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The forest huge of ancient Caledon
Is but a name, no more is Inglewood,
That swept from hill to hill, from flood to flood :
On her last thorn the nightly moon has shone ;
Yet still, though unappropriate Wild be none,
Fair parksspread wide where Adam Bell might deign
With Clym o' the Clough, were they alive again,
To kill for merry feast their venison.
Nor wants the holy Abbot's gliding Shade
His church with monumental wreck bestrown;
The feudal Warrior-chief, a Ghost unlaid,
Hath still his castle, though a skeleton,
That he may watch by night, and lessons con
Of power that perishes, and rights that fade.

[On the roadside between Penrith and Appleby, there stands a pillar with the following inscription :

• This pillar was erected, in the year 1656, by Anne Countess Dowager of Pembroke, &c. for a memorial of her last parting with her pious mother, Margaret Countess Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d of April, 1616; in memory whereof she hath left an annuity of 41. to be distributed to the poor of the parish of Brougham, every 2d day of April for ever, upon the stone table placed hard

by. Laus Deo!'] While the Poor gather round, till the end of time May this bright flower of Charity display Its bloom, unfolding at the appointed day; Flower than the loveliest of the vernal prime Lovelier-transplanted from heaven's purest clime! *Charity never faileth :' on that creed, More than on written testament or deed, The pious Lady built with hope sublime. Alms on this stone to be dealt out, for ever! • Laus Deo.' Many a Stranger passing by Has with that Parting mixed a filial sigh, Blest its humane Memorial's fond endeavour; And, fastening on those lines an eye tear-glazed, Has ended, though no Clerk, with ‘God be praised !'



HART'S-HORN TREE, NEAR PENRITH. HERE stood an Oak, that long had borne affixed To his huge trunk, or, with more subtle art, Among its withering topmost branches mixed, The palmy antlers of a hunted Hart, Whom the Dog Hercules pursued—his part Each desperately sustaining, till at last Both sank and died, the life-veins of the chased And chaser bursting here with one dire smart. Mutual the victory, mutual the defeat ! High was the trophy hung with pitiless pride; Say, rather, with that generous sympathy That wants not, even in rudest breasts, a seat; And, for this feeling's sake, let no one chide Verse that would guard thy memory, Hart'S-HORN


ROMAN ANTIQUITIES. (FROM THE ROMAN STATION AT OLD PENRITH.) How profitless the relics that we cull, Troubling the last holds of ambitious Rome, Unless they chasten fancies that presume Too high, or idle agitations lull ! Of the world's flatteries if the brain be full, To have no seat for thought were better doom, Like this old helmet, or the eyeless skull Of him who gloried in its nodding plume. Heaven out of view, our wishes what are they? Our fond regrets tenacious in their grasp? The Sage's theory? the Poet's lay ?Mere Fibulæ without a robe to clasp; Obsolete lamps, whose light no time recals; Urns without ashes, tearless lacrymals !



The Lovers took within this ancient grove
Their last embrace; beside those crystal springs
The Hermit saw the Angel spread his wings
For instant flight; the Sage in yon alcove
Sate musing; on that hill the Bard would rove,
Not mute, where now the linnet only sings:
Thus every where truth Tradition clings,
Or Fancy localises Powers we love.
Were only History licensed to take note
Of things gone by, her meagre monuments
Would ill suffice for persons and events :
There is an ampler page for man to quote,
A readier book of manifold contents,
Studied alike in palace and in cot.




No more: the end is sudden and abrupt, Abrupt—as without preconceived design Was the beginning; yet the several Lays Have moved in order, to each other bound

* See Note.

By a continuous and acknowledged tie
Though unapparent-like those Shapes distinct
That yet survive ensculptured on the walls
Of palaces, or temples, 'mid the wreck
Of famed Persepolis ; each following each,
As might beseem a stately embassy,
In set array; these bearing in their hands
Ensign of civil power, weapon of war,
Or gift to be presented at the throne
Of the Great King; and others, as they go
In priestly veste with holy offerings charged,
Or leading victims drest for sacrifice.
Nor will the Power we serve, that sacred Power,
The Spirit of humanity, disdain
A ministration humble but sincere,
That from a threshold loved by every Muse
Its impulse took-that sorrow-stricken door,

Whence, as a current from its fountain-head,
Our thoughts have issued, and our feelings flowed,
Receiving, willingly or not, fresh strength
From kindred sources; while around us sighed
(Life's three first seasons having passed away)
Leaf-scattering winds; and hoar-frost sprinklings

(Foretaste of winter) on the moorland heights ;
And every day brought with it tidings new
Of rash change, ominous for the public weal.
Hence, if dejection has too oft encroached
Upon that sweet and tender melancholy
Which may itself be cherished and caressed
More than enough; a fault so natural
(Even with the young, the hopeful, or the gay)
For prompt forgiveness will not sue in vain.






