Puslapio vaizdai


SCORN not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,
Mindless of its just honors; with this key
Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound;
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;
With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief;
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned
His visionary brow; a glow-worm lamp,

It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land
To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand

The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew
Soul-animating strains

alas, too few!


SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,

A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!

- Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and oh,
The difference is to me!




A TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping rain,
Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light
Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height;
Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain
For kindred Power departing from their sight;
While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain,
Saddens his voice again, and yet again.

Lift up your hearts, ye mourners! for the might
Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes;
Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue

Than sceptered king or laurelled conqueror knows,
Follow this wondrous Potentate.
Be true,

Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea,
Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope!


AMID the smoke of cities did you pass

The time of early youth; and there you learned,
From years of quiet industry, to love

The living Beings by your own fire-side,

With such a strong devotion, that your heart

Is slow to meet the sympathies of them

Who look upon the hills with tenderness,

And make dear friendship with the streams and groves. Yet we, who are transgressors in this kind,

Dwelling retired in our simplicity

Among the woods and fields, we love you well,
Joanna and I guess, since you have been
So distant from us now for two long years,

That you will gladly listen to discourse,
However trivial, if you thence be taught
That they, with whom you once were happy, talk
Familiarly of you and of old times.

While I was seated, now some ten days past,
Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop
Their ancient neighbor, the old steeple-tower,
The Vicar, from his gloomy house hard by,
Came forth to greet me; and when he had asked
"How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid?
And when will she return to us ?" he paused;
And, after short exchange of village news,
He with grave looks demanded, for what cause,
Reviving obsolete idolatry,

I, like a Runic Priest, in characters

Of formidable size, had chiselled out

Some uncouth name upon the native rock,
Above the Rotha, by the forest-side.
Now, by those dear immunities of heart
Engendered between malice and true love,
I was not loth to be so catechized,
And this was my reply: "As it befel
One summer morning we had walked abroad
At break of day, Joanna and myself.

-Twas that delightful season when the broom,
Full-flowered, and visible on every steep,

Along the copses runs in veins of gold.

Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks;

And when we came in front of that tall rock

That eastward looks, I there stopped short- and stood Tracing the lofty barrier with my eye

From base to summit; such delight I found

To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower,
That intermixture of delicious hues,

Along so vast a surface, all at once,

In one impression, by connecting force

Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart.
-When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' space,
Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld

That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud.
The Rock, like something starting from a sleep,
Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed again;
That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag
Was ready with her cavern; Hammar-scar,
And the tall steep of Silver-how, sent forth
A noise of laughter; southern Louhrigg heard,
And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone;
Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky

Carried the Lady's voice,

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- old Skiddaw blew His speaking-trumpet; - back out of the clouds

Of Glarmara southward came the voice;
And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head.

Now whether (said I to our cordial Friend,
Who in the heyday of astonishment

Smiled in my face) this were in simple truth
A work accomplished by the brotherhood
Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched
With dreams and visionary impulses

To me alone imparted, sure I am

That there was a loud uproar in the hills.
And, while we both were listening, to my side
The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished

To shelter from some object of her fear.

-And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons
Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone
Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm
And silent morning, I sat down, and there,
In memory 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."

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