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la which, through many seasons, from the

world Removed, and the affections of the world, He dwelt in solitude.—But he had left A Fellow - labourer, whom the good Man

loved As his own soul. And, when within his

cave Alone he knelt before the Crucifix While o'er the Lake the cataract of Lodore Pealed to his orisons, and when he paced Along the hcach of his small isle and thought Of his Companion, he would pray that both (Now that their earthly duties were fulfil I'd ) Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain So prayed he:—as our Chronicles report, Though here the Hermit numbered his last

day, Far from St. Cuthhert his beloved Friend, Those holy Men both died in the same hour.

THE POET'S LIFE.

I \m not One who much or oft delight To season my fireside with personal talk,— Of Friends, who live within an easy walk, Or Neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight: And, for my chance - acquaintance, Ladies

bright, Sons, Mothers, Maidens withering on the

stalk, These all wear out of me, like Forms, with

chalk Painted on rich men's floors, for one feastnight. Better than such discourse doth silence long, l.onir- harrcn silence, square with my desire; To sit without emotion, hope, or aim, In the lov'd presence of my cottage-fire, And listen to the flapping of the flame, Or kettle, whispering its faint undersong. "Yet life," you say, "is life; we have seen

and see, And with a living pleasure we describe; And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe The languid mind into activity. Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and

glee. Are fostered by the comment and the gibe!" Even he it so: yet still among your tribe. Our daily world's true Worldlings, rank

not me! Children arc hlest, and powerful; their world

lies More justly balanced; partly at their feet, And part far from them:—sweetest melodies Arc those that arc by distance made mote

sweet; Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes He is a Slave; the meanest we can meet!

Wings have we,—and as far as we ran go We may find pleasure: wilderness and wood,

Blank ocean and mere sky, support that

mood Which with the lofty sanctifies the low: Dreams, books, are each a world; and hooks,

we know. Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Bound these, with tendrils strong as flesh

and blood. Our pastime and our happiness will grow. There do I find a never-failing store Of personal themes, and such as I love best; Matter wherein right voluble I am: Two will I mention, dearer than the rest: The gentle Lady, married to the Moor; And heavenly Una with her milk-white

Lamb.

Nor can I not believe but that hereby Great gains arc mine: for thus I live

remote From evil-spenking; rancour, never sought, Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie. Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and

joyous thought: And thus from day to day my little Boat. Bocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably. Blessings be with them—and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler enres, The Poets, who on earth have made us Heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays! Oh! might my name be numbered among

theirs, Then gladly would I end my mortal days.

THE FOBCE OF PRAYER;

OR THE FOUNDING OP BOLTON-PRIOBV.

"whit is good for a bootless bene?"
With these dark words begins my Tale;
And their meaning is: whence can comfort

spring When Prayer is of no avail V

"What is good Tor a bootless bene?"
The Falconer to the Lady said;
And she made answer: "Endless Sorrow!'
For she knew that her Son wns dead.

She knew it by the Falconer's words,
And from the look of the Falconer's eye,
And from the love which was in her soul
For her youthful Bomilly.

—Young Romilly through Burden Woods
Is ranging high and low;
And holds a Greyhound in a leash.
To let slip upon buck or doe.

And the Pair have reached that fearful chusni,
How tempting; to ucntride!
For lordly Wharf is there pent in
With rocks on cither side.

This Striding-place is called The Strip,
A name which it took of yore:
A thousand years hath it home that name
And shall, a thonsand more.

And hither is young Romilly come,
And what may now forbid
That he, perhaps for the hundredth time,
Shall hound across The Strid 't

He sprang in glee,—for what cared he That the River was strong and the rocks

were steep? —But the Greyhound in the leash hung back, And checked him in his leap.

The Boy is in the arms of Wharf,
And strangled by a merciless force;
For never more was young Romilly seen
Till he rose a lifeless Corse!

Now there is stillness in the Vale, And long unspeaking sorrow :— Wharf shall be to pitying hearts A name more sad than Yarrow.

If for a Lover the Lady wept,

A solace she might borrow

From death, and from the passion of death ;

Old Wharf might heal her sorrow.

She weeps not for the wedding-day
AVhich was to be to-morrow:
Her hope was a farther-looking hope,
And hers is a Mother's Sorrow.

He was a Tree that stood alone,
And proudly did its branches wave;
And the Root of this delightful Tree
Was in her Husband's grave!

Long, long in darkness did she sit,
And her first words were: "Let there be
In Bolton, on the field of Wharf,
A stately Priory!"

