And enjoy myself alone, I've a mighty part within That the world hath never seen, Rich as Eden's happy ground, And with choicer plenty crown'd, Here, on all the shining boughs, Knowledge fair and useful grows; On the same young flow'ry tree, All the seasons you may see; Notions in the bloom of light, Just disclosing to the sight: Here are thoughts of larger growth, Rip'ning into solid truth: Fruits refin'd of noble taste; Seraphs feed on such repast. Here, in green and shady grove, Streams of pleasure mix with love; There, beneath the smiling skies, Hills of contemplation rise: Now, upon some shining top, Angels light, and call me up; I rejoice to raise my feet, Both rejoice when there we meet. There are endless beauties more Earth hath no resemblance for; Nothing like them round the pole, Nothing can describe the soul; T 'Tis a region half unknown, Harts or horses, strong and fleet, Yet the silly wand'ring mind, Loth to be too much confin'd Roves and takes her daily tours, Coasting round the narrow shores, Narrow shores of flesh and sense, Picking shells and pebbles thence; Or she sits at fancy's door, Calling shapes and shadows to her, Foreign visits still receiving, And t' herself a stranger living. Never, never would she buy Indian dust or Tyrian dye, Never trade abroad for more, If she saw her native store, If her inward worth were known, She might ever live alone. LETTER TO MISS S. From the Vicinity of Windermere. The mild shades of eve soothe the passions to rest, And the breezes are bush'd upon Windermere's breast; The blackbird's sweet melody trills thro' the grove, Not a leaf, or a blossom is wav'd by the wind; The wild scenes of Keswick this morning I view'd, Rocks, mountains, and torrents, majestic and rude; Where glens, deep embosom'd, resound with the roar Of Barrow responsive to dashing Lowdore;* Where the eagle and osprey, scream loud as they sail O'er the summit of Skiddaw that frowns on the vale. * Two cascades in the vicinity of Keswick. Thy pride throws a gloom o'er each elegant feature, Like grandeur, at war with the blessings of nature. If such the effects of too high elevation Be ours a plain home, in a temperate station, Where life's smiling comforts around us may wait, Unshadow'd by pomp or the frowns of the great. Come join me, in fancy, where Windermere smiles Qn hills crown'd with verdure, and wood-shaded isles; Where Rydal's smooth lake in tranquility lies, Like the bosom of virtue reflecting the skies; Where Grassmere's gay slopes, gently bending, are seen To tinge the clear wave with their beautiful green; Where Leathes-water catches the rills that, pure welling, Roll murmuring down the rough side of Helvellyn, Now, nearer reclin'd, in a grot of the mountain, Naiad of Rydal, while thy wave Hoarse pouring down the rocky steep, Shakes the grey cliff and gloomy cave, Here rest thy bending head and weep. Here tender melancholy dwells And lifts to Heav'n her tearful eye; Here pity haunts the mossy cells And heaves the sympathetic sigh. Come pour thy' plaints in freedom here, For here the world-worn heart foregoes Its cares, and wooes ideal woes, When wild imagination wakes the causeless tear. Romantic Naiad! thou dost love Where echo's voice, in accents sweet, |