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,
By exhortation of my frugal Dame-
Motley accoutrement, of power to smile
At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,-and,
in truth,

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
Unvisited, where not a broken bough
Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious
sign

Of devastation; but the hazels rose
Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung,
A virgin scene!-A little while I stood,
Breathing with such suppression of the
heart

As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint
Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed
The banquet;-or beneath the trees I sate
Among the flowers, and with the flowers I
played;

A temper known to those who, after long
And weary expectation, have been blest
With sudden happiness beyond all hope.
Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose
leaves

The violets of five seasons re-appear
And fade, unseen by any human eye;
Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on
Forever; and I saw the sparkling foam,
And with my cheek on one of those green

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,
The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,
Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,
And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,
And dragged to earth both branch and
bough, with crash

And merciless ravage: and the shady nook
Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower,
Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up
Their quiet being: and, unless I now
Confound my present feelings with the past;
Ere from the mutilated bower I turned
Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,
I felt a sense of pain when I beheld
The silent trees, and saw the intruding
sky.-

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;
A lovely Apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn ;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.

I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!

Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eyes serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.
1840.

IX.

O NIGHTINGALE! thou surely art A creature of a

fiery heart: "—

These notes of thine-they pierce and pierce;
Tumultuous harmony and fierce!
Thou sing'st as if the God of wine
Had helped thee to a Valentine;
A song in mockery and despite
Of shades, and dews, and silent night;
And steady bliss, and all the loves
Now sleeping in these peaceful groves.

I heard a Stock-dove sing or say
His homely tale, this very day;
His voice was buried among trees,
Yet to be come-at by the breeze:

He did not cease; but cooed-and cooed;
And somewhat pensively he wooed;
He sang of love, with quiet blending,
Slow to begin, and never ending;.

Of serious faith, and inward glee: That was the song-the song for me! 1806.

X.

THREE years she grew in sun and shower,
Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower
On earth was never sown;

This Child I to myself will take;
She shall be mine, and I will make
A Lady of my own.

Myself will to my darling be

Both law and impulse: and with me
The Girl, in rock and plain,

In earth and heaven, in giade and bower,
Shall feel an overseeing power
To kindle or restrain,

She shall be sportive as the fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn
Or up the mountain springs,
And hers shall be the breathing balm,
And hers the silence and the calm
Of mute insensate things.

The floating clouds their state shall lend
To her; for her the willow bend,
Nor shall she fail to see

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,
Her virgin bosom swell;

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live
Here in this happy dell "

Thus Nature spake-The work was done-
How soon my Lucy's race was run!
She died, and left to me

This heath, this calm, and quiet scene;
The memory of what has been,
And never more will be.

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
Recall the not unwilling Maid,
Assist me to detain

The lovely Fugitive: Check with thy notes the impulse which, betrayed

By her sweet farewell looks, I longed to aid.
Here let me gaze enrapt upon that eye,
The impregnable and awe-inspiring fort
By reason fenced from winds that sigh
Of contemplation, the calm port
But if no wish be hers that we should part,
Among the restless sails of vanity.
A humbler bliss would satisfy my heart.
Enough by her dear side to breathe the air
Where all things are so fair,
And, on or in, or near, the brook, espy
Of this Elysian weather.
Shade upon the sunshine lying

Faint and somewhat pensively:
And downward Image gayly vying

With its upright living tree
Mid silver clouds, and openings of blue sky
As soft almost and deep as her cerulean eye.
Nor less the joy with many a glance
Cast up the Stream or down at her beseech-
ing,

To marks its eddying foam-balls prettily

distrest

By ever-changing shape and want of rest;
Or watch, with mutual teaching,
The current as it plays

In flashing leaps and stealthy creeps
Adown a rocky maze;

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;
Her face from summer's noontide heat
No bonnet shaded, but she wore

A mantle, to her very feet

Descending with a graceful flow.

And on her head a cap as white as newfallen snow.