NUTTING.

  —It seems a day,
  One of those heavenly days which cannot die,
  When forth I sallied from our cottage-door, [1]
  And with a wallet o'er my shoulder slung,
  A nutting crook in hand, I turn'd my steps
  Towards the distant woods, a Figure quaint,
  Trick'd out in proud disguise of Beggar's weeds
  Put on for the occasion, by advice
  And exhortation of my frugal Dame.

[Footnote 1: The house at which I was boarded during the time
I was at School.]

  Motley accoutrements! of power to smile
  At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, and, in truth,
  More ragged than need was. Among the woods,
  And o'er the pathless rocks, I forc'd my way
  Until, at length, I came to one dear nook
  Unvisited, where not a broken bough
  Droop'd with its wither'd leaves, ungracious sign
  Of devastation, but the hazels rose
  Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung,
  A virgin scene!—A little while I stood,
  Breathing with such suppression of the heart
  As joy delights in; and with wise restraint
  Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed
  The banquet, or beneath the trees I sate
  Among the flowers, and with the flowers I play'd;
  A temper known to those, who, after long
  And weary expectation, have been bless'd
  With sudden happiness beyond all hope.—
  —Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves
  The violets of five seasons re-appear
  And fade, unseen by any human eye,
  Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on
  For ever, and I saw the sparkling foam,
  And with my cheek on one of those green stones
  That, fleec'd with moss, beneath the shady trees,
  Lay round me scatter'd like a flock of sheep,
  I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound,
  In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay
  Tribute to ease, and, of its joy secure
  The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,
  Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,
  And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,
  And dragg'd to earth both branch and bough, with crash
  And merciless ravage; and the shady nook
  Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower
  Deform'd and sullied, patiently gave up
  Their quiet being: and unless I now
  Confound my present feelings with the past,
  Even then, when, from the bower I turn'd away,
  Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings
  I felt a sense of pain when I beheld
  The silent trees and the intruding sky.—

  Then, dearest Maiden! move along these shades
  In gentleness of heart with gentle hand
  Touch,—for there is a Spirit in the woods.

  Three years she grew in sun and shower,
  Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower
  On earth was never sown;
  This Child I to myself will take,
  She shall be mine, and I will make
  A Lady of my own."

  Myself will to my darling be
  Both law and impulse, and with me
  The Girl in rock and plain,
  In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
  Shall feel an overseeing power
  To kindle or restrain.

  She shall be sportive as the fawn
  That wild with glee across the lawn
  Or up the mountain springs,
  And hers shall be the breathing balm,
  And hers the silence and the calm
  Of mute insensate things.

  The floating clouds their state shall lend
  To her, for her the willow bend,
  Nor shall she fail to see
  Even in the motions of the storm
  A beauty that shall mould her form
  By silent sympathy.

  The stars of midnight shall be dear
  To her, and she shall lean her ear
  In many a secret place
  Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
  And beauty born of murmuring sound
  Shall pass into her face.

  And vital feelings of delight
  Shall rear her form to stately height,
  Her virgin bosom swell,
  Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
  While she and I together live
  Here in this happy dell.

  Thus Nature spake—The work was done—
  How soon my Lucy's race was run!
  She died and left to me
  This heath, this calm and quiet scene,
  The memory of what has been,
  And never more will be.

The Pet-Lamb, A Pastoral.

  The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;
  I heard a voice, it said, Drink, pretty Creature, drink!
  And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied;
  A snow-white mountain Lamb with a Maiden at its side.

  No other sheep were near, the Lamb was all alone,
  And by a slender cord was tether'd to a stone;
  With one knee on the grass did the little Maiden kneel,
  While to that Mountain Lamb she gave its evening meal.

  The Lamb while from her hand he thus his supper took
  Seem'd to feast with head and ears, and his tail with pleasure shook.
  "Drink, pretty Creature, drink," she said in such a tone
  That I almost receiv'd her heart into my own.

  'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a Child of beauty rare;
  I watch'd them with delight, they were a lovely pair.
  And now with empty Can the Maiden turn'd away,
  But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay.

  Towards the Lamb she look'd, and from that shady place
  I unobserv'd could see the workings of her face:
  If Nature to her tongue could measur'd numbers bring
  Thus, thought I, to her Lamb that little Maid would sing.

