When I had gazed perhaps two minutes

space,

Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld
That ravishment of mine, and laughed
aloud.
[sleep,
The rock, like something starting from a
Took up the lady's voice, and laughed!
again :

That ancient woman seated on Helm-Crag
Was ready with her cavern: Hammer-Scar,
And the tall steep of Silver-how, sent forth
A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg
heard,
[tone:
And Fairfield answered with a mountain
Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky
Carried the lady's voice, -old Skiddaw
blew
[clouds
His speaking trumpet ;-back out of the
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

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 upon the living stone.
And I, and all who dwell by my fire-side,
Have called the lovely rock, Joanna's

Rock." ***

THERE is an eminence,—of these our hills The last that parleys with the setting sun. We can behold it from our orchard-seat;

* 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 Rydal, falls into Wynander.-On Helm-Crag, that impressive single mountain at

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
It was our occupation to observe [along,
Such objects as the waves had tossed ashore,
Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered
bough,

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,

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 of 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.

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, per-
chance

To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too
Either to be divided from the place [fair
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
tern,

So stately, of the Queen Osmunda named;
Plant lovelier in its own retired abode
On Grasmere's beach, than naiad by the
side

Before us, on a point of jutting land,
The tall and upright figure of a man
Attired in peasant's garb, who stood alone,
Angling beside the margin of the lake.
Improvident and reckless, we exclaimed,
The man must be, who thus can lose a
day
[hire
Of the mid-harvest, when the labourer's
Is ample, and some little might be stored
Wherewith to cheer him in the winter time.
Thus talking of that peasant, we ap-
proached

Close to the spot where with his rod and
line
- [head
He stood alone; whereat he turned his
To greet us-and we saw a man worn down
By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken
cheeks
[lean
And wasted limbs, his legs so long and
That for my single self I looked at them,
Forgetful of the body they sustained.-
Too weak to labour in the harvest field,
The man was using his best skill to gain
A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake
That knew not of his wants. I will not say
What thoughts immediately were ours, nor
how

The happy idleness of that sweet morn,
With all its lovely images, was changed
To serious musing and to self-reproach.
Nor did we fail to see within ourselves

What need there is to be reserved in speech,

And temper all our thoughts with charity. Therefore, unwilling to forget that day, My friend, myself, and she who then received

The same admonishment, have called the place

By a memorial name, uncouth indeed
As e'er by mariner was given to bay
Or foreland, on a new-discovered coast;
And Point Rash Judgment is the name it

bears.

TO M. H.

OUR walk was far among the ancient trees; There was no road, nor any woodman's path;

But the thick umbrage, checking the wild growth

Of weed and sapling, along soft green turf
Beneath the branches, of itself had made
A track, that brought us to a slip of lawn,
And a small bed of water in the woods.
All round this pool both flocks and herds
might drink

On its firm margin, even as from a well,
Or some stone-basin which the herdsman's
hand
[did sun,
Had shaped for their refreshment; nor
Or wind from any quarter, ever come,
But as a blessing, to this calm recess,
This glade of water and this one green
field.

The spot was made by nature for herself, The travellers know it not, and 'twill remain

Unknown to them but it is beautiful; And if a man should plant his cottage near, Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees,

And blend its waters with his daily meal, He would so love it, that in his death hour Its image would survive among his thoughts; And therefore, my sweet Mary, this still nook,

[you.

With all its beeches, we have named from

WHEN, to the attractions of the busy world,

Preferring studious leisure, I had chosen
A habitation in this peaceful vale,
Sharp season followed of continual storm
In deepest winter; and, from week to week,

Pathway, and lane, and public road, were clogged [hill With frequent showers of snow. Upon a At a short distance from my cottage stands A stately fir-grove, whither I was wont To hasten, for I found beneath the roof Of that perennial shade, a cloistral place Of refuge, with an unincumbered floor. Here, in safe covert, on the shallow snow, And, sometimes, on a speck of visible earth, [loth

The redbreast near me hopped; nor was I To sympathise with vulgar coppice birds That, for protection from the nipping blast,

Hither repaired.-A single becch-tree grew
Within this grove of firs; and, on the fork
Of that one beech, appeared a thrush's
nest;

A last year's nest, conspicuously built
At such small elevation from the ground
As gave sure sign that they, who in that
house

Of nature and of love had made their home
Amid the fir-trees, all the summer long
Dwelt in a tranquil spot. And oftentimes,
A few sheep, stragglers from some moun-
tain-flock,

Would watch my motions with suspicious stare,

From the remotest outskirts of the grove,Some nook where they had made their final stand,

Huddling together from two fears-the fear Of me and of the storm. Full many

And winding on with such an easy line Along a natural opening, that I stood Much wondering how I could have sought in vain

To abide,

For what was now so obvious.
For an allotted interval of ease,
Beneath my cottage roof, had newly come
From the wild sea a cherished visitant;
And with the sight of this same path-
begun,

Begun and ended, in the shady grove,
Pleasant conviction flashed upon my mind
That, to this opportune recess allured,
He had surveyed it with a finer eye,
A heart more wakeful; and had worn the
track

By pacing here, unwearied and alone,
In that habitual restlessness of foot o'er
With which the sailor measures o er and
His short domain upon the vessel's deck,
While she is travelling through the dreary

sea.

