Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as we have

here?

Or gives a thing but small delight that never can be

dear?

The silver moon with all her vales, and hills of mightiest

fame,

Doth she* betray us when they're seen? or are they but

a name?

Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is and strong, And bounty never yields so much but it seems to do her wrong?

Or is it, that when human Souls a journey long have

had

And are returned into themselves, they cannot but be sad?

Or must we be constrained to think that these Spectators

rude,

Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude, Have souls which never yet have risen, and therefore prostrate lie?

No, no, this cannot be ;-men thirst for power and majesty !

Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful mind employ

Of him who gazes, or has gazed? a grave and steady joy, That doth reject all show of pride, admits no outward

sign,

Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine!

* Do they betray us.-Edit. 1815.

Whatever be the cause, 'tis sure that they who pry

and pore

Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than

before :

One after One they take their turn, nor have I one espied

That doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied.*

STEPPING WESTWARD.+

While my Fellow traveller and I were walking by the side of Loch Ketterine, one fine evening after sunset, in our road to a Hut where, in the course of our Tour, we had been hospitably entertained some weeks before, we met, in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary region, two well-dressed Women, one of whom said to us, by way of greeting, "What, you are stepping westward ?"

'WHAT, you are stepping westward ?”.
Twould be a wildish destiny,

If we, who thus together roam

In a strange Land, and far from home,
Were in this place the guests of Chance:
Yet who would stop, or fear to advance,
Though home or shelter he had none,
With such a sky to lead him on?

The dewy ground was dark and cold;
Behind, all gloomy to behold;

"Yea."

* Mr. Coleridge commends this poem for its "just and original reflections."

†The occurrence which gave rise to this poem took place during a Scotch tour September 11, 1803. The verses were not written till long afterwards.

And stepping westward seemed to be
A kind of heavenly destiny:

I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound
Of something without place or bound
And seemed to give me spiritual right
To travel through that region bright.

The voice was soft, and she who spake
Was walking by her native lake :
The salutation had to me

The very sound of courtesy :

;

Its power was felt; and while my eye
Was fixed upon the glowing Sky,
The echo of the voice enwrought
A human sweetness with the thought
Of travelling through the world that lay

In this still place, remote from men,
Sleeps Ossian, in the NARROW GLEN;
In this still place, where murmurs on
But one meek streamlet, only one :
He sang of battles, and the breath
Of stormy war, and violent death;
And should, methinks, when all was past,
Have rightfully been laid at last

*Written after the Poet's Scotch tour, 1803.

1

Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent
As by a spirit turbulent;

Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,
And everything unreconciled;

In some complaining, dim retreat,
For fear and melancholy meet;
But this is calm; there cannot be
A more entire tranquillity.

Does then the Bard sleep here indeed ?

Or is it but a groundless creed ?

What matters it ?—I blame them not
Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot
Was moved; and in such way expressed
Their notion of its perfect rest.
A convent, even a hermit's cell,

Would break the silence of this Dell :
It is not quiet, is not ease;

But something deeper far than these :
The separation that is here
Is of the grave; and of austere
Yet happy feelings of the dead :
And, therefore, was it rightly said
That Ossian, last of all his race!
Lies buried in this lonely place.

"

THE SOLITARY REAPER.*

BEHOLD her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands ↑
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands :

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings ?——
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,

Familiar matter of to-day?

Suggested by a beautiful sentence in Thomas Wilkinson's Tour in Scotland."-Miss Wordsworth's Journal.

So sweetly to reposing bands.-Edit. 1815.

No sweeter voice was ever heard.-Edit. 1815.

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