Wheels and the tread of hoofs are heard no more;

One boat there was, but it will touch the shore Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to lose

With the next dipping of its slackened oar; Day's grateful warmth, tho’ moist with falling dews.

Faint sound, that, for the gayest of the gay, Look for the stars, you 'll say that there are none;

Might give to serious thought a moment's sway,
Look up a second time, and, one by one,
You mark them twinkling out with silvery light,

As a last token of man's toilsome day!
And wonder how they could elude the sight!
The birds, of late so noisy in their bowers,
Warbled a while with faint and fainter powers,
But now are silent as the dim-seen flowers :
Nor does the village Church-clock’s iron tone
The time's and season's influence disown;

Easter Sunday, April 7.
Nine beats distinctly to each other bound

In drowsy sequence-how unlike the sound
That, in rough winter, oft inflicts a fear

The Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire,
On fireside listeners, doubting what they hear ! Flung back from distant climes a streaming fire,
The shepherd, bent on rising with the sun,

Whose blaze is now subdued to tender gleams, Had closed his door before the day was done, Prelude of night's approach with soothing dreams. And now with thankful heart to bed doth creep, Look round ;-of all the clouds not one is moving ; And joins his little children in their sleep.

'Tis the still hour of thinking, feeling, loving. The bat, lured forth where trees the lane o'ershade, Silent, and stedfast as the vaulted sky, Flits and reflits along the close arcade ;

The boundless plain of waters seems to lie :The busy dor-hawk chases the white moth

Comes that low sound from breezes rustling o'er With burring note, which Industry and Sloth The grass-crowned headland that conceals the Might both be pleased with, for it suits them both.

shore ? A stream is heard- I see it not, but know

No; 'tis the earth-voice of the mighty sea, By its soft music whence the waters flow:

Whispering how meek and gentle he can be !





Thou Power supreme! who, arming to rebuke On British waters with that look benign?
Offenders, dost put off the gracious look,

Ye mariners, that plough your onward way,
And clothe thyself with terrors like the flood Or in the haven rest, or sheltering bay,
Of ocean roused into his fiercest mood,

May silent thanks at least to God be given
Whatever discipline thy Will ordain

With a full heart; our thoughts are heard in For the brief course that must for me remain ;

Teach me with quick-eared spirit to rejoice
In admonitions of thy softest voice!
Whate'er the path these mortal feet may trace,
Breathe through my soul the blessing of thy grace,
Glad, through a perfect love, a faith sincere

Not in the lucid intervals of life
Drawn from the wisdom that begins with fear,

That come but as a curse to party-strife; Glad to expand; and, for a season, free

Not in some hour when Pleasure with a sigh From finite cares, to rest absorbed in Thee!

Of languor puts his rosy garland by ;
Not in the breathing-times of that poor slave
Who daily piles up wealth in Mammon's cave-
Is Nature felt, or can be ; nor do words,
Which practised talent readily affords,

Prove that her hand has touched responsive chords ; (BY THE SEA-SIDE.)

Nor has her gentle beauty power to move The sun is couched, the sea-fowl gone to rest, With genuine rapture and with fervent love And the wild storm hath somewhere found a nest; The soul of Genius, if he dare to take Air slumbers-wave with wave no longer strives, Life's rule from passion craved for passion's sake; Only a heaving of the deep survives,

Untaught that meekness is the cherished bent A tell-tale motion ! soon will it be laid,

Of all the truly great and all the innocent.
And by the tide alone the water swayed.
Stealthy withdrawings, interminglings mild

