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Such hues from their celestial Urn
Were wont to stream before mine eye,
Where'er it wandered in the morn
Of blissful infancy.
This glimpse of glory, why renewed ?
Nay, rather speak with gratitude;
For, if a vestige of those gleams
Survived, 'twas only in my dreams.
Dread Power! whom peace and calmness serve
No less than Nature's threatening voice,
If aught unworthy be my choice,
From Thee if I would swerve;
Oh, let thy grace remind me of the light
Full early lost, and fruitlessly deplored ;
Which, at this moment, on my waking sight
Appears to shine, by miracle restored ;
My soul, though yet confined to earth,
Rejoices in a second birth!

-"Tis past, the visionary splendour fades ; And night approaches with her shades.

And if not so, whose perfect joy makes sleep
A thing too bright for breathing man to keep.
Hail to the virtues which that perilous life
Extracts from Nature's elemental strife;
And welcome glory won in battles fought
As bravely as the foe was keenly sought.
But to each gallant Captain and his crew
A less imperious sympathy is due,
Such as my verse now yields, while moonbeams play
On the mute sea in this unruffled bay;
Such as will promptly flow from every breast,
Where good men, disappointed in the quest
Of wealth and power and honours, long for rest;
Or, having known the splendours of success,
Sigh for the obscurities of happiness.



The Crescent-moon, the Star of Love,

Glories of evening, as ye there are seen
With but a span of sky between-

Speak one of you, my doubts remove,
Which is the attendant Page and which the Queen?

Note.--The multiplication of mountain-ridges, described at the commencement of the third Stanza of this Ode, as a kind of Jacob's Ladder, leading to Heaven, is produced either by watery vapours, or sunny haze;–in the present instance by the latter cause. Allusions to the Ode, entitled • Intimations of Immortality,' pervade the last stanza of the foregoing Poem.







What mischief cleaves to unsubdued regret,
How fancy sickens by vague hopes beset ;
How baffled projects on the spirit prey,
And fruitless wishes eat the heart away,
The Sailor knows; he best, whose lot is cast
On the relentless sea that holds him fast
On chance dependent, and the fickle star
Of power, through long and melancholy war.
O sad it is, in sight of foreign shores,
Daily to think on old familiar doors,
Hearths loved in childhood, and ancestral floors ;
Or, tossed about along a waste of foam,
To ruminate on that delightful home
Which with the dear Betrothèd was to come ;
Or came and was and is, yet meets the eye
Never but in the world of memory;
Or in a dream recalled, whose smoothest range
Is crossed by knowledge, or by dread, of change,

WANDERER ! that stoop’st so low, and com’st so near
To human life's unsettled atmosphere;
Who lov’st with Night and Silence to partake,
So might it seem, the cares of them that wake;
And, through the cottage-lattice softly peeping,
Dost shield from harm the humblest of the sleeping;
What pleasure once encompassed those sweet names
Which yet in thy behalf the Poet claims,
An idolizing dreamer as of yore !
I slight them all; and, on this sea-beat shore
Sole-sitting, only can to thoughts attend
That bid me hail thee as the Sailor's FRIEND;
So call thee for heaven's grace through thee made

By confidence supplied and mercy shown,
When not a twinkling star or beacon's light
Abates the perils of a stormy night;
And for less obvious benefits, that find
Their way, with thy pure help, to heart and mind;
Both for the adventurer starting in life's prime;
And veteran ranging round from clime to clime,

Long-baffled hope's slow fever in his veins,
And wounds and weakness oft his labour's sole


Oft with his musings does thy image blend,
In his mind's eye thy crescent horns ascend,
And thou art still, O Moon, that Sailor's Friend!


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The aspiring Mountains and the winding Streams Empress of Night! are gladdened by thy beams; A look of thine the wilderness pervades, And penetrates the forest's inmost shades; Thou, chequering peaceably the minster's gloom, Guid'st the pale Mourner to the lost one's tomb; Canst reach the Prisoner—to his grated cell Welcome, though silent and intangible !And lives there one, of all that come and go On the great waters toiling to and fro, One, who has watched thee at some quiet hour Enthroned aloft in undisputed power, Or crossed by vapoury streaks and clouds that move Catching the lustre they in part reproveNor sometimes felt a fitness in thy sway To call up thoughts that shun the glare of day, And make the serious happier than the gay?

