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HE Rothay's stream is running near,
very glad and clear,
The voice that was to him so dear;
All around his dwelling rise,
But he doth not ope his eyes.
From the little church the hum
But the godlike lips are dumb.
What and if he deaf doth lie?
With God and us such ne'er can die.
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 !
IN GREAT BEALINGS CHURCHYARD.
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,
Thy peaceful landscape; much the heart reveres,
Have been too busy, and we would retire
Then art thou such a spot as man might choose
And calm and soothing; when the light breeze wooes
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.
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
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,
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