When thou hadst quitted Esthwaite's pleasant shore,

And taken thy first leave of those green hills youth, And rocks that were the play-ground of thy Year followed year, my brother! and we two, Conversing not, knew little in what mould Each other's minds were fashioned; and at length,

When once again we met in Grasmere vale, Between us there was little other bond Than common feelings of fraternal love. But thou, a school-boy, to the sea hadst carried

Undying recollections: nature there Was with thee; she, who loved us both, she still [become Was with thee; and even so didst thou A silent poet; from the solitude [heart Of the vast sea didst bring a watchful Still couchant, an inevitable ear, And an eye practised like a blind man's touch.

Back to the joyless ocean thou art gone; Nor from this vestige of thy musing hours Could I withhold thy honoured name, and

now

I love the fir-grove with a perfect love. Thither do I withdraw when cloudless suns Shine hot, or wind blows troublesome and strong:

And there I sit at evening, when the steep Of Silver-how, and Grasmere's peaceful lake, [stems And one green island, gleam between the

Of the dark firs, a visionary scene!
And, while I gaze upon the spectacle
Of clouded splendour, on this dream-like
sight

Of solemn loveliness, I think on thee,
My brother, and on all which thou hast
lost.

The fir-grove murmurs with a sea-like sound,

Alone I tread this path ;-for aught I know, Timing my steps to thine; and, with a store Of undistinguishable sympathies,

Mingling most earnest wishes for the day When we, and others whom we love, shall meet

night watch

Art pacing thoughtfully the vessel's deck In some far region, here, while o'er my

head,

At every impulse of the moving breeze,

Note. This wish was not granted; the shipwreck, in discharge of his duty as comlamented person, not long after, perished by mander of the Honourable East India Company's vessel, the Earl of Abergavenny.

IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON, THE SEAT OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART., LEICESTERSHIRE.

THE embowering rose, the acacia, and the pine,

Will not unwillingly their place resign; If but the cedar thrive that near them stands,

Planted by Beaumont's and by Words

worth's hands.

One wooed the silent art with studious pains,

These groves have heard the other's pensive strains;

Devoted thus, their spirits did unite
By interchange of knowledge and delight.
May nature's kindliest powers sustain the
And love protect it from all injury! [tree,
And when its potent branches, wide out-
thrown,

Darken the brow of this memorial stone,
Here may some painter sit in future days,
Some future poet meditate his lays ;

Not mindless of that distant age renowned When inspiration hovered o'er this ground, The haunt of him who sang how spear and shield

In civil conflict met on Bosworth field; And of that famous youth, full soon removed From earth, perhaps by Shakspeare's self approved,

Fletcher's associate, Jonson's friend beloved.

And be not slow a stately growth to rear Of pillars, branching off from year to year, Till they have learned to frame a darksome aisle :

That may recall to mind that awful pile

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL UPON A STONE IN THE WALL OF THE HOUSE (AN OUT-HOUSE) ON THE ISLAND AT

GRASMERE.

dead,

And when those rites had ceased, the spot gave birth

To honourable men of various worth : There, on the margin of a streamlet wild, Did Francis Beaumont sport, an eager child;

Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained Proportions more harmonious, and approached

To somewhat of a closer fellowship
With the ideal grace. Yet, as it is,
Do take it in good part :-alas! the poor
Vitruvius of our village had no help
From the great city; never, on the leaves
Of red morocco folio saw displayed
The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts
Of beauties yet unborn, the rustic box,
Snug cot, with coach-house, shed, and
hermitage.

Thou see'st a homely pile, yet to these walls The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and [the wind.

here

The new-dropped lamb finds shelter from And hither does one poet sometimes row His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled With plenteous store of heath and withered fern,

(A lading which he with his sickle cuts Among the mountains) and beneath this roof He makes his summer couch, and here at [the sheep,

noon

Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unshorn, Panting beneath the burthen of their wool, Lie round him, even as if they were a part Of his own household; nor, while from his bed

[lake

He through that door-place looks toward the
And to the stirring breezes, does he want
Creations lovely as the work of sleep-
Fair sights and visions of romantic joy!

rocks, [flocks; Sang youthful tales of shepherds and their Unconscious prelude to heroic themes, Heart-breaking tears, and melancholy dreams

Of slighted love, and scorn, and jealous rage, With which his genius shook the buskined stage.

Communities are lost, and empires die, And things of holy use unhallowed lie; They perish ;-but the intellect can raise, From airy words alone, a pile that ne'er decays.

STONE, ON THE SIDE OF THE MOUN-
TAIN OF BLACK COMB.

STAY, bold adventurer; rest a while thy
limbs
[mains
On this commodious seat! for much re-
Of hard ascent before thou reach the top
Of this huge eminence, from blackness
named,

And, to far-travelled storms of sea and land, A favourite spot of tournament and war! But thee may no such boisterous visitants Molest; may gentle breezes fan thy brow; And neither cloud conceal, nor misty air Bedim, the grand terraqueous spectacle, From centre to circumference, unveiled!