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Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop

Their ancient neighbour, the old steeple-tower,
The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by

Came forth to greet me; and when he had asked,
"How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid!
And when will she return to us?" he paused;
And, after short exchange of village news,
He with grave looks demanded, for what cause,
Reviving obsolete idolatry,

I, like a Runic Priest, in characters

Of formidable size had chiselled out
Some uncouth name upon the native rock,
Above the Rotha, by the forest-side.
-Now, by those dear immunities of heart
Engendered between malice and true love,
I was not loth to be so catechised,
And this was my reply :—" As it befel,
One summer morning we had walked abroad
At break of day, Joanna and myself.

—'Twas that delightful season when the broom,
Full-flowered, and visible on every steep,
Along the copses runs in veins of gold.

Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks;

And when we came in front of that tall rock

That eastward looks, I there stopped short*—and stood Tracing the lofty barrier with my eye

From base to summit; such delight I found

To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower
That intermixture of delicious hues,

Along so vast a surface, all at once,

In one impression, by connecting force
Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart,

* Which looks towards the east, I there stopped short.-Edit. 1815.

-When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' space,
Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld

That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud.
The Rock, like something starting from a sleep,
Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed again;
That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag
Was ready with her cavern; Hammar-scar,
And the tall Steep of Silver-how, sent forth
A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard,
And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone;
Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky

Carried the Lady's voice,-old Skiddaw blew
His speaking-trumpet ;-back out of the clouds
Of Glaramara southward came the voice;
And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head.*
-Now whether (said I to our cordial Friend,
Who in the hey-day of astonishment
Smiled in my face) this were in simple truth
A work accomplished by the brotherhood
Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched
With dreams and visionary impulses

To me alone imparted, sure I am†

That there was a loud uproar in the hills.
And, while we both were listening, to my side
The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished

* Mr. Wordsworth admitted that the effect of the lady's laugh, as described, is an extravagance, yet I have myself heard him suggest that from this passage Lord Byron took the hint for the conclusion of his famous ninety-second stanza of the third Canto of Childe Harold

"Far along

From peak to peak the rattling crags among

Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud,
But every mountain now hath found a tongue,

And Jura answers through her misty shroud
Back to the joyous Alps who call to her aloud."-ED.

Is not for me to tell, but sure I am-Edit. 1815.

To shelter from some object of her fear.

-And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons
Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone
Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm
And silent morning, I sat down, and there,
In memory of affections old and true,
I chiselled out in those rude characters
Joanna's name deep in the living stone :-
And I, and all who dwell by my fireside,
Have called the lovely rock, JOANNA'S ROCK."

Note.-In Cumberland and Westmoreland are several Inscriptions, upon the native rock, which, from the wasting of time, and the rudeness of the workmanship, have been mistaken for Runic. They are without doubt Roman.

The Rotha, mentioned in this poem, is the River which, flowing through the lakes of Grasmere and Rydale, falls into Wynandermere. On Helmcrag, that impressive single mountain at the head of the Vale of Grasmere, is a rock which from most points of view bears a striking resemblance to an old Woman cowering. Close by this rock is one of those fissures or caverns, which in the language of the country are called dungeons. Most of the mountains here mentioned immediately surround the Vale of Grasmere; of the others, some are at a considerable distance, but they belong to the same cluster.

III.

THERE IS AN EMINENCE.*

THERE is an Eminence,-of these our hills
The last that parleys with the setting sun
We can behold it from our orchard-seat;
And, when at evening we pursue our walk
Along the public way, this Peak, so high †
Above us, and so distant in its height,

* It arises above the road by the side of Grasmere Lake towards Keswick and its name is Stone Arthur. The statement that it could be seen from the orchard of the Town-end cottage was a poetic fiction.

† this Cliff, so high.-Edit. 1815.

Is visible; and often seems to send
Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts.
The meteors make of it a favourite haunt :
The star of Jove, so beautiful and large
In the mid heavens, is never half so fair
As when he shines above it. 'Tis in truth
The loneliest place we have among the clouds.
And She who dwells with me, whom I have loved
With such communion, that no place on earth
Can ever be a solitude to me,

Hath to this lonely Summit given my Name.

1800.

IV.

POINT RASH-JUDGMENT.

A NARROW girdle of rough stones and crags,
A rude and natural causeway, interposed
Between the water and a winding slope

Of

copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore
Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy :
And there myself and two beloved Friends,†
One calm September morning, ere the mist
Had altogether yielded to the sun,
Sauntered on this retired and difficult way.

-Ill suits the road with one in haste; but we
Played with our time; and, as we strolled along,
It was our occupation to observe

Such objects as the waves had tossed ashore-
Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough,

* The character of the Eastern shore of Grasmere Lake is now quite changed by the public road being carried along by its side.

† Coleridge and Miss Wordsworth.

Each on the other heaped, along the line

Of the dry wreck.

And, in our vacant mood, Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft

Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard,

That skimmed the surface of the dead calm lake,
Suddenly halting now-a lifeless stand!
And starting off again with freak as sudden;
In all its sportive wanderings, all the while,
Making report of an invisible breeze

That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse,
Its playmate, rather say, its moving soul.*
-And often, trifling with a privilege
Alike indulged to all, we paused, one now,
And now the other, to point out, perchance
To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fair
Either to be divided from the place

On which it grew, or to be left alone
To its own beauty. Many such there are,
Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall fern,
So stately, of the queen Osmunda named;
Plant lovelier, in its own retired abode

On Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by the side
Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere,

Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.†

:

-So fared we that bright morning from the fields,
Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth

Of reapers, men and women, boys and girls.
Delighted much to listen to those sounds,
And feeding thus our fancies, we advanced

* Its very playmate, and its moving soul.-Edit. 1815.

This passage, is spoken of by Professor Wilson in the strongest terms of eulogy that even his expressive vocabulary could supply.

And in the fashion which I have described

Feeding unthinking fancies, we advanced -Edit. 1815.

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