Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell!

For two months now in vain we shall be sought;

We leave you here in solitude to dwell
With these our latest gifts of tender thought:
Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat,
Bright gowan, and marsh-marigold, fare-
well!

Whom from the borders of the Lake we brought,

And placed together near our rocky Well,

We for One to whom ye will be dear; go And she will prize this Bower, this Indian shed,

Our own contrivance, Building without

peer!

-A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred, Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered, With joyousness, and with a thoughtful cheer,

Will come to you; to you herself will wed; And love the blessed life that we lead here.

Dear Spot! which we have watched with tender heed,

Bringing the chosen plants and blossoms

blown

Among the distant mountains, flower and weed,

Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own,
Making all kindness registered and known,
Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child
Fair in thyself and beautiful alone,
indeed,

Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need.

And O most constant, yet most fickle Place,

That hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost show

To them who look not daily on thy face; Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know,

And say'st, when we forsake thee, "Let them go!"

Thou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild race Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow, And travel with the year at a soft pace, Help us to tell Her tales of years gone by, And this sweet spring, the best beloved and

best;

Joy will be flown in its mortality;

Something must stay to tell us of the rest. Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock's breast

Glittered at evening like a starry sky;
And in this bush our sparrow built her nest,
Of which I sang one song that will not die.

O happy Garden! whose seclusion deep
Hath been so friendly to industrious hours;
And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep
Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of
flowers,

And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers, Two burning months let summer overleap, And, coming back with Her who will be ours, Into thy bosom we again shall creep.

1802.

V.

STANZAS.

And his own mind did like a tempest strong Come to him thus, and drove the weary Wight along.

SON'S CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.

WITHIN our happy Castle there dwelt One
Whom without blame I may not overlook;
For never sun on living creature shone
Who more devout enjoyment with us took:
Here on his hours he hung as on a book,
On his own time here would he float away,
As doth a fly upon a summer brook;
But go to-morrow, or belike to-day,
Seek for him, he is fled; and whither
none can say.

Look at the common grass from hour to hour:

And oftentimes, how long I fear to say,

guise,

Expedients, too, of simplest sort he tried: Long blades of grass plucked round him as he lay,

Made, to his ear attentively applied,
A pipe on which the wind would deftly
play;

Glasses he had, that little things display,
The beetle panoplied in gems of gold,
A mailèd angel on a battle-day;

The mysteries that cups of flowers enfold,

bower,

Retired in that sunshiny shade he lay;
And, like a naked Indian, slept himself

away.

Great wonder to our gentle tribe it was Whenever from our Valley he withdrew; For happier soul no living creature has Than he had, being here the long day through.

Some thought he was a lover, and did woo: Some thought far worse of him, and judged him wrong;

But verse was what he had been wedded to;

behold.

Pine not like them with arms across,

Forgetting in thy care

How the fast-rooted trees can toss
Their branches in mid air.

The humblest rivulet will take
Its own wild liberties;

And, every day, the imprisoned lake
Is flowing in the breeze.

Then, crouch no more on suppliant knee,
But scorn with scorn outbrave;
A Briton, even in love, should be
A subject, not a slave !
1826.

XII.

THE FORSAKEN.

THE peace which others seek they find;
The heaviest storms not longest last;
Heaven grants even to the guiltiest mind
An amnesty for what is past;
When will my sentence be reversed?
I only pray to know the worst;
And wish as if my heart would burst.

O weary struggle ! silent years
Tell seemingly no doubtful tale;
And yet they leave it short, and fears
And hopes are strong and will prevail
My calmest faith escapes not pain:
And, feeling that the hope is vain,
I think that he will come again.

The deepest grove whose foliage hid The happiest lovers Arcady might boast

He loved-the pretty Barbara-died;
Upon Helvellyn's side:

And thus he makes his moan:

Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid

When thus his moan he made:

forbid :

oak!

That in some other way yon smoke
Or let the aged tree uprooted lie.
May mount into the sky!

The clouds pass on; they from the heavens depart :

I look the sky is empty space;
I know not what I trace;

But when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart.

O! what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves,

That murmur once so dear, when will it cease?

Your sound my heart of rest bereaves,
It robs my heart of peace.

Thou Thrush, that singest loud-and loud and free,

Into yon row of willows flit,

Upon that alder sit;

Or sing another song, or choose another tree.

Roll back, sweet Rill! back to thy mountain-bounds,

And there forever be thy waters chained!
For thou dost haunt the air with sounds
That cannot be sustained;

If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough
Headlong yon waterfall must come,

Oh let it then be dumb!

Be anything, sweet Rill, but that which thou art now.

Thou Eglantine, so bright with sunny showers,

Proud as a rainbow spanning half the vale,
Thou one fair shrub, oh! shed thy flowers,
And stir not in the gale.

For thus to see thee nodding in the air,
To see thy arch thus stretch and bend,
Thus rise and thus descend,-

Disturbs me till the sight is more than I can bear."

The Man who makes this feverish complaint Is one of giant stature, who could dance Equipped from head to foot in iron mail. Ah gentle Love if ever thought was thine To store up kindred hours for me, thy face Turn from me, gentle Love! nor let me walk

Within the sound of Emma's voice, nor know

Such happiness as I have known to-day. 1800.

XIV.

A COMPLAINT.

THERE is a change-and I am poor: Your Love hath been, nor long ago, A fountain at my fond heart's door, Whose only business was to flow; And flow it did not taking heed Of its own bounty, or my need. What happy moments did I count ! Blest was I then all bliss above! Now, for that consecrated fount Of murmuring, sparkling, living love, What have I? shall I dare to tell? ; A comfortless and hidden well.