  What ails thee, Young One? What? Why pull so at thy cord?
  Is it not well with thee? Well both for bed and board?
  Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be.
  Rest little Young One, rest; what is't that aileth thee?

  What is it thou would'st seek? What is wanting to thy heart?
  Thy limbs are they not strong? And beautiful thou art:
  This grass is tender grass, these flowers they have no peer,
  And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears.

  If the Sun is shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain,
  This beech is standing by, its covert thou can'st gain,
  For rain and mountain storms the like thou need'st not fear,
  The rain and storm are things which scarcely can come here.

  Rest, little Young One, rest; thou hast forgot the day
  When my Father found thee first in places far away:
  Many flocks are on the hills, but thou wert own'd by none,
  And thy Mother from thy side for evermore was gone.

  He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home,
  A blessed day for thee! then whither would'st thou roam?
  A faithful nurse thou hast, the dam that did thee yean
  Upon the mountain tops no kinder could have been.

  Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in this Can
  Fresh water from the brook as clear as ever ran;
  And twice in the day when the ground is wet with dew
  I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new.

  Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now,
  Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough,
  My playmate thou shalt be, and when the wind is cold
  Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.

  It will not, will not rest!—poor Creature can it be
  That 'tis thy Mother's heart which is working so in thee?
  Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,
  And dreams of things which thou can'st neither see nor hear.

  Alas, the mountain tops that look so green and fair!
  I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there,
  The little brooks, that seem all pastime and all play,
  When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.

  Here thou needst not dread the raven in the sky,
  He will not come to thee, our Cottage is hard by,
  Night and day thou art safe as living thing can be,
  Be happy then and rest, what is't that aileth thee?

  As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,
  This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat,
  And it seem'd as I retrac'd the ballad line by line
  That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was mine.

  Again, and once again did I repeat the song,
  "Nay" said I, "more than half to the Damsel must belong,
  For she look'd with such a look, and she spake with such a tone,
  That I almost receiv'd her heart into my own."

Written in GERMANY,
  On one of the coldest days of the Century.

I must apprize the Reader that the stoves in North Germany generally have the impression of a galloping Horse upon them, this being part of the Brunswick Arms.

  A fig for your languages, German and Norse,
  Let me have the song of the Kettle,
  And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse
  That gallops away with such fury and force
  On this dreary dull plate of black metal.

  Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff,
  But her pulses beat slower and slower.
  The weather in Forty was cutting and rough,
  And then, as Heaven knows, the glass stood low enough,
  And now it is four degrees lower.

  Here's a Fly, a disconsolate creature, perhaps
  A child of the field, or the grove,
  And sorrow for him! this dull treacherous heat
  Has seduc'd the poor fool from his winter retreat,
  And he creeps to the edge of my stove.

  Alas! how he fumbles about the domains
  Which this comfortless oven environ,
  He cannot find out in what track he must crawl
  Now back to the tiles, and now back to the hall,
  And now on the brink of the iron.

  Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemaz'd,
  The best of his skill he has tried;
  His feelers methinks I can see him put forth
  To the East and the West, and the South and the North,
  But he finds neither guide-post nor guide.

  See! his spindles sink under him, foot, leg and thigh,
  His eyesight and hearing are lost,
  Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws,
  And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze
  Are glued to his sides by the frost.

  No Brother, no Friend has he near him, while I
  Can draw warmth from the cheek of my Love,
  As blest and as glad in this desolate gloom,
  As if green summer grass were the floor of my room,
  And woodbines were hanging above.

  Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless Thing,
  Thy life I would gladly sustain
  Till summer comes up from the South, and with crowds
  Of thy brethren a march thou should'st sound through the clouds,
  And back to the forests again.

The CHILDLESS FATHER.

  Up, Timothy, up with your Staff and away!
  Not a soul in the village this morning will stay;
  The Hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds,
  And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds.

  —Of coats and of jackets both grey, scarlet, and green,
  On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen,
  With their comely blue aprons and caps white as snow,
  The girls on the hills made a holiday show.

  The bason of box-wood, [9] just six months before,
  Had stood on the table at Timothy's door,
  A Coffin through Timothy's threshold had pass'd,
  One Child did it bear and that Child was his last.

