Returns to him its joy. The summer air,
Whose glittering stillness sleeps within his soul,
Stirs with its own delight: The verdant earth,
Like beauty waking from a happy dream,
Lie smiling: Each fair cloud to him appears
A pilgrim travelling to the shrine of peace;
And the wild wave, that wantons on the sea,
A gay though homeless stranger. Ever blest
The man who thus beholds the golden chain
Linking his soul to outward Nature fair,
Full of the living God!

And where, ye haunts Of grandeur and of beauty! shall the heart, That yearns for high communion with its God, Abide, if e'er its dreams have been of you? The loveliest sounds, forms, hues, of all the earth Linger delighted here: Here guilt might come, With sullen soul abhorring Nature's joy, And in a moment be restored to Heaven. Here sorrow, with a dimness o'er his face, Might be beguiled to smiles,-almost forget His sufferings, and, in Nature's living book Read characters so lovely, that his heart Would, as it bless'd them, feel a rising swell Almost like joy!-O earthly paradise! Of many a secret anguish hast thou heal'd Him, who now greets thee with a joyful strain.

And oh if in those elevated hopes That lean on virtue,-in those high resolves That bring the future close upon the soul, And nobly dare its dangers ;-if in joy Whose vital spring is more than innocence, Yea! Faith and Adoration!-if the soul Of man may trust to these,and they are strong, Strong as the prayer of dying penitent,My being shall be bliss. For witness, Thou! O Mighty One! whose saving love has stolen On the deep peace of moon-beams to my heart,Thou! who with looks of mercy oft hast cheer'd The starry silence, when, at noon of night, On some wild mountain thou hast not declined The homage of thy lonely worshipper,― Bear witness, Thou! that both in joy and grief, The love of nature long hath been with me The love of virtue :-that the solitude Of the remotest hills to me hath been Thy temple:-that the fountain's happy voice Hath sung thy goodness, and thy power has stunn'd

My spirit in the roaring cataract!

Such solitude to me! Yet are there hearts, Worthy of good men's love, nor unadorn'd With sense of moral beauty,-to the joy That dwells within the Almighty's outward shrine, Senseless and cold. Aye, there are men who see The broad sun sinking in a blaze of light, Nor feel their disembodied spirits hail With adoration the departing God; Who on the night-sky, when a cloudless moon Glides in still beauty through unnumber'd stars, Can turn the eye unmoved, as if a wall Of darkness screen'd the glory from their souls. With humble pride I bless the Holy One For sights to these denied. And oh! how oft In seasons of depression,-when the lamp

Of life burn'd dim, and all unpleasant thoughts
Subdued the proud aspirings of the soul,-
When doubts and fears withheld the timid eye
From scanning scenes to come, and a deep sense
Of human frailty turn'd the past to pain,
How oft have I remember'd that a world
Of glory lay around me, that a source
Of lofty solace lay in every star,

And that no being need behold the sun,

And grieve, that knew WHO hung him in the sky.
Thus unperceived I woke from heavy grief
To airy joy and seeing that the mind
Of man though still the image of his God,
Lean'd by his will on various happiness,
I felt that all was good; that faculties,
Though low, might constitute, if rightly used,
True wisdom; and when man hath here attain'd
The purpose of his being, he will sit

Near Mercy's throne, whether his course hath

been

Prone on the earth's dim sphere, or, as with wing Of viewless eagle, round the central blaze.

Then ever shall the day that led me here
Be held in blest remembrance. I shall see,
Even at my dying hour, the glorious sun
That made Winander one wide wave of gold,
When first in transport from the mountain-top
I hail'd the heavenly vision! Not a cloud
Whose wreaths lay smiling in the lap of light,
Not one of all those sister-isles that sleep
Together, like a happy family

Of beauty and of love, but will arise
To cheer my parting spirit, and to tell
That Nature gently leads unto the grave
All who have read her heart, and kept their own
In kindred holiness.

