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w wind write that in his dark atrale Of yet more heingas guilt, with fiereer pride. In mht luas lwar hudAnd, should the, Hence thoughtful Mercy, Mercy sage and pure,
Sanctions the forfeiture that Law demands, Inbetrinn thu lwirri duto a final ded,
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wure, In many grila font her a free range,
Who nees, foresees; who cannot judge amiss, A with a will jumtion of revenge " prevail. And wafts at will the contrite soul to bliss.
For Christian Faith. But hopeful signs abound;
See the Condemned alone within his cell
Yes, though He well may tremble at the sound
Sends the pale Convict to his last retreat z In death; though Listeners shudder all around,
They know the dread requital's source profound;
Those heights (like Phæbus when his golden locks EPISTLE
He veiled, attendant on Thessalian flocks)
And, in disguise, a Milkmaid with her pail TO SIR GEORGE HOWLAND BEAUMONT, BART.
Trips down the pathways of some winding dale ; FROM THE SOUTH-WEST COAST OF CUMBERLAND.-1811,
Or, like a Mermaid, warbles on the shores Far from our home by Grasmere's quiet Lake, To fishers mending nets beside their doors; From the Vale's peace which all her fields partake, Or, Pilgrim-like, on forest moss reclined, Here on the bleakest point of Cumbria's shore Gives plaintive ditties to the heedless wind, We sojourn stunned by Ocean's ceaseless roar; Or listens to its play among the boughs While, day by day, grim neighbour! huge Black Above her head and so forgets her vowsComb
If such a Visitant of Earth there be Frowns deepening visibly his native gloom, And she would deign this day to smile on me Unless, perchance rejecting in despite
And aid my verse, content with local bounds What on the Plain we have of warmth and light, Of natural beauty and life's daily rounds, In his own storms he hides himself from sight. Thoughts, chances, sights, or doings, which we tell Rough is the time; and thoughts, that would be free Without reserve to those whom we love wellFrom heaviness, oft fly, dear Friend, to thee; Then haply, Beaumont ! words in current clear Turn from a spot where neither sheltered road Will flow, and on a welcome page appear Nor hedge-row screen invites my steps abroad; Duly before thy sight, unless they perish here. Where one poor Plane-tree, having as it might Attained a stature twice a tall man's height, What shall I treat of ? News from Mona's Isle ! Hopeless of further growth, and brown and sere Such have we, but unvaried in its style; Through half the summer, stands with top cut sheer, No tales of Runagates fresh landed, whence Like an unshifting weathercock which proves And wherefore fugitive or on what pretence; How cold the quarter that the wind best loves, Of feasts, or scandal, eddying like the wind Or like a Centinel that, evermore
Most restlessly alive when most confined. Darkening the window, ill defends the door Ask not of me, whose tongue can best appease Of this unfinished house-a Fortress bare, The mighty tumults of the House of Keys; Where strength has been the Builder's only care ; The last year's cup whose Ram or Heifer gained, Whose rugged walls may still for years demand What slopes are planted, or what mosses drained : The final polish of the Plasterer's hand.
An eye of fancy only can I cast - This Dwelling's Inmate more than three weeks' On that proud pageant now at hand or past, space
When full five hundred boats in trim array, And oft a Prisoner in the cheerless place,
With nets and sails outspread and streamers gay, 1-of whose touch the fiddle would complain, And chanted hymns and stiller voice of prayer, Whose breath would labour at the flute in vain, For the old Manx-harvest to the Deep repair, In music all unversed, nor blessed with skill Soon as the herring-shoals at distance shine A bridge to copy, or to paint a mill,
Like beds of moonlight shifting on the brine. Tired of my books, a scanty company! And tired of listening to the boisterous sea
Mona from our Abode is daily seen, Pace between door and window muttering rhyme, But with a wilderness of waves between ; An old resource to cheat a froward time!
And by conjecture only can we speak Though these dull hours (mine is it, or their shame!) Of aught transacted there in bay or creek; Would tempt me to renounce that humble aim. No tidings reach us thence from town or field, -But if there be a Muse who, free to take Only faint news her mountain sunbeams yield, Her seat upon Olympus, doth forsake
And some we gather from the misty air,
And some the hovering clouds, our telegraph, ' And in that griesly object recognise declare.
