate calm of blest eternity.

X.

"WHY, Minstrel, these untuneful murmur

ings

Dull, flagging notes that with each other jar?" "Think, gentle Lady, of a Harp so far

From its own country, and forgive the strings."
A simple answer! but even so forth springs,
From the Castalian fountain of the heart,
The Poetry of Life, and all that Art
Divine of words quickening insensate things.
From the submissive necks of guiltless men
Stretched on the block, the glittering axe re-
coils :

Sun, moon, and stars, all struggle in the toils
Of mortal sympathy: what wonder then
That the poor Harp distempered music yields
To its sad Lord, far from his native fields?

XI.

AERIAL ROCK-whose solitary brow

side,

And the glad Muse at liberty to note
All that to each is precious, as we float
Gently along: regardless who shall chide
If the heavens smile, and leave us free to glide.
Happy Associates breathing air remote
From trivial cares. But, Fancy and the Muse,
Why have I crowded this small bark with you
And others of your kind, ideal crew!
While here sits One whose brightness owes its

hues

To flesh and blood; no Goddess from above, No fleeting Spirit, but my own true Love?

VIII.

THE fairest, brightest, hues of ether fade;
The sweetest notes must terminate and die;
O Friend! thy flute has breathed a harmony
Softly resounded through this rocky glade :
Such strains of rapture as the Genius played
In his still haunt on Bagdad's summit high;
He who stood visible to Mirza's eye,
Never before to human sight betrayed.
Lo, in the vale, the mists of evening spread!
The visionary Arches are not there,
Nor the green Islands, nor the shining Seas;
Yet sacred is to me this Mountain's head,
Whence I have risen, uplifted on the breeze
Of harmony, above all earthly care.

IX.

UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE, Painted by Sir G. H. Beaumont, Bart. PRAISED be the Art whose subtle power could stay

Yon cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape;

* See the Vision of Mirza in the Spectator.

When I step forth to hail the morning light;
Or quit the stars with a lingering farewell-how
Shall Fancy pay to thee a grateful vow?
How, with the Muse's aid, her love attest?

By planting on thy naked head the crest
Of ruin shall not touch. Innocent scheme!
Of an imperial Castle, which the plough
That doth presume no more than to supply
Want, through neglect of hoar Antiquity.
A grace the sinuous vale and roaring stream
Rise, then, ye votive Towers! and catch a
gleam

Of golden sunset, ere it fade and die.

XII.

TO SLEEP.

O GENTLE SLEEP! do they belong to thee,
These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love
To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove,
A captive never wishing to be free.

This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to me
A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove
Upon a fretful rivulet, now above,

Now on the water vexed with mockery.
I have no pain that calls for patience, no;
Hence am I cross and peevish as a child:
Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe,
Yet ever willing to be reconciled:
O gentle Creature! do not use me so,
But once and deeply let me be beguiled.

XIII. TO SLEEP

FOND words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep!

And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names;

The very sweetest, Fancy culls or frames,
When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep!
Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost steep
In rich reward all suffering; Balm that tames
All anguish; Saint that evil thoughts and aims
Takest away, and into souls dost creep,
Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone,
I surely not a man ungently made,
Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost?
Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown,
Mere slave of them who never for thee prayed,

Sull last to come where thou art wanted most!
XIV.

TO SLEEP.

A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by,
One after one: the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure
sky;

I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie
Sleepless! and soon the small birds' melodies
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees;
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,

And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
So do not let me wear to-night away:
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
Come, blessed barrier between day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous

health!

XV.

THE WILD DUCK'S NEST.

THE imperial Consort of the Fairy-king
Owns not a sylvan bower; or gorgeous cell
With emerald floored, and with purpureal shell
Ceilinged and roofed; that is so fair a thing
As this low structure, for the tasks of Spring,
Prepared by one who loves the buoyant swell
Of the brisk waves, yet here consents to dwell;
And spreads in steadfast peace her brooding
wing.

Words cannot paint the o'ershadowing yew-tree bough,

And dimly-gleaming Nest,-a hollow crown
Of golden leaves inlaid with silver down,
Fine as the mother's softest plumes allow :
I gazed-and, self-accused while gazing, sighed
For human-kind, weak slaves of cumbrous
pride!

XVII.

TO THE POET, JOHN DYER.

BARD of the Fleece, whose skilful genius made
That work a living landscape fair and bright;
Nor hallowed less with musical delight
Than those soft scenes through which the child.
hood strayed,

Those southern tracts of Cambria, "deep embayed,

With green hills fenced, with ocean's murmur lull'd;"

Though hasty Fame hath many a chaplet culled
For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade
Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced,
Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and
still,

A grateful few, shall love thy modest Lay,
Long as the shepherd's bleating flock shall stray
O'er naked Snowdon's wide aërial waste;
Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill!