But ere that hour
Of awful triumph, I do hope that years
Await me, when the unconscious power of joy
Creating wisdom, the bright dreams of soul
Will humanize the heart, and I shall be
More worthy to be loved by those whose love
Is highest praise :-that by the living light
That burns forever in affection's breast,

I shall behold how fair and beautiful
A human form may be -Oh, there are thoughts
That slumber in the soul, like sweetest sounds
Amid the harp's loose strings, till airs from Heaven
On earth, at dewy night-fall, visitant,
Awake the sleeping melody! Such thoughts
My gentle Mary, I have owed to thee.
And if thy voice e'er melt into my soul
With a dear home-toned whisper,-if thy face
E'er brighten in the unsteady gleams of light
From our own cottage-hearth;-0 Mary! then
My overpower'd spirit will recline
Upon thy inmost heart, till it become,
O sinless seraph! almost worthy thee.

Then will the earth,-that oft times to the eve Of solitary lover seems o'erhung With too severe a shade, and faintly smiles With ineffectual beauty on his heart,― Be clothed with everlasting joy; like land Of blooming faëry, or of boyhood's dreams Ere life's first flush is o'er. Oft shall I turn

My busy fancy; dreams that rise in peace,
And thither lead, partaking in their flight
Of human interests and earthly joys.
Imagination fondly leans on truth,
And sober scenes of dim reality

To her seem lovely as the western sky
To the rapt Persian worshipping the sun.
Methinks this little lake, to whom my heart
Assigned a guardian spirit, renders back
To me, in tenderest gleams of gratitude
Profounder beauty to reward my hymn.

Long hast thou been a darling haunt of mine, And still warm blessings gush'd into my heart, Meeting and parting with thy smiles of peace. But now, thy mild and gentle character, More deeply felt than ever, seems to blend Its essence pure with mine, like some sweet tune Oft heard before with pleasure, but at last In one high moment of inspired bliss, Borne through the spirit like an angel's song.

This is the solitude that reason loves! Even he who yearns for human sympathies, And hears a music in the breath of man, Dearer than voice of mountain or of flood, Might live a hermit here, and mark the sun Rising or setting 'mid the beauteous calm, Devoutly blending in his happy soul

Thoughts both of earth and heaven! - Yon mountain-side,

Rejoicing in its clustering cottages,
Appears to me a paradise preserved

From guilt by Nature's hand, and every wreath

Of smoke, that from these hamlets mounts to hea

O gentlest Lake! from all unhallow'd things By grandeur guarded in thy loveliness, Ne'er may thy poet with unwelcome feet Press thy soft moss embathed in flowery dyes, And shadow'd in thy stillness like the heavens. May innocence for ever lead me here, To form amid the silence high resolves For future life; resolves, that, born in peace, Shall live 'mid tumult, and though haply mild As infants in their play, when brought to bear On the world's business, shall assert their power And majesty and lead me boldly on Like giants conquering in a noble cause.

This is a holy faith, and full of cheer To all who worship Nature, that the hours,

Past tranquilly with her, fade not away
For ever like the clouds, but in the soul
Possess a secret silent dwelling-place,
Where with a smiling visage memory sits,
And startles oft the virtuous with a show
Of unsuspected treasures. Yea, sweet Lake!
Oft hast thou borne into my grateful heart
Thy lovely presence, with a thousand dreams
Dancing and brightening o'er thy sunny wave,
Though many a dreary mile of mist and snow
Between us interposed. And even now,
When yon bright star hath risen to warn me
home,

I bid thee farewell, in the certain hope
That thou, this night, wilt o'er my sleeping eyes
Shed cheering visions, and with freshest joy
Make me salute the dawn. Nor may the hymn
Now sung by me unto thy listening woods,
Be wholly vain, but haply it may yield
A gentle pleasure to some gentle heart,
Who blessing, at its close, the unknown bard,
May, for his sake, upon thy quiet banks
Frame visions of his own, and other songs
More beautiful, to Nature and to Thee!

MARY.

THREE days before my Mary's death, We walk'd by Grassmere shore; "Sweet Lake!" she said with faltering breath, "I ne'er shall see thee more!"

Then turning round her languid head,

She look'd me in the face;

And whisper'd, "When thy friend is dead, Remember this lone place."

Vainly I struggled at a smile

That did my fears betray;

It seem'd that on our darling isle Foreboding darkness lay.

My Mary's words were words of truth;
None now behold the Maid;
Amid the tears of age and youth

She in her grave was laid.

Long days, long nights, I ween, were past Ere ceased her funeral knell;

But to the spot I went at last

Where she had breathed "farewell!"

Methought I saw the phantom stand Beside the peaceful wave;

I felt the pressure of her hand

Then look'd towards her grave.

Fair, fair, beneath the evening sky
The quiet church-yard lay:
The tall pine-grove most solemnly
Hung mute above her clay.

Dearly she loved their arching spread,
Their music wild and sweet,
And, as she wished on her death-bed,
Was buried at their feet.

Around her grave a beauteous fence

Of wild-flowers shed their breath, Smiling like infant innocence

Within the gloom of death.

Such flowers from bank of mountain-brook

At eve we used to bring, When every little mossy nook Betray'd returning Spring.

Oft had I fix'd the simple wreath

Upon her virgin breast;

But now such flowers as form'd it, breathe

Around her bed of rest.

Yet all within my silent soul

As the hush'd air was calm; The natural tears that slowly stole Assuaged my grief like balm.

The air, that seem'd so thick and dull
For months unto my eye;
Ah me! how bright and beautiful
It floated on the sky!

A trance of high and solemn bliss
From purest ether came;
'Mid such a heavenly scene as this
Death is an empty name!

The memory of the past return'd
Like music to my heart,-

It seem'd that causelessly I mourn'd,
When we were told to part.

"God's mercy," to myself I said, "To both our souls is givenTo me, sojourning on earth's shade, To her-a Saint in Heaven!"

LINES

Laid the first stone,-and in his native vale It serves him for a peaceful monument, 'Mid the hill-silence.

Renovated life

Now flows through all my veins :-old dreams revive;

And while an airy pleasure in my brain
Dances unbidden, I have time to gaze,
Even with a happy lover's kindest looks,
On Thee, delicious Fountain!

Thou dost shed

(Though sultry stillness fill the summer air
And parch the yellow hills) all round thy cave
A smile of beauty lovely as the Spring
Breathes with his April showers. The narrow
lane

On either hand ridged with low shelving rocks,
That from the road-side gently lead the eye
Up to thy bed,-ah me! how rich a green,
Still brightening, wantons o'er its moisten'd
grass!

With what a sweet sensation doth my gaze,
Now that my thirsty soul is gratified,
Live on the little cell! The water there,
Variously dappled by the wreathed sand
That sleeps below in many an antic shape,
Like the mild plumage of the pheasant-hen
Soothes the beholder's eye. The ceaseless drip
From the moss-fretted roof, by Nature's hand
Vaulted most beautiful, even like a pulse
Tells of the living principle within,—

A pulse but seldom heard amid the wild.

Yea, seldom heard: there is but one lone cot Beyond this well:-it is inhabited By an old shepherd during summer months, And haply he may drink of the pure spring, To Langdale Chapel on the Sabbath-morn Going to pray, or as he home returns At silent eve: or traveller such as I, Following his fancies o'er these lonely hills, Thankfully here may slake his burning thirst Once in a season. Other visitants

SIDE, LANGDALE.

THOU lonely spring of waters undefiled!

Silently slumbering in thy mossy cell,

Yea, moveless as the hillock's verdant side

When ice hath lock'd the rills, or wandering colt Leaving its pasture for the shady lane.

Methinks, in such a solitary cave, The fairy forms belated peasant sees

On the smooth mountain sward, might here retire
To lead their noon-tide revels, or to bathe
Their tiny limbs in this transparent well.
A fitter spot there is not: flowers are here
Of loveliest colours and of sweetest smell,
Native to these our hills, and ever seen
A fairest family by the happy side
Of their own parent spring;-and others too,
Of foreign birth, the cultured garden's joy,
Planted by that old shepherd in his mirth,
Here smile like strangers in a novel scene.
Lo a tall rose-tree with its clustering bloom,
Brightening the mossy wall on which it leans
Its arching beauty, to my gladsome heart
Seems, with its smiles of lonely loveliness,
Like some fair virgin at the humble door

Of her dear mountain-cot, standing to greet The way-bewilder'd traveller.