[Footnote 9: In several parts of the North of England, when a funeral takes place, a bason full of Sprigs of Box-wood is placed at the door of the house from which the Coffin is taken up, and each person who attends the funeral ordinarily takes a Sprig of this Box-wood, and throws it into the grave of the deceased.]

  Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray,
  The horse and the horn, and the hark! hark! away!
  Old Timothy took up his Staff, and he shut
  With a leisurely motion the door of his hut.

  Perhaps to himself at that moment he said,
  "The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead"
  But of this in my ears not a word did he speak,
  And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.

THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR. A DESCRIPTION.

The OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR,
  A DESCRIPTION.

The class of Beggars to which the old man here described belongs, will probably soon be extinct. It consisted of poor, and, mostly, old and infirm persons, who confined themselves to a stated round in their neighbourhood, and had certain fixed days, on which, at different houses, they regularly received charity; sometimes in money, but mostly in provisions.

  I saw an aged Beggar in my walk,
  And he was seated by the highway side
  On a low structure of rude masonry
  Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they
  Who lead their horses down the steep rough road
  May thence remount at ease. The aged man
  Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone
  That overlays the pile, and from a bag
  All white with flour the dole of village dames,
  He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one,
  And scann'd them with a fix'd and serious look
  Of idle computation. In the sun,
  Upon the second step of that small pile,
  Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills,
  He sate, and eat his food in solitude;
  And ever, scatter'd from his palsied hand,
  That still attempting to prevent the waste,
  Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers
  Fell on the ground, and the small mountain birds,
  Not venturing yet to peck their destin'd meal,
  Approached within the length of half his staff.

  Him from my childhood have I known, and then
  He was so old, he seems not older now;
  He travels on, a solitary man,
  So helpless in appearance, that for him
  The sauntering horseman-traveller does not throw
  With careless hand his alms upon the ground,
  But stops, that he may safely lodge the coin
  Within the old Man's hat; nor quits him so,
  But still when he has given his horse the rein
  Towards the aged Beggar turns a look,
  Sidelong and half-reverted. She who tends
  The toll-gate, when in summer at her door
  She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees
  The aged Beggar coming, quits her work,
  And lifts the latch for him that he may pass.
  The Post-boy when his rattling wheels o'ertake
  The aged Beggar, in the woody lane,
  Shouts to him from behind, and, if perchance
  The old Man does not change his course, the Boy
  Turns with less noisy wheels to the road-side,
  And passes gently by, without a curse
  Upon his lips, or anger at his heart.

  He travels on, a solitary Man,
  His age has no companion. On the ground
  His eyes are turn'd, and, as he moves along,
  They move along the ground; and evermore;
  Instead of common and habitual sight
  Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale,
  And the blue sky, one little span of earth
  Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day,
  Bowbent, his eyes for ever on the ground,
  He plies his weary journey, seeing still,
  And never knowing that he sees, some straw,
  Some scatter'd leaf, or marks which, in one track,
  The nails of cart or chariot wheel have left
  Impress'd on the white road, in the same line,
  At distance still the same. Poor Traveller!
  His staff trails with him, scarcely do his feet
  Disturb the summer dust, he is so still
  In look and motion that the cottage curs,
  Ere he have pass'd the door, will turn away
  Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls,
  The vacant and the busy, maids and youths,
  And urchins newly breech'd all pass him by:
  Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind.

  But deem not this man useless.—Statesmen! ye
  Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye
  Who have a broom still ready in your hands
  To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud,
  Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate
  Your talents, power, and wisdom, deem him not
  A burthen of the earth. Tis Nature's law
  That none, the meanest of created things,
  Of forms created the most vile and brute,
  The dullest or most noxious, should exist
  Divorced from good, a spirit and pulse of good,
  A life and soul to every mode of being
  Inseparably link'd. While thus he creeps
  From door to door, the Villagers in him
  Behold a record which together binds
  Past deeds and offices of charity
  Else unremember'd, and so keeps alive
  The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years,
  And that half-wisdom, half-experience gives
  Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign
  To selfishness and cold oblivious cares.