XVIII.

ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED THE PUBLICATION OF A CERTAIN POEM.

See Milton's Sonnet, beginning, "A Book was writ of late called Tetrachordon.'

A

Book came forth of late, called PETER
BELL;

As aught that song records of Robin Hood:
Not negligent the style ;-the matter?-good
Or Roy, renowned through many a Scottish
dell;

But some (who brook those hackneyed themes full well,

Nor heat, at Tam o' Shanter's name, their blood Waxed wroth, and with foul claws, a harpy brood,

On Bard and Hero clamorously fell.
Heed not, wild Rover once through heatn and
glen,

Who mad'st at length the better life thy choice,
Heed not such onset! nay, if praise of men
To thee appear not an unmeaning voice,
Lift up that grey-haired forehead, and rejoice,
In the just tribute of thy Poet's pen!

XIX.

GRIEF, thou hast lost an ever ready friend
Now that the cottage Spinning-wheel is mute;
And Care-a comforter that best could suit
Her froward mood, and softliest reprehend;
And Love-a charmer's voice, that used to lend,
More efficaciously than aught that flows
From harp or lute, kind influence to compose
The throbbing pulse-else troubled without
end:

Even Joy could tell, Joy craving truce and rest
From her own overflow, what power sedate
On those revolving motions did await
Assiduously-to soothe her aching breast;
And, to a point of just relief, abate
The mantling triumphs of a day too blest.

COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE VALLEYS OF WEST-
MORELAND, ON EASTER SUNDAY.

WITH each recurrence of this glorious morn
That saw the Saviour in his human frame
Rise from the dead, erewhile the Cottage-dame
Put on fresh raiment-till that hour unworn:
Domestic hands the home-bred wool had shorn,
And she who span it culled the daintiest fleece,
In thoughtful reverence to the Prince of Peace,
Whose temples bled beneath the platted thorn.
A blest estate when piety sublime

These humble props disdained not! O green dales!

Sad may I be who heard your sabbath chime When Art's abused inventions were unknown; Kind Nature's various wealth was all your

COMPOSED ON THE EVE OF THE MARRIAGE OF A
FRIEND IN THE VALE OF GRASMERE, 1812.

WHAT need of clamorous bells or ribands gay.
These humble nuptials to proclaim or grace?
Angels of love, look down upon the place;
Shed on the chosen vale a sun-bright day!
Yet no proud gladness would the Bride display
Even for such promise:-serious is her face,
Modest her mien; and she, whose thoughts
keep pace

With gentleness, in that becoming way

But, when the closer view of wedded life
Hath shown that nothing human can be clear
From frailty, for that insight may the Wife
To her indulgent Lord become more dear.

XXIV.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO.
I.

YES! hope may with my strong desire keep

расе,

And I be undeluded, unbetrayed;
For if of our affections none finds grace

In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God made

The world which we inhabit? Better plea
Love cannot have, than that in loving thee
Glory to that eternal Peace is paid,
Who such divinity to thee imparts
As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.
His hope is treacherous only whose love dies
With beauty, which is varying every hour:
But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power
Of outward change, there blooms a deathless
flower,
That breathes on earth the air of paradise.

XXV.

FROM THE SAME. II.

No mortal object did these eyes behold
When first they met the placid light of thine,
And my Soul felt her destiny divine,
And hope of endless peace in me grew bold:
Heaven-born, the Soul a heaven-ward course
must hold;

Beyond the visible world she soars to seek
(For what delights the sense is false and weak)
Ideal Form, the universal mould.

The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest
In that which perishes: nor will he lend
His heart to aught which doth on time depend.
That kills the soul: love betters what is best,
'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love,
Even here below, but more in heaven above.

FROM THE SAME.

XXVI.

TO THE SUPREME BEING.
III.

THE prayers I make will then be sweet indeed
If Thou the spirit give by which I pray :
My unassisted heart is barren clay,
That of its native self can nothing feed:
Of good and pious works thou art the seed,
That quickens only where thou say'st it may :
Unless Thou show to us thine own true way
No man can find it: Father! Thou must lead
Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my
mind

That in thy holy footsteps I may tread :
By which such virtue may in me be bred
The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind,
That I may have the power to sing of thee,
And sound thy praises everlastingly.

whom

pear;

No disproportion in her soul, no strife:

That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind—