To tell his worth, the marble of this tomb Would ill suffice for Plato's lore sublime, And all the wisdom of the Stagirite, Enrich'd and beautified his studious mind: With Archimedes also he conversed
As with a chosen friend, nor did he leave
Those laureat wreaths ungather'd which the nymphs Twine on the top of Pindus. Finally,
Himself above each lower thought uplifting, His ears he closed to listen to the song Which Sion's kings did consecrate of old; And fix'd his Pindus upon Lebanon. A blessed man! who of protracted days Made not, as thousands do, a vulgar sleep; But truly did he live his life.-Urbino Take pride in him. O passenger, farewell!
COMPOSED AT GRASMERE, DURING A WALK, ONE EVENING, AFTER A STORMY DAY, THE AUTHOR HAVING JUST READ IN A NEWSPAPER THAT THE DISSOLUTION OF MR. FOX WAS HOURLY EXPECTED.
LOUD is the Vale! the voice is up
With which she speaks when storms are gone,
A mighty unison of streams!
Of all her voices, one!
Loud is the Vale !-this inland depth
In peace is roaring like the sea;
Yon star upon the mountain-top
Is listening quietly.
Sad was I, even to pain depress'd, Importunate and heavy load! The comforter hath found me here, Upon this lonely road;
And many thousands now are sad- Wait the fulfilment of their fear; For he must die who is their stay, Their glory disappear.
A power is passing from the earth To breathless Nature's dark abyss; And when the mighty pass away, What is it more than this-
That man, who is from God sent forth, Doth yet again to God return?- Such ebb and flow must ever be ;
Then wherefore should we mourn?
WRITTEN NOVEMBER 13, 1814, ON A BLANK LEAF, IN A COPY OF THE AUTHOR'S POEM "THE EXCURSION," UPON HEARING OF THE DEATH OF THE LATE VICAR OF KENDAL.
To public notice, with reluctance strong, Did I deliver this unfinish'd song; Yet for one happy issue; and I look With self-congratulation on the book Which pious, learned Murfitt saw and read. Upon my thoughts his saintly spirit fed;
He conn'd the new-born lay with grateful heart; Foreboding not how soon he must depart,
Unwitting that to him the joy was given
Which good men take with them from earth to heaven.
SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE IN A STORM, PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT.
I WAS thy neighbour once, thou rugged pile! Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee: I saw thee every day; and all the while Thy form was sleeping on a glassy sea.
So pure the sky, so quiet was the air! So like, so very like, was day to day! Whene'er I look'd, thy image still was there; It trembled, but it never pass'd away.
How perfect was the calm! It seem'd no sleep, No mood, which season takes away, or brings: I could have fancied that the mighty deep Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. Ah! then, if mine had been the painter's hand, To express what then I saw ; and add the gleam, The light that never was, on sea or land, The consecration, and the Poet's dream;
I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile! Amid a world how different from this! Beside a sea that could not cease to smile; On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss:
Thou shouldst have seem'd a treasure-house, a mine Of peaceful years; a chronicle of Heaven :-
Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine,
The very sweetest had to thee been given. A picture had it been of lasting ease, Elysian quiet, without toil or strife; No motion but the moving tide, a breeze, Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.
Such, in the fond illusion of my heart, Such picture would I at that time have made; And seen the soul of truth in every part; A faith, a trust, that could not be betray'd. So once it would have been,-'tis so no more; I have submitted to a new control:
A power is gone, which nothing can restore; A deep distress hath humanized my soul. Not for a moment could I now behold A smiling sea, and be what I have been: The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old;
This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.
Then, Beaumont, friend! who would have been the friend
If he had lived, of him whom I deplore,
This work of thine I blame not, but commend, This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.
Oh 'tis a passionate work!-yet wise and well; Well chosen is the spirit that is here; That hulk which labours in the deadly swell, This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear! And this huge castle, standing here sublime, I love to see the look with which it braves, Cased in th' unfeeling armour of old time, The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves. Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone, Housed in a dream, at distance from the kind! Such happiness, wherever it be known, Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind.
But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer, And frequent sights of what is to be borne ! Such sights, or worse, as are before me here.- Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
SWEET flower! belike, one day, to have A place upon thy Poet's grave, I welcome thee once more: But he, who was on land, at sea, My brother, too, in loving thee, Although he loved more silently, Sleeps by his native shore.
Ah! hopeful, hopeful was the day When to that ship he bent his way, To govern and to guide:
His wish was gain'd: a little time
Would bring him back in manhood's prime, And free for life, these hills to climb,
With all his wants supplied.
And full of hope day follow'd day, While that stout ship at anchor lay Beside the shores of Wight;
The May had then made all things green; And, floating there in pomp serene,
That ship was goodly to be seen,
His pride and his delight!
Yet then, when call'd ashore, he sought The tender peace of rural thought; In more than happy mood,
To your abodes, bright daisy flowers! He then would steal at leisure hours, And loved you glittering in your bowers, A starry multitude.
But hark the word!-the ship is gone; From her long course returns-anon Sets sail in season due,
Once more on English earth they stand: But, when a third time from the land They parted, sorrow was at hand For him and for his crew.
Ill-fated vessel! ghastly shock! At length deliver'd from the rock,
The deep she hath regain'd;
And through the stormy night they steer, Labouring for life, in hope and fear, Towards a safer shore-how near, Yet not to be attain'd!
"Silence!" the brave commander cried; To that calm word a shriek replied, It was the last death-shriek. A few appear by morning light, Preserved upon the tall mast's height: Oft in my soul I see that sight; But one dear remnant of the night- For him in vain I seek.
Six weeks, beneath the moving sea, He lay in slumber quietly; Unforced, by wind or wave,
To quit the ship for which he died
(All claims of duty satisfied);
And there they found him at her side,
And bore him to the grave.
Vain service! yet not vainly done,
For this, if other end were none,
That he, who had been cast
Upon a way of life unmeet
For such a gentle soul and sweet,
Should find an undisturb'd retreat
Near what he loved, at last;
That neighbourhood of grove and field To him a resting-place should yield, A meek man and a brave!
The birds shall sing, and ocean make
A mournful murmur, for his sake;
And thou, sweet flower, shalt sleep and wake Upon his senseless grave!
INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD.
"The child is father of the man;
And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety."
THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparell'd in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it has been of yore ;- Turn wheresoe'er I may,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more!
The rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the rose,
The moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare;
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where'er I go,
That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief; A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong.
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,- No more shall grief of mine the season wrong: I hear the echocs through the mountains throng, The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay;
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