QUEEN of the stars !--so gentle, so benign,
That ancient Fable did to thee assign,
When darkness creeping o'er thy silver brow
Warned thee these upper regions to forego,
Alternate empire in the shades below-
A Bard, who, lately near the wide-spread sea
Traversed by gleaming ships, looked up to thee
With grateful thoughts, doth now thy rising hail
From the close confines of a shadowy vale.
Glory of night, conspicuous yet serene,
Nor less attractive when by glimpses seen
Through cloudy umbrage, well might that fair face,
And all those attributes of modest grace,
In days when Fancy wrought unchecked by fear,
Down to the green earth fetch thee from thy sphere,
To sit in leafy woods by fountains clear!

Yes, lovely Moon! if thou so mildly bright Dost rouse, yet surely in thy own despite, To fiercer mood the phrenzy-stricken brain, Let me a compensating faith maintain ; That there's a sensitive, a tender, part Which thou canst touch in every human heart, For healing and composure.-But, as least And mightiest billows ever have confessed Thy domination; as the whole vast Sea Feels through her lowest depths thy sovereignty; So shines that countenance with especial grace On them who urge the keel her plains to trace Furrowing its way right onward. The most rude, Cut off from home and country, may have stood Even till long gazing hath bedimmed his eye, Or the mute rapture ended in a sighTouched by accordance of thy placid cheer, With some internal lights to memory dear, Or fancies stealing forth to soothe the breast Tired with its daily share of earth’s unrest, Gentle awakenings, visitations meek; A kindly influence whereof few will speak, Though it can wet with tears the hardiest cheek.

O still belov'd (for thine, meek Power, are charms That fascinate the very Babe in arms, While he, uplifted towards thee, laughs outright, Spreading his little palms in his glad Mother's sight) O still belov’d, once worshipped! Time, that frowns In his destructive flight on earthly crowns, Spares thy mild splendour; still those far-shot

beams Tremble on dancing waves and rippling streams With stainless touch, as chaste as when thy praise Was sung by Virgin-choirs in festal lays; And through dark trials still dost thou explore Thy way for increase punctual as of yore, When teeming Matrons--yielding to rude faith In mysteries of birth and life and death And painful struggle and deliverance-prayed Of thee to visit them with lenient aid. What though the rites be swept away, the fanes Extinct that echoed to the votive strains ; Yet thy mild aspect does not, cannot, cease Love to promote and purity and peace; And Fancy, unreproved, even yet may trace Faint types of suffering in thy beamless face.

And when thy beauty in the shadowy cave Is hidden, buried in its monthly grave; Then, while the Sailor, mid an open sea Swept by a favouring wind that leaves thought free, Paces the deck-no star perhaps in sight, And nothing save the moving ship's own light To cheer the long dark hours of vacant night

Then, silent Monitress! let us-not blind To worlds unthought of till the searching mind Of Science laid them open to mankind

Told, also, how the voiceless heavens declare
God's glory; and acknowledging thy share
In that blest charge; let us—without offence
To aught of highest, holiest, influence-
Receive whatever good 'tis given thee to dispense.
May sage and simple, catching with one eye
The moral intimations of the sky,

Learn from thy course, where'er their own be taken,
* To look on tempests, and be never shaken ;'
To keep with faithful step the appointed way
Eclipsing or eclipsed, by night or day,
And from example of thy monthly range
Gently to brook decline and fatal change;
Meek, patient, stedfast, and with loftier scope,
Than thy revival yields, for gladsome hope !




(Having been prevented by the lateness of the season, in 1831, from visiting Staffa and Iona, the author made these the principal objects of a short tour in the summer of 1833, of which the following series of poems is a Memorial. The course pursued was down the Cumberland river Derwent, and to Whitehaven; thence (by the Isle of Man, where a few days were passed) up the Frith of Clyde to Greenock, then to Oban, Staffa, Iona; and back towards England, by Loch Awe, Inverary, Loch Goil-head, Greenock, and through parts of Renfrewshire, Ayrshire, and Dumfries-shire to Carlisle, and thence up the river Eden, and homewards by Ullswater.]


Adieu, Rydalian Laurels ! that have grown
And spread as if ye knew that days might come


would shelter in a happy home,
On this fair Mount, a Poet of your own,
One who ne'er ventured for a Delphic crown
To sue the God; but, haunting your green shade
All seasons through, is humbly pleased to braid
Ground-flowers, beneath your guardianship, self

Of Truth and Beauty, strives to imitate,
Far as she may, primeval Nature's style.
Fair Land ! by Time's parental love made free,
By Social Order's watchful arms embraced ;
With unexampled union meet in thee,
For eye and mind, the present and the past ;
With golden prospect for futurity,
If that be reverenced which ought to last.



