THE WORDSWORTH'S GRAVE. HE Rothay's stream is running near, The voice that was to him so dear; But the poet doth not hear. All around his dwelling rise, With their gray heads in the skies, The noble hills that made him wise; But he doth not ope his eyes. From the little church the hum Of his old friends' prayers doth come, As is most fit, unto his tomb; But the godlike lips are dumb. What and if he deaf doth lie? What and if he ope not eye? If death that tuneful tongue doth tie? With God and us such ne'er can die. GRASMERE. James Payn. HUT out from all that wars against the soul, SHUT The shocks that jar the music of the heart, The pleasures lasting only in the smart Of that regret which feigns a perfect whole Where naught was full; the frequent rubs that wear Our loves away, and strip us for the fight With the rough world; alone, in calm delight Of peace, content, and joy, art thou, Grasmere ! Great Bealings. MEDITATIONS IN GREAT BEALINGS CHURCHYARD. EAR witness, many a loved and lovely scene BEAR Which I no more may visit, are ye not As if but yesterday mine eyes had fed Upon your charms; and yet months, years, since then have sped Their silent course. And thus it ought to be, Thy peaceful landscape; much the heart reveres, Then art thou such a spot as man might choose And calm and soothing; when the light breeze wooes They beautify; no sound, except the bleat Of innocent lambs, or notes which speak the bliss Of happy birds unseen. What could a hermit miss ? * * * Bernard Barton. IF Green-head Ghyll. GREEN-HEAD GHYLL. from the public way you turn your steps Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, You will suppose that with an upright path Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. But courage! for around that boisterous brook The mountains have all opened out themselves, And made a hidden valley of their own. Who journey thither find themselves alone With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites That overhead are sailing in the sky. It is, in truth, an utter solitude. William Wordsworth. Greenwich. GREENWICH HILL. THOUGH clouds obscured the morning hour, THOUGH And keen and eager blew the blast, And drizzling fell the cheerless shower, All soon, propitious to our prayer, So have we, love, a day enjoyed, On which we both- and yet who knows? May dwell with pleasure unalloyed, And dread no thorn beneath the rose. How pleasant from that dome-crowned hill Woods, ships, and spires, and, lovelier still, The circling Thames' majestic flow! How sweet, as indolently laid, We overhung that long-drawn dale, And when the shadow's rapid growth The sportive wile, the blameless jest, Which richer tables may not know. The babe that on the mother's breast Looks up to catch a parting smile, Feels less assured than thou, dear maid, Then, then I marked the chastened joy |