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HE Rothay's stream is running near,
Its voice is very glad and clear, The voice that was to him so dear;
But the poet doth not hear.
All around his dwelling rise,
With their gray heads in the skies,
The noble hills that made him wise;
But he doth not ope his eyes.
From the little church the hum
Of his old friends' prayers doth come,
As is most fit, unto his tomb;
But the godlike lips are dumb.
What and if he deaf doth lie?
What and if he ope not eye?
If death that tuneful tongue doth tie?
With God and us such ne'er can die.
NHUT out from all that wars against the soul,
The shocks that jar the music of the heart,
The pleasures lasting only in the smart
Of that regret which feigns a perfect whole
Where naught was full; the frequent rubs that wear
Of peace, content, and joy, art thou, Grasmere !
IN GREAT BEALINGS CHURCHYARD.
DEAR witness, many a loved and lovely scene
Upon your charms; and yet months, years, since then have sped
Their silent course. And thus it ought to be,
Thy peaceful landscape; much the heart reveres,
Then art thou such a spot as man might choose
Of innocent lambs, or notes which speak the bliss Of happy birds unseen. What could a hermit miss ?
from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, You will suppose that with an upright path Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. But courage! for around that boisterous brook The mountains have all opened out themselves,
And made a hidden valley of their own.
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites That overhead are sailing in the sky.
It is, in truth, an utter solitude.
HOUGH clouds obscured the morning hour,
And keen and eager blew the blast,
And drizzling fell the cheerless shower,
All soon, propitious to our prayer,
So have we, love, a day enjoyed,
On which we both - and yet who knows? May dwell with pleasure unalloyed,
And dread no thorn beneath the rose.
How pleasant from that dome-crowned hill
Woods, ships, and spires, and, lovelier still, The circling Thames' majestic flow!
How sweet, as indolently laid,
We overhung that long-drawn dale,
And when the shadow's rapid growth
The sportive wile, the blameless jest,
Which richer tables may not know.
The babe that on the mother's breast
Looks up to catch a parting smile,
Feels less assured than thou, dear maid,
Then, then I marked the chastened joy
From truth, from innocence of soul;