But who is innocent? By grace divine,
Of light with shade in beauty reconciled-

Not otherwise, 0 Nature ! we are thine, Such is the prospect far as sight can range, Through good and evil thine, in just degree The soothing recompence, the welcome change. Of rational and manly sympathy. Where now the ships that drove before the blast, To all that Earth from pensive hearts is stealing, Threatened by angry breakers as they passed ; And Heaven is now to gladdened eyes revealing, And by a train of flying clouds bemocked;

Add every charm the Universe can show Or, in the hollow surge, at anchor rocked

Through every change its aspects undergo-
As on a bed of death? Some lodge in peace, Care may be respited, but not repealed;
Saved by His care who bade the tempest cease ; No perfect cure grows on that bounded field.
And some, too heedless of past danger, court Vain is the pleasure, a false calm the peace,
Fresh gales to waft them to the far-off port; If He, through whom alone our conflicts cease,
But near, or hanging sea and sky between, Our virtuous hopes without relapse advance,
Not one of all those winged powers is seen, Come not to speed the Soul's deliverance;
Seen in her course, nor 'mid this quiet heard ; To the distempered Intellect refuse
Yet oh! how gladly would the air be stirred

His gracious help, or give what we abuse.
By some acknowledgment of thanks and praise,
Soft in its temper as those vesper lays
Sung to the Virgin while accordant oars
Urge the slow bark along Calabrian shores;
A sea-born service through the mountains felt

Till into one loved vision all things melt:
Or like those hymns that soothe with graver sound The linnet's warble, sinking towards a close,
The gulfy coast of Norway iron-bound;

Hints to the thrush 'tis time for their repose; And, from the wide and open Baltic, rise

The shrill-voiced thrush is heedless, and again With punctual care, Lutherian harmonies.

The monitor revives his own sweet strain ; Hush, not a voice is here! but why repine, But both will soon be mastered, and the copse Now when the star of eve comes forth to shine Be left as silent as the mountain-tops,



Ere some commanding star dismiss to rest And has restored to view its tender green, The throng of rooks, that now, from twig or nest, That, while the sun rode high, was lost beneath (After a steady flight on home-bound wings,

their dazzling sheen. And a last game of mazy hoverings

-An emblem this of what the sober Hour Around their ancient grove) with cawing noise Can do for minds disposed to feel its power ! Disturb the liquid music's equipoise.

Thus oft, when we in vain have wish'd away

The petty pleasures of the garish day,
O Nightingale! Who ever heard thy song Meek eve shuts up the whole usurping host
Might here be moved, till Fancy grows so strong

(Unbashful dwarfs each glittering at his post) That listening sense is pardonably cheated

And leaves the disencumbered spirit free
Where wood or stream by thee was never greeted. To reassume a staid simplicity.
Surely, from fairest spots of favoured lands,
Were not some gifts withheld by jealous hands,

'Tis well—but what are helps of time and place, This hour of deepening darkness here would be

When wisdom stands in need of nature's grace ; As a fresh morning for new harmony ;

Why do good thoughts, invoked or not, descend, And lays as prompt would hail the dawn of Night: Like Angels from their bowers, our virtues to beA dawn she has both beautiful and bright,

friend; When the East kindles with the full moon's light; If yet To-morrow, unbelied, may say, Not like the rising sun's impatient glow

“I come to open out, for fresh display, Dazzling the mountains, but an overflow

The elastic vanities of yesterday?" Of solemn splendour, in mutation slow.



Wanderer by spring with gradual progress led,
For sway profoundly felt as widely spread;
To king, to peasant, to rough sailor, dear,
And to the soldier's trumpet-wearied ear;
How welcome wouldst thou be to this green Vale
Fairer than Tempe! Yet, sweet Nightingale !
From the warm breeze that bears thee on, alight
At will, and stay thy migratory flight ;
Build, at thy choice, or sing, by pool or fount,
Who shall complain, or call thee to account?
The wisest, happiest, of our kind are they
That ever walk content with Nature's way,
God's goodness measuring bounty as it may;
For whom the gravest thought of what they miss,
Chastening the fulness of a present bliss,
Is with that wholesome office satisfied,
While unrepining sadness is allied
In thankful bosoms to a modest pride.

