XXXVII.

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
And so, when night with grateful gloom had fallen, Reposing on a lone sick-bed;
Two glow-worms in such nearness that they shared, Where now, she daily hears a strain
As seemed, their soft self-satisfying light, That cheats her of too busy cares,
Each with the other, on the dewy ground,

Eases her pain, and helps her prayers.
Where He that made them blesses their repose.- And who but this dear Bird beguiled
When wandering among lakes and hills I note, The fever of that pale-faced Child;
Once more, those creatures thus by nature paired, Now cooling, with his passing wing,
And guarded in their tranquil state of life,

Her forehead, like a breeze of Spring:
Even, as your happy presence to my mind Recalling now, with descant soft
Their union brought, will they repay the debt, Shed round her pillow from aloft,
And send a thankful spirit back to you,

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,
Blessing the bed she lies upon*?'
And sometimes, just as listening ends
In slumber, with the cadence blends
A dream of that low-warbled hymn

Which old folk, fondly pleased to trim
THE REDBREAST.

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
Not like a beggar is he come,

They guard, with winged baby-faces.
But enters as a looked-for guest,
Confiding in his ruddy breast,

Thrice happy Creature ! in all lands
As if it were a natural shield

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.

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.

I.

II.

“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

1800.
The steps of June; as if their various hues
Were only hindrances that stood between
Them and their object: but, meanwhile, prevailed
Such an entire contentment in the air

TO JOANNA.
That every naked ash, and tardy tree
Yet leafless, showed as if the countenance

Amid the smoke of cities did you pass
With which it looked on this delightful day The time of early youth ; and there you learned,
Were native to the summer.-Up the brook From years of quiet industry, to love
I roamed in the confusion of my heart,

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

The yew,

1800.

Came forth to greet me; and when he had asked, The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished
" How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid ! To shelter from some object of her fear.
And when will she return to us ?” he paused; -And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons
And, after short exchange of village news, Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone
He with grave looks demanded, for what cause, Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm
Reviving obsolete idolatry,

And silent morning, I sat down, and there,
I, like a Runic Priest, in characters

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.
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.

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

III.

1800.

IV.