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A pair of herons oft-times have I seen,
But small and fugitive our gain Upon a rocky islet, side by side,
Compared with hers who long hath lain, Drying their feathers in the sun, at ease;
With languid limbs and patient head
Eases her pain, and helps her prayers.
Her forehead, like a breeze of Spring:
Sweet thoughts of angels hovering nigh, With hope that we, dear friends! shall meet again. And the invisible sympathy
Of Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John,
Which old folk, fondly pleased to trim
Lamps of faith, now burning dim,
Say that the Cherubs carved in stone, (SUGGESTED IN A WESTMORELAND COTTAGE.)
When clouds gave way at dead of night Driven in by Autumn's sharpening air
And the ancient church was filled with light, From half-stripped woods and pastures bare,
Used to sing in heavenly tone, Brisk Robin seeks a kindlier home :
Above and round the sacred places
They guard, with winged baby-faces.
Thrice happy Creature ! in all lands
Nurtured by hospitable hands : Charged with a blazon on the field,
Free entrance to this cot has he, Due to that good and pious deed
Entrance and exit both yet free; Of which we in the Ballad read.
And, when the keen unruffled weather But pensive fancies putting by,
That thus brings man and bird together, And wild-wood sorrows, speedily
Shall with its pleasantness be past, He plays the expert ventriloquist;
And casement closed and door made fast, And, caught by glimpses now-now missed,
To keep at bay the howling blast, Puzzles the listener with a doubt
He needs not fear the season's rage, If the soft voice he throws about
For the whole house is Robin's cage. Comes from within doors or without !
Whether the bird Ait here or there, Was ever such a sweet confusion,
O'er table lilt, or perch on chair, Sustained by delicate illusion?
Though some may frown and make a stir, He's at your elbow-to your feeling
To scare him as a trespasser, The notes are from the floor or ceiling ;
And he belike will flinch or start, And there's a riddle to be guessed,
Good friends he has to take his part; "Till you have marked his heaving chest,
One chiefly, who with voice and look And busy throat whose sink and swell,
Pleads for him from the chimney-nook, Betray the Elf that loves to dwell
Where sits the Dame, and wears away In Robin's bosom, as a chosen cell.
* The words
Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John, Heart-pleased we smile upon the Bird
Bless the bed that I lie on,' If seen, and with like pleasure stirred
are part of a child's prayer, still in general use through Commend him, when he's only heard.
the northern counties.
I'll teach my boy the sweetest things :
- Where art thou gone, my own dear child !
Oh! smile on me, my little lamb !
POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES.
ADVERTISEMENT. By persons resident in the country and attached to rural objects, many places will be found unnamed or of unknown names, where little Incidents must have occurred, or feelings been experienced, which will have given to such places a private and peculiar interest. From a wish to give some sort of record to such Incidents, and renew the gratification of such feelings, Names have been given to Places by the Author and some of his Friends, and the following Poems written in consequence.
“Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook,
My Emma, I will dedicate to thee." It was an April morning: fresh and clear
-Soon did the spot become my other home, The Rivulet, delighting in its strength,
My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode. Ran with a young man's speed; and yet the voice And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there, Of waters which the winter had supplied
To whom I sometimes in our idle talk Was softened down into a vernal tone.
Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps, The spirit of enjoyment and desire,
Years after we are gone and in our graves, And hopes and wishes, from all living things When they have cause to speak of this wild place, Went circling, like a multitude of sounds.
May call it by the name of Emma's Dell. The budding groves seemed eager to urge on
Amid the smoke of cities did you pass
The living Beings by your own fire-side, Alive to all things and forgetting all.
With such a strong devotion, that your heart At length I to a sudden turning came
Is slow to meet the sympathies of them In this continuous glen, where down a rock Who look upon the hills with tenderness, The Stream, so ardent in its course before, And make dear friendships with the streams and Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all
groves. Which I till then had heard, appeared the voice Yet we, who are transgressors in this kind, Of common pleasure : beast and bird, the lamb, Dwelling retired in our simplicity The shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush Among the woods and fields, we love you well, Vied with this waterfall, and made a song, Joanna! and I guess, since you have been Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth So distant from us now for two long years, Or like some natural produce of the air,
That you will gladly listen to discourse, That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here; However trivial, if you thence be taught But 'twas the foliage of the rocks—the birch, That they, with whom you once were happy, talk
the holly, and the bright green thorn, Familiarly of you and of old times. With hanging islands of resplendent furze : And, on a summit, distant a short space,
While I was seated, now some ten days past, By any who should look beyond the dell, Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop A single mountain-cottage might be seen.
Their ancient neighbour, the old steeple-tower, I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said,
The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by
Came forth to greet me; and when he had asked, The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished
And silent morning, I sat down, and there,
In memory of affections old and true, Of formidable size had chiselled out
I chiselled out in those rude characters Some uncouth name upon the native rock, Joanna's name deep in the living stone :Above the Rotha, by the forest-side.
And I, and all who dwell by my fireside, - Now, by those dear immunities of heart Have called the lovely rock, Joanna's Rock.” Engendered between malice and true love, I was not loth to be so catechised,
Note.-In Cumberland and Westmoreland are several And this was my reply :-“ As it befel,
Inscriptions, upon the native rock, which, from the wastOne summer morning we had walked abroad
ing of time, and the rudeness of the workmanship, have
been mistaken for Runic. They are without doubt Roman. At break of day, Joanna and myself.
The Rotha, mentioned in this poem, is the River which, _'Twas that delightful season when the broom, flowing through the lakes of Grasmere and Rydale, falls Full-flowered, and visible on every steep,
into Wynandermere. On Helmcrag, that impressive single Along the copses runs in veins of gold.
mountain at the head of the Vale of Grasmere, is a rock
which from most points of view bears a striking resemOur pathway led us on to Rotha's banks;
blance to an old Woman cowering. Close by this rock is And when we came in front of that tall rock one of those fissures or caverns, which in the language of That eastward looks, I there stopped short-and the country are called dungeons. Most of the mountains stood
here mentioned immediately surround the Vale of GrasTracing the lofty barrier with my eye
mere; of the others, some are at a considerable distance,
but they belong to the same cluster.
There is an Eminence-of these our hills - When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' space,
The last that parleys with the setting sun ; Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld
We can behold it from our orchard-seat ; That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud.
And, when at evening we pursue our walk The Rock, like something starting from a sleep,
Along the public way, this Peak, so high Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed again ;
Above us, and so distant in its height, That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag
Is visible; and often seems to send Was ready with her cavern ; Hammar-scar,
Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts. And the tall Steep of Silver-how, sent forth
The meteors make of it a favourite haunt: A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard,
The star of Jove, so beautiful and large And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone;
In the mid heavens, is never half so fair Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky
As when he shines above it. 'Tis in truth Carried the Lady's voice,-old Skiddaw blew
The loneliest place we have among the clouds. His speaking-trumpet ;-back out of the clouds
And She who dwells with me, whom I have loved of Glaramara southward came the voice ;
With such communion, that no place on earth
Can ever be a solitude to me, And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head. – Now whether (said I to our cordial Friend,
Hath to this lonely Summit given my Name. 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
A NARROW girdle of rough stones and crags, To me alone imparted, sure I am
A rude and natural causeway, interposed That there was a loud uproar in the hills. Between the water and a winding slope And, while we both were listening, to my side Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore