Such objects as the waves had toss'd ashore,
Feather, or leaf, or weed, or wither'd bough,
Each on the other heap'd along the line

Of the dry wreck. And in our vacant mood,
Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft
Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard,
Which, seeming lifeless half, and half impell'd
By some internal feeling, skimm'd along
Close to the surface of the lake that lay
Asleep in a dead calm, ran closely on
Along the dead calm lake, now here, now there,
In all its sportive wanderings all the while
Making report of an invisible breeze
That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse,.
Its very playmate, and its moving soul.
—And often, trifling with a privilege:
Alike indulg'd to all, we paus'd, one now,
And now the other, to point out, perchance:
To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fair,-
Either to be divided from the place

On which it grew, or to be left alone

To its own beauty. Many such there are,
Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall plant
So stately, of the Queen Osmunda named,
Plant lovelier in its own retir'd abode
On Grasmere's beach, than Naid by the side:
Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere
Sole sitting by the shores of old Romance.
-So fared we that sweet morning: from the
fields

Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth
Of Reapers, Men and Women, Boys and Girls.
Delighted much to listen to those sounds,
And in the fashion which I have describ'd,
Feeding unthinking fancies, we advanc'd
Along the indented shore; when suddenly,
Through a thin veil of glittering haze, we saw
Before us on a point of jutting land
The tall and upright figure of a Man
Attir'd in Peasant's garb, who stood alone,
Angling beside the margin of the lake.
That way we turn'd our steps; nor was it long,
Ere making ready comments on the sight
Which then we saw, with one and the same
voice

We all cried out, that he must be indeed
An idle man, who thus could lose a day
Of the mid-harvest, when the labourer's hire
Is ample, and some little might be stor❜d
Wherewith to cheer him in the winter time.
Thus talking of that Peasant we approach'd
Close to the spot where with his rod and line
He stood alone, whereat he turn'd his head
To greet us—and we saw a man worn down
By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks
And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean,
That for my single self I look'd at them,
Forgetful of the body they sustain'd.—
Too weak to labour in the harvest field,

The man was using his best skill to gain
A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake
That knew not of his wants. I will not say
What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how
The happy idleness of that sweet morn,
With all its lovely images, was chang'd
To serious musing and to self-reproach.
Nor did we fail to see within ourselves
What need there is to be reserv'd in speech,
And temper all our thoughts with Charity.
-Therefore, unwilling to forget that day,
My Friend, Myself, and She who then re-
ceiv'd

The same admonishment, have call'd the place
By a memorial name, uncouth indeed

As e'er by mariner was given to bay
Or foreland on a new discover'd coast,

And POINT RASH-JUDGMENT is the name it bears.

V.

To M. H.

OUR walk was far among the ancient trees:
There was no road, nor any woodman's path,
But the thick umbrage checking the wild growth.
Of weed and sapling, on the soft green turf.
Beneath the branches of itself had made
A track which brought us to a slip of lawn,
And a small bed of water in the woods.
All round this pool both flocks and herds might
drink

On its firm margin, even as from a well
Or some stone-bason which the Herdsman's

hand

447

Had shap'd for their refreshment, nor did sun
Or wind from any quarter ever come
But as a blessing to this calm recess,,
This glade of water and this one green field..
The spot was made by Nature for herself:
The travellers know it not, and 'twill remain
Unknown to them; but it is beautiful;
And if a man should plant his cottage near,.
Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees,
And blend its waters with his daily meal,
He would so love it that in his death-hour
Its image would survive among his thoughts,
And, therefore, my sweet MARY, this still
Nook

With all its beeches we have named from you.

MICHAEL.

A PASTORAL POEM.

IF from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Gill,
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 beside that boisterous brook
The mountains have all open'd out themselves,
And made a hidden valley of their own.
No habitation there is seen; but such
As 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,

Nor should I have made mention of this dell But for one object which you might pass by,. Might see and notice not. Beside the brook There is a stragling heap of unhewn stones! And to that place a story appertains,