WORDSWORTH'S GRAVE.

HE Rothay's stream is running near,

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.
James Payn.

GRASMERE.

SHUT

HUT 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

Our loves away, and strip us for the fight

With the rough world; alone, in calm delight

Of peace, content, and joy, art thou, Grasmere !
O lake most fair set round with mountain-guards,
Sweet birds, swift streams, eternal waterfall,
Crag-lichen, and wild vale-flower, all, yea, all
Shall eye and ear in love oft turn towards:
I thank thee for much lore that doth not dwell
With books nor men: farewell, bright spot, farewell!
James Payn.

Great Bealings.

MEDITATIONS

IN GREAT BEALINGS CHURCHYARD.

BEAR

EAR witness, many a loved and lovely scene Which I no more may visit, are ye not Thus still my own? Thy groves of shady green, Sweet Gosfield! or thou, wild, romantic spot! Where by gray craggy cliff, and lonely grot,

The shallow Dove rolls o'er his rocky bed: You still remain as fresh and unforgot

As if but yesterday mine eyes had fed

Upon your charms; and yet months, years, since then have sped

Their silent course. And thus it ought to be,
Should I sojourn far hence in distant years,
Thou lovely dwelling of the dead! with thee:
For there is much about thee that endears

Thy peaceful landscape; much the heart reveres,
Much that it loves, and all it could desire
In meditation's haunt, when hopes and fears

Have been too busy, and we would retire
Even from ourselves awhile, yet of ourselves inquire.

Then art thou such a spot as man might choose
For still communion: all around is sweet

And calm and soothing; when the light breeze wooes
The lofty limes that shadow thy retreat,
Whose interlacing branches, as they meet,
O'ertop and almost hide the edifice
They beautify; no sound, except the bleat

Of innocent lambs, or notes which speak the bliss Of happy birds unseen. What could a hermit miss?

Bernard Barton.

Green-head Ghyll.

GREEN-HEAD GHYLL.

IF

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.
No habitation can be seen; but they
Who journey thither find themselves alone
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites
That overhead are sailing in the sky.
It is, in truth, an utter solitude.

Greenwich.

William Wordsworth.

GREENWICH HILL.

THOUGH clouds obscured the morning hour,

And keen and eager blew the blast, And drizzling fell the cheerless shower, As, doubtful, to the skiff we passed,

All soon, propitious to our prayer,

Gave promise of a brighter day; The clouds dispersed in purer air,

The blasts in zephyrs died away.

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
To view the varied scene below,

Woods, ships, and spires, and, lovelier still, The circling Thames' majestic flow!

How sweet, as indolently laid,

We overhung that long-drawn dale, To watch the checkered light and shade That glanced upon the shifting sail!

And when the shadow's rapid growth

Proclaimed the noontide hour expired, And, though unwearied, nothing loath,

We to our simple meal retired;

The sportive wile, the blameless jest,
The careless mind's spontaneous flow,
Gave to that simple meal a zest

Which richer tables may not know.

The babe that on the mother's breast

Has toyed and wantoned for a while, And, sinking in unconscious rest,

Looks up to catch a parting smile,

Feels less assured than thou, dear maid,

When, ere thy ruby lips could part (As close to mine thy cheek was laid), Thine eyes had opened all thy heart.

Then, then I marked the chastened joy
That lightly o'er thy features stole,
From vows repaid (my sweet employ),
From truth, from innocence of soul;