Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear, And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear. Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green and fair! I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there; The little brooks that seem all pastime and all play, When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky; Night and day thou art safe, our cottage is hard by. Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain? Sleep and at break of day I will come to thee again!" -As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet, This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat; And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line, That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was mine. Again, and once again, did I repeat the sel must belong, May rather seem To brood on air than on an earthly stream; O blessed vision! happy child! Lord of thy house and hospitality; O vain and causeless melancholy! What hast thou to do with sorrow, Ill fitted to sustain unkindly shocks, For she looked with such a look, and she INFLUENCE spake with such a tone, That I almost received her heart into my own." 1800. XV. TO H. C. SIX YEARS OLD. O THOU ! brought; Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel, whose fancies from afar are And fittest to unutterable thought The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol; Thou fairy voyager! that dost float XVI. OF NATURAL OBJECTS IN CALLING FORTH AND STRENGthen, ING THE IMAGINATION IN BOYHOOD AND EARLY YOUTH, FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM. [This extract is reprinted from "THE FRIEND."] WISDOM and Spirit of the universe! And giv'st to forms and images a breath Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me Man; A lonely scene more lonesome; among woods At noon; and mid the calm of summer nights, When, by the margin of the trembling lake, And by the waters, all the summer long, The cottage-windows through the twilight blazed, I heeded not the summons: happy time It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud The village clock tolled six-1 wheeled about, Proud and exulting like an untired horse, That cares not for his home.-All shod with steel We hissed along the polished ice, in games The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted hare. So through the darkness and the cold we flew, And not a voice was idle; with the din Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west The orange sky of evening died away. Not seldom from the uproar I retired Into a silent bay, or sportively Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng. To cut across the reflex of a star; The rapid line of motion, then at once With visible motion her diurnal round! Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. 1799. XVII. THE LONGEST DAY. DDRESSED TO MY DAUGHTER. LET us quit the leafy arbor, Evening now unbinds the fetters Yet by some grave thoughts attended Dora! sport, as now thou sportest, Who would check the happy teeling Yet at this impressive season, Be thou wiser, youthful Maiden! Now, even now, ere wrapped in slumber, That absorbs time, space and number; Follow thou the flowing river Through the year's successive portals; Thus when thou with Time hast travelled Think, if thou on beauty leanest, Duty, like a strict preceptor, Grasp it, if thou shrink and tremble, And ensures those palms of honor Which selected spirits wear, Bending low before the Donor, Lord of heaven's unchanging year! 1817. XVIII. THE NORMAN BOY. HIGH on a broad unfertile tract of forestskirted Down, Nor kept by Nature for herself, nor made by man his own, From home and company remote and every playful joy. Served, tending a few sheep and goats, a ragged Norman Boy. Him never saw I, nor the spot: but from an English Dame, Stranger to me, and yet my friend, a simple notice came, With suit that I would speak in verse of that sequestered child Whom, one bleak winter's day, she met upon the dreary Wild. His flock, among the woodland's edge with relics sprinkled o'er Of last night's snow, beneath a sky threatening the fall of more, Where tufts of herbage tempted each, were busy at their feed, And the poor Boy was busier still, with work of anxious heed. There was he, where of branches rent and withered and decayed, For covert from the keen north wind, his hands a hut had made A tiny tenement, forsooth and frail, as needs must be A thing of such materials framed, by a builder such as he. The hut stood finished by his pains, nor seemingly lacked aught That skill or means of his could add, but the architect had wrought Some limber twigs into a Cross, well-shaped with fingers nice, To be engrafted on the top of his small edifice. That Cross he now was fastening there, as the surest power and best For supplying all deficiencies, all wants of the rude nest In which, from burning heat, or tempest It came with sleep and showed the Boy, no driving far and wide, The innocent Boy, else shelterless, his lonely head must hide. cherub, not transformed, But the poor ragged Thing whose ways my human heart had warmed. That Cross belike he also raised as a stand-Me had the dream equipped with wings, so ard for the true And faithful service of his heart in the worst that might ensue Of hardship and distressful fear, amid the houseless waste Where he, in his poor self so weak, by Providence was placed. -Here, Lady! might I cease; but nay, let us before we part With this dear holy shepherd-boy breathe a prayer of earnest heart, That unto him, where'er shall lie his life's appointed way, The Cross, fixed in his soul, may prove an all-sufficing stay. heaviness be cleared, For bodied forth before my eyes the crosscrowned hut appeared; And, while around it storm as fierce seemed troubling earth and air, I saw, within, the Norman Boy kneeling alone in prayer. The Child, as if the thunder's voice spake with articulate call, Bowed meekly in submissive fear, before the Lord of All; His lips were moving; and his eyes, up raised to sue for grace, With soft illumination cheered the dimness of that place. How beautiful is holiness !-what wonder if the sight, Almost as vivid as a dream, produced a dream at night? I took him in my arms, And lifted from the grassy floor, stilling his faint alarms, And bore him high through yielding air my debt of love to pay, By I giving him, for both our sakes, an hour of holiday. whispered, "Yet a little while, dear Child! thou art my own, To show thee some delightful thing, in country or in town. What shall it be? a mirthful throng? or that holy place and calm St. Denis, filled with royal tombs, or the Church of Notre Dame? "St. Ouen's golden Shrine? Or choose what else would please thee most Of any wonder, Normandy, or all proud France, can boast!" "My Mother," said the Boy, "was born near to a blessèd Tree, The Chapel Oak of Allonville; good Angel, show it me!" On wings, from broad and steadfast poise let loose by this reply, For Allonville, o'er down and dale, away then did we fly; O'er town and tower we flew, and fields in May's fresh verdure drest; The wings they did not flag: the Child, though grave, was not deprest. But who shall show, to waking sense, the gleam of light that broke Forth from his eyes, when first the Boy looked down on that huge oak, For length of days so much revered, so famous where it stands For twofold hallowing-Nature's care, and work of human hands? Strong as an eagle with my charge I glided round and round The wide-spread boughs, for view of door, window, and stair that wound Gracefully up the gnarled trunk; nor left we unsurveyed The pointed steeple peering forth from the centre of the shade. sanctuary showed, By light of lamp and precious stones, that glimmered here, there glowed, Shrine, Altar, Image, Offerings hung in sign of gratitude; Light that inspired accordant thoughts; and speech I thus renewed : "Hither the Afflicted come, as thou hast heard thy Mother say, And, kneeling, supplication make to our By sudden pangs, what bitter tears have on this pavement dropt! "Poor Shepherd of the naked Down, a favored lot is thine, Far happier lot, dear Boy, than brings full many to this shrine; From body pains and pains of soul tho needest no release, Thy hours as they flow on are spent, if no in joy, in peace. As silence from my mind, visions still more bright have done, and left no trace behind. But oh! that Country-man of thine, whose eye, loved Child, can see A pledge of endless bliss in acts of early piety, In verse, which to thy ear might come, would treat this simpl theme, Nor leave untold our happy flight in that adventurous dream. Alas the dream, to thee, poor Boy! to thee from whom it flowed, Was nothing, scarcely can be aught, yet 'twas bounteously bestowed, If I may dare to cherish hope that gentle eyes will read Not loth, and listening Little-ones, hearttouched, their fancies feed. THE WESTMORELAND GIRL. TO MY GRANDCHILDREN. SEEK who will delight in fable, Far and wide on hill and valley Peace and rest, as seems, before them |