Farewell ! no Minstrels now with harp new-strung
For summer wandering quit their household bowers;
Yet not for this wants Poesy a tongue

They called Thee MERRY ENGLAND, in old time; To cheer the Itinerant on whom she pours

A happy people won for thee that name Her spirit, while he crosses lonely moors,

With envy heard in many a distant clime ;
Or musing sits forsaken halls among.

And, spite of change, for me thou keep'st the same
Endearing title, a responsive chime
To the heart's fond belief ; though some there are

Whose sterner judgments deem that word a snare Why should the Enthusiast, journeying through For inattentive Fancy, like the lime this Isle

Which foolish birds are caught with. Can, I ask, Repine as if his hour were come too late ?

This face of rural beauty be a mask Not unprotected in her mouldering state,

For discontent, and poverty, and crime ; Antiquity salutes him with a smile,

These spreading towns a cloak for lawless will ? Mid fruitful fields that ring with jocund toil, Forbid it, Heaven !-and MERRY ENGLAND still And pleasure-grounds where Taste, refined Co-mate Shall be thy rightful name, in prose and rhyme !


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TO THE RIVER GRETA, NEAR KESWICK. GRETA, what fearful listening! when huge stones Rumble along thy bed, block after block :

“ Thou look’st upon me, and dost fondly think, Or, whirling with reiterated shock,

Poet! that, stricken as both are by years, Combat, while darkness aggravates the groans :

We, differing once so much, are now Compeers, But if thou (like Cocytus from the moans

Prepared, when each has stood his time, to sink Heard on his rueful margin) thence wert named

Into the dust. Erewhile a sterner link The Mourner, thy true nature was defamed,

United us; when thou, in boyish play, And the habitual murmur that atones

Entering my dungeon, didst become a prey For thy worst rage, forgotten. Oft as Spring

To soul-appalling darkness. Not a blink Decks, on thy sinuous banks, her thousand thrones, of light was there ;—and thus did I, thy Tutor, Seats of glad instinct and love's carolling,

Make thy young thoughts acquainted with the grave; The concert, for the happy, then may vie

While thou wert chasing the wing'd butterfly With liveliest peals of birth-day harmony : Through my green courts; or climbing, a bold suitor, To a grieved heart, the notes are benisons. Up to the flowers whose golden progeny

Still round my shattered brow in beauty wave."




Among the mountains were we nursed, loved

Stream !

The cattle crowding round this beverage clear Thou near the eagle's nest—within brief sail, To slake their thirst, with reckless hoofs have trod I, of his bold wing floating on the gale,

The encircling turf into a barren clod; Where thy deep voice could lull me ! Faint the Through which the waters creep, then disappear, Of human life when first allowed to gleam [beam Born to be lost in Derwent flowing near; On mortal notice.—Glory of the vale,

Yet, o'er the brink, and round the lime-stone cell Such thy meek outset, with a crown, though frail, Of the pure spring (they call it the “ Nun's Well,” Kept in perpetual verdure by the steam

Name that first struck by chance my startled ear) Of thy soft breath !—Less vivid wreath entwined

A tender Spirit broods—the pensive Shade
Nemæan victor's brow ; less bright was worn, Of ritual honours to this Fountain paid
Meed of some Roman chief-in triumph borne By hooded Votaresses with saintly cheer;
With captives chained ; and shedding from his car Albeit oft the Virgin-mother mild
The sunset splendours of a finished war

Looked down with pity upon eyes beguiled
Upon the proud enslavers of mankind !

Into the shedding of 'too soft a tear.'





(Where the Author was born, and his Father's remains

are laid.)
A Point of life between my Parents' dust,
And yours, my buried Little-ones ! am I;
And to those graves looking habitually
In kindred quiet I repose my trust.
Death to the innocent is more than just,
And, to the sinner, mercifully bent ;
So may I hope, if truly I repent
And meekly bear the ills which bear I must :
And You, my Offspring ! that do still remain,
Yet may outstrip me in the appointed race,
If e'er, through fault of mine, in mutual pain
We breathed together for a moment's space,
The wrong, by love provoked, let love arraign,
And only love keep in your hearts a place.