  Among the farms and solitary huts
  Hamlets, and thinly-scattered villages,
  Where'er the aged Beggar takes his rounds,
  The mild necessity of use compels
  To acts of love; and habit does the work
  Of reason, yet prepares that after joy
  Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul,
  By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursu'd
  Doth find itself insensibly dispos'd
  To virtue and true goodness. Some there are,
  By their good works exalted, lofty minds
  And meditative, authors of delight
  And happiness, which to the end of time
  Will live, and spread, and kindle; minds like these,
  In childhood, from this solitary being,
  This helpless wanderer, have perchance receiv'd,
  (A thing more precious far than all that books
  Or the solicitudes of love can do!)
  That first mild touch of sympathy and thought,
  In which they found their kindred with a world
  Where want and sorrow were. The easy man
  Who sits at his own door, and like the pear
  Which overhangs his head from the green wall,
  Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and young,
  The prosperous and unthinking, they who live
  Shelter'd, and flourish in a little grove
  Of their own kindred, all behold in him
  A silent monitor, which on their minds
  Must needs impress a transitory thought
  Of self-congratulation, to the heart
  Of each recalling his peculiar boons,
  His charters and exemptions; and perchance,
  Though he to no one give the fortitude
  And circumspection needful to preserve
  His present blessings, and to husband up
  The respite of the season, he, at least,
  And 'tis no vulgar service, makes them felt.

  Yet further.—Many, I believe, there are
  Who live a life of virtuous decency,
  Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel
  No self-reproach, who of the moral law
  Establish'd in the land where they abide
  Are strict observers, and not negligent,
  Meanwhile, in any tenderness of heart
  Or act of love to those with whom they dwell,
  Their kindred, and the children of their blood.

  Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace!
  —But of the poor man ask, the abject poor,
  Go and demand of him, if there be here,
  In this cold abstinence from evil deeds,
  And these inevitable charities,
  Wherewith to satisfy the human soul.
  No—man is dear to man: the poorest poor
  Long for some moments in a weary life
  When they can know and feel that they have been
  Themselves the fathers and the dealers out
  Of some small blessings, have been kind to such
  As needed kindness, for this single cause,
  That we have all of us one human heart.

  —Such pleasure is to one kind Being known
  My Neighbour, when with punctual care, each week
  Duly as Friday comes, though press'd herself
  By her own wants, she from her chest of meal
  Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip
  Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door
  Returning with exhilarated heart,
  Sits by her tire and builds her hope in heav'n.

  Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!
  And while, in that vast solitude to which
  The tide of things has led him, he appears
  To breathe and live but for himself alone,
  Unblam'd, uninjur'd, let him bear about
  The good which the benignant law of heaven
  Has hung around him, and, while life is his,
  Still let him prompt the unletter'd Villagers
  To tender offices and pensive thoughts.

  Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!
  And, long as he can wander, let him breathe
  The freshness of the vallies, let his blood
  Struggle with frosty air and winter snows,
  And let the charter'd wind that sweeps the heath
  Beat his grey locks against his wither'd face.
  Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness
  Gives the last human interest to his heart.
  May never House, misnamed of industry,
  Make him a captive; for that pent-up din,
  Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air,
  Be his the natural silence of old age.

  Let him be free of mountain solitudes,
  And have around him, whether heard or nor,
  The pleasant melody of woodland birds.
  Few are his pleasures; if his eyes, which now
  Have been so long familiar with the earth,
  No more behold the horizontal sun
  Rising or setting, let the light at least
  Find a free entrance to their languid orbs.

  And let him, where and when he will, sit down
  Beneath the trees, or by the grassy bank
  Of high-way side, and with the little birds
  Share his chance-gather'd meal, and, finally,
  As in the eye of Nature he has liv'd,
  So in the eye of Nature let him die.

RURAL ARCHITECTURE.

  There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore,
  Three rosy-cheek'd School-boys, the highest not more
  Than the height of a Counsellor's bag;
  To the top of Great How did it please them to climb,
  and there they built up without mortar or lime
  A Man on the peak of the crag.

  They built him of stones gather'd up as they lay,
  They built him and christen'd him all in one day,
  An Urchin both vigorous and hale;
  And so without scruple they call'd him Ralph Jones.
  Now Ralph is renown'd for the length of his bones;
  The Magog of Legberthwaite dale.

  Just half a week after the Wind sallied forth,
  And, in anger or merriment, out of the North
  Coming on with a terrible pother,
  From the peak of the crag blew the Giant away.
  And what did these School-boys?—The very next day
  They went and they built up another.