The stately Priory was reared;
And Wharf, as he moved along,
To Matins joined a mournful voice,
Nor failed at Even-song.

And the Lady prayed in heaviness
That looked not for relief;
But slowly did her succour come,
And a patience to her grief.

Oh! there is never sorrow of heart
That shall lack a timely end,
If but to God we turn, and ask
Of 11 i in to be our Friend!

INTIMATIONS

OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF H1RLI CHILDHOOD.

There was a time when meadow, grove, and

stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparell'd in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it has been of yore;— Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now c- in see no more.

The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose,— The Moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare: Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.

Now, while the Birds thus sing a joy ous song.

And while the young Lambs bound

As to the tabor's sound.

To me alone there came a thought of grief:

A timely utterance gave that thought relief,

And I again am strong, The Cataracts blow their trumpets from the

steep,— No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; I hear the Echoes through the mountains

throng. The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,— And all the earth is gay; Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity,

And with the heart of May Doth every Beast keep holiday; Thou Child of Joy Shout ronnd me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-Boy! Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call

Ye to each other make; I sec
The heavens laugh with yon in your jubilee;
My heart is at your festival,
My head hath it's coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.
Oh evil day! if I were sullen
While tlier.arth herself is adorning,

This sweet May-morning,
And the Children are pulling,

On every side.
In a thousand rallies far and wide,
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines
warm,
And the Babe leaps up on his mother's arm :—
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
—But there's a Tree, of many one,
A single Field which I have look'd upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone:
The Pansy at my feet
Doth the same talc repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam'(
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere it's setting,

And cometh from afar: Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home: \leaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close

Upon the growing Boy, Bat He beholds the light, and whence it flows,

He sees it in his joy; The Youth, who daily farther from the East Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended; At length the Man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
Anil, even with something of a Mother's mind,
And no unworthy aim,
The homely Nurse doth all she can
To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,

Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came.

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
A four years' Darling of a pigmy size!
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his Mother's kisses,
With light upon him from his Father's eyes!
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shap'd by himself with newly-learned art;
A wedding or a festival,
A mourning or a funeral;

And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife; But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside. And with new joy and pride The little Actor cons another part, Filling from time to time his humorous stage With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, That Life brings with her in her Equipage; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation.

Tliou, whose exterior semblance doth belie

Thy Soul's immensity; Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, realist the eternal deep, Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,—

Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!

On whom those truths do rest, Which we are toiling all our lives to find; Thou, over whom thy Immortality Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, A Presence which is not to be put by;

To whom the grave Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight

Of day or the warm light, A place of thought where we in waiting lie; Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom, on thy Being's

height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou

provoke The Years to bring the inevitable yoke. Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly

freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight, Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive! The thought of our past years in me doth

breed Perpetual benedictions: not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest; Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new Hedged hope still fluttering in his breast:— Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings; Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realiz'd, High instincts, before which our mortal

Nature Did tremble like a guilty Thing surpriz'd! But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, he they what they may, Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, Arc yet a master-light of all our seeing; Uphold us—cherish—, and have power to

make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,

To perish never; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Nor Man nor Boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy!

Hence, in a season of calm weather, Though inland far we he, Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea Which hrought us hither; Can in a moment travel thither,— And see the Children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

Then, sing ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous
song!
And let the young Lambs hound
As to the tabor's sound!
We in thought will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play.
Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!
What though the radiance which was once

so hright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring hack the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the
flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind,
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be,
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human sufTcring,
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

And oh ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and

Groves, Think not of any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feci your might; I only have relinquished one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway. 1 love the Brooks which down their channels

fret, Even more than when I tripped lightly as

they; The innocent brightness of a new-born Bay

Is lovely yet; The Clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms

are won.

Thanks to the human heart by which we live. Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can

give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

ODE

THE MORNING OF THE DAY APPOINTED FOB. A GENERAL THANKSGIVING.

J ni in 18, 1816.

Hail, universal Source of pure delight!
Thou that canst shed the bliss of gratitude
On hearts howe'er insensible or rude,
Whether thy orient visitations smite
The haughty towers where monarchsdwell;
Or thou, impartial Sun, with presence bright
Checrst the low threshold of the peasant's

cell! —Not unrejoiced I see thee climb the sky In naked splendour, clear from mist or haze, Or cloud approaching to divert the rays, Which even in deepest winter testify

Thy power and majesty, Dazzling the vision that presumes to gaze. Well does thine aspect usher in this Day; As aptly suits therewith that timid pace. Framed in subjection to the chains That bind thee to the path which God ordains

Thai thou shalt trace. Till, with the heavens and earth, thou pass

away! Nor less the stillness of these frosty plains, Their utter stillness,—and the silent grace Of yon ethcrinl summits white with snow, Whose tranquil pomp, and spotless purity, Bcport of storms gone by To us who tread below, Do with the service of this Day accord. —Divinest object, which the uplifted eye Of mortal man is suffered to behold; Thou, who upon yon snow-clad heights hast

poured Meek splendour, nor forgetst the humble

vale, Thou who dost warm Earth's universal

mould,— And for thy bounty wert not unadorcd

By pious men of old; Once more, heart-cheering Sun, I bid thee

hail; Bright be thy course to-day, let not this

promise fail!

