Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,

Conversing as I may,

I sit upon this old gray stone

And dream my time away.

VI.

TO LADY FLEMING.

LIVES there a man whose sole delights
Are trivial pomp and city noise,
Hardening a heart that loathes or slights
What every natural heart enjoys?
Who never caught a noontide dream
From murmur of a running stream;
Could strip, for aught the prospects yields
To him, their verdure from the fields;
And take the radiance from the clouds
In which the sun his setting shrouds.

A soul so pitiably forlorn

If such do on this earth abide,
May season apathy with scorn,

May turn indifference to pride;
And still be not unblest, compared
With him who grovels, self-debarred
From all that lies within the scope
Of holy faith and Christian hope;
Yea, strives for others to bedim
The glorious light too pure for him.

VII.

SONG FOR THE SPINNING WHEEL.

SWIFTLY turn the murmuring wheel!
Night has brought the welcome hour,
When the weary fingers feel

Help, as if from faery power;

Dewy night o'ershades the ground:

Turn the swift wheel round and round!

Now, beneath the starry sky,

Couch the widely-scattered sheep;—

Ply the pleasant labour, ply!

For the spindle, while they sleep,
Runs with speed more smooth and fine,
Gathering up a trustier line.

1798.

1823.

Short-lived likings may be bred
By a glance from fickle eyes;
But true love is like the thread
Which the kindly wool supplies,
When the flocks are all at rest
Sleeping on the mountain's breast.

1812.

VIII.

A NIGHT-PIECE.

THE sky is overcast

With a continuous cloud of texture close,
Heavy and wan, all whitened by the moon,
Which through that vale is indistinctly seen,
A dull contracted circle, yielding light
So feebly spread that not a shadow falls,
Chequering the ground, from rock, plant, tree or tower.
At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam
Startles the pensive traveller while he treads
His lonesome path, with unobserving eye

Bent earthwards; he looks up,-the clouds are split
Asunder, and above his head he sees

The clear moon, and the glory of the heavens.
There, in a black-blue vault she sails along.
Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small,
And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss
Drives as she drives: how fast they wheel away,
Yet vanish not!--the wind is in the tree,
But they are silent; still they roll along
Immeasurably distant; and the vault,

Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,
Still deepens its unfathomable depth.

At length the vision closes; and the mind,
Not undisturb'd by the delight it feels,
Which slowly settles into peaceful calm.
Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.

IX.

THE MOON.

YES, lovely moon! if thou so mildly bright
Dost rouse, yet surely in thy own despite,
To fiercer mood the phrensy-stricken brain,
Let me a compensating faith maintain,

1798.

That there's a sensitive, a tender, part

Which thou canst touch in every human heart,
For healing and composure.

X.

THE ECHO.

(From "Lines to Johanna.")

Johanna laughed aloud.

1835.

The rock like something starting from a sleep,
Took up the lady's voice, and laughed again;
That ancient woman seated on Helm-crag
Was ready with her cavern; Hammer-scar
And the tall steep of Silver-how, sent forth
A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard,
And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone;
Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky
Carried the lady's voice, old Skiddaw blew
His speaking trumpet; back out of the clouds
Of Glaramara southward came the voice;
And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head.

1800.

STRAY LINES FROM DIFFERENT POEMS.

The sympathies of them

Who look upon the hills with tenderness,

And make dear friendships with the streams and groves.

Thou in the dear love of some one Friend

-To Johanna.

Hast been so happy that thou know'st what thoughts Will sometimes in the happiness of Love

Make the heart sink.

-Inscription for the Hermitage.

Happy is he, who, caring not for Pope,
Consul or King, can sound himself to know
The destiny of man, and live in hope.

-Calais, 1802.

Oh! there is life that breathes not; Powers there are That touch each other to the quick in modes

Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive,

No soul to dream of.

-Kilchurn Castle.

The immortal mind craves objects that endure:
These cleave to it; from these it cannot roam,
Nor they from it: their fellowship is secure.

-Those Words Were Uttered.

Though nature's dread protection fails
There is a bulwark in the soul.

—And Is It Among Rude Untutored Dales.

We know the arduous strife, the eternal laws
To which the triumph of all good is given,
High sacrifice, and labour without pause,

Even to the death :-else wherefore should the eye
Of man converse with immortality?

-O'er the Wide Earth.

The fairest, brightest hues of ether fade;
The sweetest notes must terminate and die.

-The Fairest Hues.

I have risen, uplifted, on the breeze
Of harmony, above all earthly care.

-The Fairest Hues.

Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour!
Not dull art thou as undiscerning night;
But studious only to remove from sight
Day's mutable distinctions.

-Hail, Twilight.

Weak spirits are there-who would ask
Upon the pressure of a painful thing,
The lion's sinews, or the eagle's wing.

Fix thine eyes upon the sea

-Ode, 1816.

That absorbs time, space, and number,

Look thou to Eternity!

-The Longest Day.

Duty, like a strict preceptor,

Sometimes frowns, or seems to frown;

Choose her thistle for thy sceptre,

While youth's roses are thy crown.

-The Longest Day.

Thus when thou with Time hast travelled
Toward the mighty gulf of things,

And in the mazy stream unravelled
With thy best imaginings;
Think if thou on beauty leanest,
Think how pitiful that stay,
Did not virtue give the meanest
Charms superior to decay.

The dew, the storm,

Did alike proceed

-The Longest Day.

From the same gracious will, were both an offspring Of bounty infinite.

-Musings Near Aquapendente.

The cuckoo, wandering in solitude, and evermore Foretelling and proclaiming,...

Voice of the desert, fare-thee-well, sweet bird.

The breezes their own languor lent;

The stars had feelings, which they sent
Into those favoured bowers.

-Ruth.

God who made the great book of the world.

-The Brothers.

I almost received her heart into my own.

-The Pet Lamb.

Say, what is Honour?-'Tis the finest sense
Of justice which the human mind can frame,
Intent each lurking frailty to disclaim
And guard the way of life from all offence
Suffered or done.

-Say, What is Honour?

And the realised vision is clasped to my heart.

-At Vallambrosa.