  —Some little I've seen of blind boisterous works
  In Paris and London, 'mong Christians or Turks,
  Spirits busy to do and undo:
  At remembrance whereof my blood sometimes will flag.
  —Then, light-hearted Boys, to the top of the Crag!
  And I'll build up a Giant with you.

Great How is a single and conspicuous hill, which rises towards the foot of Thirl-mere, on the western side of the beautiful dale of Legberthwaite, along the 'high road between Keswick' and Ambleside.

A POET'S EPITAPH.

  Art thou a Statesman, in the van
  Of public business train'd and bred,
  —First learn to love one living man;
  Then may'st thou think upon the dead.

  A Lawyer art thou?—draw not nigh;
  Go, carry to some other place
  The hardness of thy coward eye,
  The falshood of thy sallow face.

  Art thou a man of purple cheer?
  A rosy man, right plump to see?
  Approach; yet Doctor, not too near:
  This grave no cushion is for thee.

  Art thou a man of gallant pride,
  A Soldier, and no mail of chaff?
  Welcome!—but lay thy sword aside,
  And lean upon a Peasant's staff.

  Physician art thou? One, all eyes,
  Philosopher! a fingering slave,
  One that would peep and botanize
  Upon his mother's grave?

  Wrapp'd closely in thy sensual fleece
  O turn aside, and take, I pray,
  That he below may rest in peace,
  Thy pin-point of a soul away!

  —A Moralist perchance appears;
  Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod:
  And He has neither eyes nor ears;
  Himself his world, and his own God;

  One to whose smooth-rubb'd soul can cling
  Nor form nor feeling great nor small,
  A reasoning, self-sufficing thing,
  An intellectual All in All!

  Shut close the door! press down the latch:
  Sleep in thy intellectual crust,
  Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch,
  Near this unprofitable dust.

  But who is He with modest looks,
  And clad in homely russet brown?
  He murmurs near the running brooks
  A music sweeter than their own.

  He is retired as noontide dew,
  Or fountain in a noonday grove;
  And you must love him, ere to you
  He will seem worthy of your love.

  The outward shews of sky and earth.
  Of hill and valley he has view'd;
  And impulses of deeper birth
  Have come to him in solitude.

  In common things that round us lie
  Some random truths he can impart
  The harvest of a quiet eye
  That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

  But he is weak, both man and boy,
  Hath been an idler in the land;
  Contented if he might enjoy
  The things which others understand.

  —Come hither in thy hour of strength,
  Come, weak as is a breaking wave!
  Here stretch thy body at full length
  Or build thy house upon this grave.—

A CHARACTER,
  In the antithetical Manner.

  I marvel how Nature could ever find space
  For the weight and the levity seen in his face:
  There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloom,
  And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.

  There's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain;
  Such strength, as if ever affliction and pain
  Could pierce through a temper that's soft to disease,
  Would be rational peace—a philosopher's ease.

  There's indifference, alike when he fails and succeeds,
  And attention full ten times as much as there needs,
  Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy;
  And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy.

  There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare
  Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there.
  There's virtue, the title it surely may claim,
  Yet wants, heaven knows what, to be worthy the name.

  What a picture! 'tis drawn without nature or art,
  —Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart,
  And I for five centuries right gladly would be
  Such an odd, such a kind happy creature as he.

A FRAGMENT

  Between two sister moorland rills
  There is a spot that seems to lie
  Sacred to flowrets of the hills,
  And sacred to the sky.

  And in this smooth and open dell
  There is a tempest-stricken tree;
  A corner stone by lightning cut,
  The last stone of a cottage hut;
  And in this dell you see
  A thing no storm can e'er destroy,
  The shadow of a Danish Boy.

  In clouds above, the lark is heard,
  He sings his blithest and his beet;
    But in this lonesome nook the bird
  Did never build his nest.

  No beast, no bird hath here his home;
  The bees borne on the breezy air
  Pass high above those fragrant bells
  To other flowers, to other dells.
  Nor ever linger there.
  The Danish Boy walks here alone:
  The lovely dell is all his own.

  A spirit of noon day is he,
  He seems a Form of flesh and blood;
  A piping Shepherd he might be,
  A Herd-boy of the wood.