The Curate's Dog-his long-tried friend, for they, But these poetic mysteries I withhold;
As well we knew, together had grown grey. For Fancy hath her fits both hot and cold, The Master died, his drooping servant's grief And should the colder fit with You be on
Found at the Widow's feet some sad relief; When You might read, my credit would be gone. Yet still he lived in pining discontent,
Sadness which no indulgence could prevent; Let more substantial themes the pen engage, Hence whole day wanderings, broken nightly sleeps And nearer interests culled from the opening stage And lonesome watch that out of doors he keeps; Of our migration.—Ere the welcome dawn Not oftentimes, I trust, as we, poor brute ! Had from the east her silver star withdrawn, Espied him on his legs sustained, blank, mute, The Wain stood ready, at our Cottage-door, And of all visible motion destitute, Thoughtfully freighted with a various store ; So that the very heaving of his breath And long or ere the uprising of the Sun
Seemed stopt, though by some other power than O’er dew-damped dust our journey was begun,
death. A needful journey, under favouring skies,
Long as we gazed upon the form and face, Through peopled Vales; yet something in the guise A mild domestic pity kept its place, Of those old Patriarchs when from well to well Unscared by thronging fancies of strange hue They roamed through Wastes where now the tented That haunted us in spite of what we knew. Arabs dwell.
Even now I sometimes think of him as lost
In second-sight appearances, or crost Say first, to whom did we the charge confide, By spectral shapes of guilt, or to the ground, Who promptly undertook the Wain to guide On which he stood, by spells unnatural bound, Up many a sharply-twining road and down, Like a gaunt shaggy Porter forced to wait And over many a wide hill's craggy crown,
In days of old romance at Archimago's gate. Through the quick turns of many a hollow nook, And the rough bed of many an unbridged brook ? Advancing Summer, Nature's law fulfilled, A blooming Lass—who in her better hand The choristers in every grove had stilled; Bore a light switch, her sceptre of command
But we, we lacked not music of our own, When, yet a slender Girl, she often led,
For lightsome Fanny had thus early thrown, Skilful and bold, the horse and burthened sled *
Mid the gay prattle of those infant tongues, From the peat-yielding Moss on Gowdar's head.
Some notes prelusive, from the round of songs What could go wrong with such a Charioteer With which, more zealous than the liveliest bird For goods and chattels, or those Infants dear,
That in wild Arden's brakes was ever heard, A Pair who smilingly sate side by side,
Her work and her work's partners she can cheer, Our hope confirming that the salt-sea tide,
The whole day long, and all days of the year. Whose free embraces we were bound to seek, Would their lost strength restore and freshen the
Thus gladdened from our own dear Vale we pass pale cheek?
And soon approach Diana's Looking-glass ! Such hope did either Parent entertain
To Loughrigg-tarn, round clear and bright as Pacing behind along the silent lane.
Such name Italian fancy would have given, Blithe hopes and happy musings soon took flight,
Ere on its banks the few grey cabins rose For lo! an uncouth melancholy sight
That yet disturb not its concealed repose
More than the feeblest wind that idly blows.
Ah, Beaumont! when an opening in the road The Figure called to mind a beast of prey
Stopped me at once by charm of what it showed, Stript of its frightful powers by slow decay,
The encircling region vividly exprest And, though no longer upon rapine bent,
Within the mirror's depth, a world at restDim memory keeping of its old intent.
Sky streaked with purple, grove and craggy bield*, We started, looked again with anxious eyes,
And the smooth green of many a pendent field,
* A word common in the country, signifying shelter, as * A local word for Sledge.
Hoch pro pwet w lwhind of stream and vale, More could my pen report of grave or gay Awi munimin Ww, a burren ridge we wale ; That through our gipsy travel cheered the way; Dowd and rowh, in Yewdale's deptha, a plain But, bursting forth above the waves, the Sun With limyoob mudeled, atripod with yollowing Laughs at my pains, and seems to say, “ Be done.”
Yet, Beaumont, thou wilt not, I trust, reprove An area level na Lake and pronul
This humble offering made by Truth to Love,