But my soul

Long pleased to linger by this silent cave,
Nursing its wild and playful fantasies,
Pants for a loftier pleasure,-and forsakes,
Though surely with no cold ingratitude,
The flowers and verdure round the sparkling
well.

A voice calls on me from the mountain-depths,
And it must be obey'd: Yon ledge of rocks,
Like a wild staircase over Hardknot's brow,
Is ready for my footsteps, and even now,
Wastwater blackens far beneath my feet,
She the storm-loving Lake.

Sweet Fount!-Farewell!

THE DESOLATE VILLAGE.

FIRST DREAM.

SWEET Village! on thy pastoral hill
Array'd in sunlight sad and still,
As if beneath the harvest-moon,"
Thy noiseless homes were sleeping!
It is the merry month of June,
And creatures all of air and earth
Should now their holiday of mirth
With dance and song be keeping.
But, loveliest Village! silent Thou,

As cloud wreathed o'er the Morning's brow,
When light is faintly breaking,

And Midnight's voice afar is lost,
Like the wailing of a wearied ghost,
The shades of earth forsaking.

'Tis not the Day to Scotia dear,
A summer Sabbath mild and clear!
Yet from her solemn burial-ground
The small Kirk Steeple looks around,
Enshrouded in a calm

Profound as fills the house of prayer,
Ere from the band of virgins fair
Exhales the choral psalm.
A sight so steeped in perfect rest
Is slumbering not on nature's breast
In the smiles of earthly day!
'Tis a picture floating down the sky,
By fancy framed in years gone by,
And mellowing in decay!

That thought is gone!-the Village still
With deepening quiet crowns the hill,
Its low green roofs are there!

In soft material beauty beaming,

As in the silent hour of dreaming

They hung embowered in air!

Is this the Day when to the mountains

The happy shepherds go,

And bathe in sparkling pools and fountains Their flocks made white as snow?

Hath gentle girl and gamesome boy,

With meek-eyed mirth or shouting joy,

Gone tripping up the brae?

Till far behind their Town doth stand,
Like an image in sweet Fairy Land,
When the Elves have flown away!
-O sure if aught of human breath
Within these walls remain,
Thus deepening in the hush of death,
'Tis but some melancholy Crone,
Who sits with solemn eyes
Beside the cradle all alone,
And lulls the infant with a strain
Of Scotia's ancient melodies.

What if these homes be filled with life?
'Tis the sultry month of June,
And when the cloudless sun rides high
Above the glittering air of noon,
All nature sinks opprest,-
And labour shuts his weary eye
In the mid-day hour of rest.
Yet let the soul think what it will,
Most dirge-like mourns that moorland rill
How different once its flow!
When with a dreamy motion gliding
'Mid its green fields in love abiding,
Or leaping o'er the mossy linn,
And sporting with its own wild din,
Seem'd water changed to snow.
Beauty lies spread before my sight,
But grief-like shadows dim its light,
And all the scene appears

Like a church-yard when a friend is dying,
In more than earthly stillness lying,
And glimmering through our tears!

Sweet Woodburn! like a cloud that name
Comes floating o'er my soul!
Although thy beauty still survive,
One look hath changed the whole.
The gayest village of the gay
Beside thy own sweet river,

Wert Thou on Week or Sabbath day!
So bathed in the blue light of joy,
As if no trouble could destroy
Peace doom'd to last for ever.
Now in the shadow of thy trees
Still lovely in the tainted breeze,
The fell Plague-Spirit grimly lies
And broods, as in despite

Of uncomplaining lifelessness,
On the troops of silent shades that press
Into the church-yard's cold recess,
From that region of delight.

Last summer from the school-house door,
When the glad play-bell was ringing,
What shoals of bright-haired elves would pour,
Like small waves racing on the shore,
In dance of rapture singing!

Oft by yon little silver well,

Now sleeping in neglected cell,

The village-maid would stand,

While resting on the mossy bank

With freshened soul the traveller drank

The cold cup from her hand;

Haply some soldier from the war,
Who would remember long and far
That Lily of the Land.