The leaves that rustled on this oak-crowned hill,
And sky that danced among those leaves, are still;
Rest smooths the way for sleep; in field and bower
Soft shades and dews have shed their blended

On drooping eyelid and the closing flower;
Sound is there none at which the faintest heart
Might leap, the weakest nerve of superstition start;
Save when the Owlet's unexpected scream
Pierces the ethereal vault; and (mid the gleam
Of unsubstantial imagery, the dream,
From the hushed vale's realities, transferred
To the still lake) the imaginative Bird
Seems, ʼmid inverted mountains, not unheard.



Soft as a cloud is yon blue Ridge—the Mere
Seems firm as solid crystal, breathless, clear,
And motionless; and, to the gazer's eye,
Deeper than ocean, in the immensity
Of its vague mountains and unreal sky!
But, from the process in that still retreat,
Turn to minuter changes at our feet ;
Observe how dewy Twilight has withdrawn
The crowd of daisies from the shaven lawn,

Grave Creature !-whether, while the moon

shines bright
On thy wings opened wide for smoothest flight,
Thou art discovered in a roofless tower,
Rising from what may once have been a lady's

bower ;
Or spied where thou sitt'st moping in thy mew
At the dim centre of a churchyard yew ;
Or, from a rifted crag or ivy tod
Deep in a forest, thy secure abode,
Thou giv’st, for pastime's sake, by shriek or shout,
A puzzling notice of thy whereabout-
May the night never come, nor day be seen,
When I shall scorn thy voice or mock thy mien !

In classic ages men perceived a soul Of sapience in thy aspect, headless Owl ! Thee Athens reverenced in the studious grove ; And, near the golden sceptre grasped by Jove, His Eagle’s favourite perch, while round him sate The Gods revolving the decrees of Fate, Thou, too, wert present at Minerva's side :Hark to that second larum !-far and wide The elements have heard, and rock and cave replied.

Or, crowning, star-like, each some sovereign height,
Warbled, for heaven above and earth below,
Strains suitable to both.-Such holy rite,
Methinks, if audibly repeated now
From hill or valley, could not move
Sublimer transport, purer love,
Than doth this silent spectacle—the gleam-
The shadow—and the peace supreme !




(This Impromptu appeared, many years ago, among the

Author's poems, from which, in subsequent editions, it was excluded. It is reprinted, at the request of the Friend in whose presence the lines were thrown off.]

The sun has long been set,

The stars are out by twos and threes, The little birds are piping yet

Among the bushes and trees ;
There's a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes,
And a far-off wind that rushes,
And a sound of water that gushes,
And the cuckoo's sovereign cry
Fills all the hollow of the sky.

Who would go parading'
In London, and masquerading,'
On such a night of June
With that beautiful soft half-moon,
And all these innocent blisses ?
On such a night as this is !


No sound is uttered,,but a deep
And solemn harmony pervades
The hollow vale from steep to steep,
And penetrates the glades.
Far-distant images draw nigh,
Called forth by wondrous potency
Of beamy radiance, that imbues,
Whate'er it strikes, with gem-like hues !
In vision exquisitely clear,
Herds range along the mountain side ;
And glistening antlers are descried ;
And gilded flocks appear.
Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve!
But long as god-like wish, or hope divine,
Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe
That this magnificence is wholly thine !
-From worlds not quickened by the sun
A portion of the gift is won;
An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is spread
On ground which British shepherds tread !






Had this effulgence disappeared
With flying haste, I might have sent,
Among the speechless clouds, a look
Of blank astonishment;
But 'tis endued with power to stay,
And sanctify one closing day,
That frail Mortality may see-
What is!—ah no, but what can be !
Time was when field and watery cove
With modulated echoes rang,
While choirs of fervent Angels sang
Their vespers in the grove;

And, if there be whom broken ties
Afflict, or injuries assail,
Yon hazy ridges to their eyes
Present a glorious scale,
Climbing suffused with sunny air,
To stop—no record hath told where !
And tempting Fancy to ascend,
And with immortal Spirits blend !
-Wings at my shoulders seem to play;
But, rooted here, I stand and gaze
On those bright steps that heaven-ward raise
Their practicable way.
Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad,
And see to what fair countries ye are bound !
And if some travellea, weary of his road,
Hath slept since noon-tide on the grassy ground,
Ye Genii! to his covert speed;
And wake him with such gentle heed
As may attune his soul to meet the dower
Bestowed on this transcendent hour!

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