IX. THE STEPPING-STONES. THE struggling Rill insensibly is grown And, for like use, lo! what might seem a zone For the clear waters to pursue their race Without restraint. How swiftly have they flown, Succeeding still succeeding! Here the Child Puts, when the high-swoln Flood runs fierce and wild, His budding courage to the proof; — and here Declining Manhood learns to note the sly And sure encroachments of infirmity, Thinking how fast time runs, life's end how near! X. THE SAME SUBJECT. Not so that Pair whose youthful spirits dance To stop ashamed too timid to advance ; another pause! She ventures once again His outstretched hand He tauntingly withdraws Chidden she chides again; the thrilling touch Both feel when he renews the wished-for aid: The struggle, clap their wings for victory! XI. THE FAERY CHASM. No fiction was it of the antique age: A sky-blue stone, within this sunless cleft, Of some sweet babe, flower stolen, and coarse weed left For the distracted mother to assuage Her grief with, as she might! - But, where, oh! where Is traceable a vestige of the notes That ruled those dances wild in character? Deep underground? Or in the upper air, On the shrill wind of midnight? or where floats XII. HINTS FOR THE FANCY. ON, loitering Muse-The swift Stream chides us-on! Albeit his deep-worn channel doth immure Objects immense pourtrayed in miniature, Wild shapes for many a strange comparison ! Abodes of Naiads, calm abysses pure, Bright liquid mansions, fashioned to endure When the broad Oak drops, a leafless skeleton, Palace and Tower, are crumbled into dust! The Bard who walks with Duddon for his guide, Shall find such toys of Fancy thickly set: Turn from the sight, enamoured Muse - - we must; And, if thou canst, leave them without regret! XIII. OPEN PROSPECT. HAIL to the fields - with Dwellings sprinkled o'er, A glance suffices; Ishould we wish for more, -- Gay June would scorn us; but when bleak winds roar Through the stiff lance-like shoots of pollard ash, Dread swell of sound! loud as the gusts that lash The matted forests of Ontario's shore By wasteful steel unsmitten, then would I Turn into port, and, reckless of the gale, Reckless of angry Duddon sweeping by, While the warm hearth exalts the mantling ale, At all the merry pranks of Donnerdale! |