Puslapio vaizdai
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XVII.

WRITTEN UPON A BLANK LEAF IN "THE COMPLETE ANGLer.

WHILE flowing Rivers yield a blameless sport,

Shall live the name of Walton;

Sage benign!

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Whose pen, the mysteries of the rod and line

Unfolding, did not fruitlessly exhort

To reverend watching of each still report
That Nature utters from her rural shrine. —
Meek, nobly versed in simple discipline,

He found the longest summer day too short,
To his loved pastime given by sedgy Lee,

Or down the tempting maze of Shawford brook!
Fairer than life itself, in this sweet Book,

The cowslip bank and shady willow-tree,

And the fresh meads; where flowed, from every nook

Of his full bosom, gladsome Piety!

XVIII.

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 thy Childhood strayed,
Those southern Tracts of Cambria, " deep embayed,

With green
hills fenced, with Ocean's murmur lulled;"
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 aerial waste;

Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill!

XIX.

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;" Not negligent the style; the matter?-good

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As aught that song records of Robin Hood;
Or Roy, renowned through many a Scottish dell;
But some (who brook these hacknied 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 heath 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 gray-haired forehead, and rejoice
In the just tribute of thy Poet's pen!

XX.

TO THE RIVER DERWENT.

AMONG the mountains were we nursed, loved Stream! Thou, near the eagle's nest - within brief sail,

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I, of his bold wing floating on the gale,

Where thy deep voice could lull me! - Faint the beam

Of human life when first allowed to gleam

On mortal notice.

Glory of the Vale,

Such thy meek outset, with a crown though frail
Kept in perpetual verdure by the steam

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Of thy soft breath! Less vivid wreath entwined Nemæan Victor's brow; less bright was worn,

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With captives chained; and shedding from his car

The sunset splendours of a finished war

Upon the proud enslavers of mankind!

XXI.

COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE VALLEYS OF WESTMORLAND,
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:

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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 own;
And benefits were weighed in Reason's scales!

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