Pastor and Patriot !-at whose bidding rise
These modest walls, amid a flock that need,
For one who comes to watch them and to feed,
A fixed Abode-keep down presageful sighs.
Threats, which the unthinking only can despise,
Perplex the Church ; but be thou firm,-be true
To thy first hope, and this good work pursue,
Poor as thou art. A welcome sacrifice
Dost Thou prepare, whose sign will be the smoke
Of thy new hearth ; and sooner shall its wreaths,
Mounting while earth her morning incense breathes,
From wandering fiends of air receive a yoke,
And straightway cease to aspire, than God disdain
This humble tribute as ill-timed or vain.



Yet, while each useful Art augments her store,
What boots the gain if Nature should lose more?
And Wisdom, as she holds a Christian place
In man’s intelligence sublimed by grace ?
When Bega sought of yore the Cumbrian coast,
Ten tuous winds her holy errand cross'd:
She knelt in prayer-the waves their wrath appease ;
And, from her vow well weighed in Heaven's decrees,
Rose, where she touched the strand, the Chantry

of St. Bees.

Dear to the Loves, and to the Graces vowed,
The Queen drew back the wimple that she wore;
And to the throng, that on the Cumbrian shore
Her landing hailed, how touchingly she bowed !
And like a Star (that, from a heavy cloud
Of pine-tree foliage poised in air, forth darts,
When a soft summer gale at evening parts
The gloom that did its loveliness enshroud)
She smiled; but Time, the old Saturnian seer,
Sighed on the wing as her foot pressed the strand,
With step prelusive to a long array
Of woes and degradations hand in hand-
Weeping captivity, and shuddering fear
Stilled by the ensanguined block of Fotheringay!

“Cruel of heart were they, bloody of hand,
Who in these Wilds then struggled for command ;
The strong were merciless, without hope the weak;
Till this bright Stranger came, fair as day-break,
And as a cresset true that darts its length
Of beamy lustre from a tower of strength;
Guiding the mariner through troubled seas,
And cheering oft his peaceful reveries,
Like the fixed Light that crowns yon Headland of

St. Bees.


To aid the Votaress, miracles believed STANZAS SUGGESTED IN A STEAM-BOAT OFF SAINT

Wrought in men's minds, like miracles achieved ; BEES' HEADS, ON THE COAST OF CUMBERLAND.

So piety took root; and Song might tell If Life were slumber on a bed of down,

What humanizing virtues near her cell Toil unimposed, vicissitude unknown,

Sprang up, and spread their fragrance wide around; Sad were our lot: no hunter of the hare

How savage busoms melted at the sound Exults like him whose javelin from the lair Of gospel-truth enchained in harmonies Has roused the lion; no one plucks the rose, Wafted o'er waves, or creeping through close trees, Whose proffered beauty in safe shelter blows From her religious Mansion of St. Bees. 'Mid a trim garden's summer luxuries, With jofolike his who climbs, on hands and knees, When her sweet Voice, that instrument of love, For some rare plant, yon Headland of St. Bees. Was glorified, and took its place, above

The silent stars, among the angelic quire, This independence upon oar and sail,

Her chantry blazed with sacrilegious fire, This new indifference to breeze or gale,

And perished utterly; but her good deeds This straight-lined progress, furrowing a flat lea, Had sown the spot, that witnessed them, with seeds And regular as if locked in certainty

Which lay in earth expectant, till a breeze
Depress the hours. Up, Spirit of the storm! With quickening impulse answered their mute pleas,
That Courage may find something to perform; And lo! a statelier pile, the Abbey of St. Bees.
That Fortitude, whose blood disdains to freeze
At Danger's bidding, may confront the seas, There are the naked clothed, the hungry fed ;
Firm as the towering Headlands of St. Bees. And Charity extendeth to the dead

Her intercessions made for the soul's rest
Dread cliff of Baruth! that wild wish may sleep, Of tardy penitents; or for the best
Bold as if men and creatures of the Deep

Among the good (when love might else have slept,
Breathed the same element; too many wrecks Sickened, or died) in pious memory kept.
Have struck thy sides, too many ghastly decks Thanks to the austere and simple Devotees,
Hast thou looked down upon, that such a thought Who, to that service bound by venial fees,
Should here be welcome, and in verse enwrought : Keep watch before the altars of St. Bees.
With thy stern aspect better far agrees
Utterance of thanks that we have past with ease,

Are not, in sooth, their Requiems sacred ties As millions thus shall do, the Headlands of St. Bees. Woven out of passion's sharpest agonies,

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