'Mid the deep quiet of this morning-hour All nature seems to hear me while I speak.— By feelings urged, that do not vainly seek Apt language, ready as the tuneful notes That stream in blithe succession from the throats

Of birds in leafy bower, Warbling a farewell to a vernnl shower. There is a radiant but a short-lived flame That burns for Poets in the dawning East;— And oft my soul hath kindled at the same, When the captivity of sleep had ceased; But he who fixed immovably the frame Of the round world, and built, by laws as strong,

A solid refuge for distress,

The towers of righteousness; He knows that from a holier altar came The quickening spark of this day's sacrifice; Knows that the source is nobler whence doth rise

The current of this matin-song;

Thnt deeper far it lies Than aught dependant on the fickle skies.

Have we not conquered?—By the vengeful sword?

Ah no, by dint of Magnanimity;

That curbed the baser passions, and left free

A loyal band to follow their liege Lord,

Clear-sighted Honour—and his staid Compeers,

Along a track of most unnatural years,

In execution, of heroic deeds;

Whose memory, spotless as the crystal beads

Of morning-dew upon the untrodden meads,

Shall live enrolled above the starry spheres.

Who to the murmur of an earthly string
Of Britain's acts would sing,
He with enraptured voice will tell

Of One whose spirit no reverse could quell;

Of One that 'mid the failing never failed:

Who paints how Britain struggled and prevailed,

Shall represent her labouring with an eye
Of circumspect humanity;
Shall shew her clothed with strength

and skill,
AH martial duties to fulfil;

Finn as a rock in stationary fight;

In motion rapid as the lightning's gleam;

Fierce as a flood-gate bursting in the night

To rouse the wicked from their giddy dream—

Woe, woe to all that face her in the field!

Appalled she may not be, and cannot yield.

And thus is missed the sole true glory That can belong to human story! At which they only shall arrive Who through the abyss of weakness dive: The rcry humblest are too proud of heart: And one brief day is rightly set apart To Him who Iifteth up and laycth low; I%r that Almighty God to whom we owe, Say not that wc have vanquished—but that we survive.

How dreadful the dominion of the Impure! Why should the song be tardy to proclaim That less than power unbounded could not

tame That Soul of Evil —which, from Hell let

loose, Had filled the astonished world with such

abuse, As boundless patience only could endure? —Wide-wasted regions — cities wrapped in

flame— Who sees and feels, may lift a streaming eye To Heaven,—who never saw may heave a

sigh; But the foundation of our nature sltakes, And with an infinite pain the spirit aches, When desolated countries, towns on fire,

Are but the avowed attire
Of warfare waged with desperate mind
Against the life of virtue in mankind;
Assaulting without ruth
The citadels of truth;
While the old forest of civility
Is doomed to perish, to the last fair tree.

A crouching purpose—a distracted will—
Opposed to hopes that battened upon scorn,
And to desires whose ever-waxing horn
Not all the light of earthly power could fill;
Opposed to dark, deep plots of patient skill,
And the celerities of lawless force
Which, spurning God, had flung away

remorse— What could they gam but shadows of redress? —So bad proceeded propagating worse; And discipline was passion's dire excess. Widens the fatal web—its lines extend, And deadlier poisons in the chalice blend— When will your trials teach you to be wise? —O prostrate Lands, consult your agonies!

No more—the guilt is banished,
And with the Guilt the Shame is fled,

And with the Guilt and Shame the Woe hath vanished.

Shaking the dust and ashes from her head!

—No more, these lingerings of distress

Sully the limpid stream of thankfulness.

What robe can gratitude employ
So seemly as the radiant vest of Joy?
What steps so suitable as those that move
In prompt obedience to spontaneous mea-
sures
Of glory—and felicity—and love,
Surrendering the whole heart to sacred plea-
sures?

Land of our fathers! precious unto me
Since the first joys of thinking infancy;
When of thy gallant chivalry I read,
And hugged the volume on my sleepless
bed! .

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