VI. NUTTING. IT seems a day (I speak of one from many singled out), One of those heavenly days that cannot die, When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my step Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint, Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds, Which for that service had been husbanded, More ragged than need was! O'er pathless rocks, Through beds of matted fern and tangled thickets, Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook Of devastation; but the hazels rose As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint A temper known to those who, after long The violets of five seasons re-appear stones That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees, Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound, In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure, And merciless ravage: and the shady nook Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand Touch-for there is a spirit in the woods. 1799. VII. THE SIMPLON PASS. -BROOK and road Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass, And with them did we journey several hours At a slow step. The immeasurable height Of woods decaying, never to be decayed, The stationary blasts of waterfalls, And in the narrow rent, at every turn, Winds thwarting winds bewildered and forlorn, The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky, The rocks that muttered close upon our ears, Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside As if a voice were in them, the sick sight And gidly prospect of the raving stream, The unfettered clouds and region of the heavens, Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light Were all like workings of one mind, the features Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree, Characters of the great Apocalypse, The types and symbols of Eternity, Of first, and last, and midst, and without end, 1799. VIII. SHE was a Phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; To be a moment's ornament; I saw her upon nearer view, Her household motions light and free, And now I see with eyes serene IX. O NIGHTINGALE! thou surely art A creature of a fiery heart: "— These notes of thine-they pierce and pierce; I heard a Stock-dove sing or say He did not cease; but cooed-and cooed; Of serious faith, and inward glee: That was the song-the song for me! 1806. X. THREE years she grew in sun and shower, This Child I to myself will take; Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse: and with me In earth and heaven, in giade and bower, She shall be sportive as the fawn The floating clouds their state shall lend Even in the motions of the Storm Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form By silent sympathy. The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face. And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Such thoughts to Lucy I will give Thus Nature spake-The work was done- This heath, this calm, and quiet scene; 1799. the sky. Long is it as a barber's pole, or mast of little boat, Some little pleasure-skiff, that doth on Thames's waters float. The Show-man chooses well his place, 'tis Leicester's busy Square; And is as happy in his night, for the Calm, though impatient, is the crowd; each heavens are blue and fair; And envies him that's looking;—what an stands ready with the fee, insight must it be ! Yet, Show-man, where can lie the cause?, Shall thy implement have blame, A boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is put to shame ? Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes in fault? Their eyes, or minds splendent vault? or. finally, is yon re Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as we have here? Or gives a thing but small delight that never can be dear? The silver moon with all her vales, and hills of mightiest fame, Doth she betray us when they're seen? or are they but a name? Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is and strong, And bounty never yields so much but it seems to do her wrong? Or is it, that when human Souls a journey long have had And are returned into themselves, they can. not but be sad? Or must we be constrained to think that these Spectators rude, Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude, Have souls which never yet have risen, and therefore prostrate lie? No, no, this cannot be;-men thirst for power and majesty! Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful mind employ Of him who gazes, or has gazed? a grave and steady joy, That doth reject all show of pride, admits no outward sign, Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine! Whatever be the cause, 'tis sure that they who pry and pore Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than before: One after One they take their turn, nor have I one espied That doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied XVII. LYRE! though such power do in thy magic live As might from India's farthest plain The lovely Fugitive: Check with thy notes the impulse which, betrayed By her sweet farewell looks, I longed to aid. Faint and somewhat pensively: With its upright living tree To marks its eddying foam-balls prettily distrest By ever-changing shape and want of rest; In flashing leaps and stealthy creeps Or note (translucent summer's happiest chance!) In the slope-channel floored with pebbles bright, Stones of all hues, gem emulous of gem, So vivid that they take from keenest sight The liquid veil that seeks not to hide them. XVIII. BEGGARS. SHE had a tall man's height or more; A mantle, to her very feet Descending with a graceful flow. And on her head a cap as white as newfallen snow. |