  A regal vest of fur he wears,
  In colour like a raven's wing;
  It fears nor rain, nor wind, nor dew,
  But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue
  As budding pines in Spring;
  His helmet has a vernal grace,
  Fresh as the bloom upon his face.

  A harp is from his shoulder slung;
  He rests the harp upon his knee,
  And there in a forgotten tongue
  He warbles melody.

  Of flocks and herds both far and near
  He is the darling and the joy,
  And often, when no cause appears,
  The mountain ponies prick their ears,
  They hear the Danish Boy,
  While in the dell he sits alone
  Beside the tree and corner-stone.

  When near this blasted tree you pass,
  Two sods are plainly to be seen
  Close at its root, and each with grass
  Is cover'd fresh and green.

  Like turf upon a new-made grave
  These two green sods together lie,
  Nor heat, nor cold, nor rain, nor wind
  Can these two sods together bind,
  Nor sun, nor earth, nor sky,
  But side by side the two are laid,
  As if just sever'd by the spade.

  There sits he: in his face you spy
  No trace of a ferocious air,
  Nor ever was a cloudless sky
  So steady or so fair.

  The lovely Danish Boy is blest
  And happy in his flowery cove;
  From bloody deeds his thoughts are far;
  And yet he warbles songs of war;
  They seem like songs of love,
  For calm and gentle is his mien;
  Like a dead Boy he is serene.

POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES.

ADVERTISEMENT.

By Persons resident in the country and attached to rural objects, many places will be found unnamed or of unknown names, where little Incidents will have occurred, or feelings been experienced, which will have given to such places a private and peculiar interest. From a wish to give some sort of record to such Incidents or renew the gratification of such Feelings, Names have been given to Places by the Author and some of his Friends, and the following Poems written in consequence.

POEMS on the NAMING of PLACES.

1.

  It was an April Morning: fresh and clear
  The Rivulet, delighting in its strength,
  Ran with a young man's speed, and yet the voice
  Of waters which the winter had supplied
  Was soften'd down into a vernal tone.

  The spirit of enjoyment and desire,
  And hopes and wishes, from all living things
  Went circling, like a multitude of sounds.
  The budding groves appear'd as if in haste
  To spur the steps of June; as if their shades
  Of various green were hindrances that stood
  Between them and their object: yet, meanwhile,
  There was such deep contentment in the air
  That every naked ash, and tardy tree
  Yet leafless, seem'd as though the countenance
  With which it look'd on this delightful day
  Were native to the summer.—Up the brook
  I roam'd in the confusion of my heart,
  Alive to all things and forgetting all.

  At length I to a sudden turning came
  In this continuous glen, where down a rock
  The stream, so ardent in its course before,
  Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all
  Which I till then had heard, appear'd the voice
  Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb,
  The Shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush
  Vied with this waterfall, and made a song
  Which, while I listen'd, seem'd like the wild growth
  Or like some natural produce of the air
  That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here,
  But 'twas the foliage of the rocks, the birch,
  The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn,
  With hanging islands of resplendent furze:
  And on a summit, distant a short space,
  By any who should look beyond the dell,
  A single mountain Cottage might be seen.
  I gaz'd and gaz'd, and to myself I said,
  "Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook,
  My EMMA, I will dedicate to thee."

  —Soon did the spot become my other home,
  My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode.
  And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there,
  To whom I sometimes in our idle talk
  Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps,
  Years after we are gone and in our graves,
  When they have cause to speak of this wild place,
  May call it by the name of EMMA'S DELL.

II.

To JOANNA.

  Amid the smoke of cities did you pass
  Your time of early youth, and there you learn'd,
  From years of quiet industry, to love
  The living Beings by your own fire-side,
  With such a strong devotion, that your heart
  Is slow towards the sympathies of them
  Who look upon the hills with tenderness,
  And make dear friendships with the streams and groves.
  Yet we who are transgressors in this kind,
  Dwelling retired in our simplicity
  Among the woods and fields, we love you well,
  Joanna! and I guess, since you have been
  So distant from us now for two long years,
  That you will gladly listen to discourse
  However trivial, if you thence are taught
  That they, with whom you once were happy, talk
  Familiarly of you and of old times.

  While I was seated, now some ten days past,
  Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop
  Their ancient neighbour, the old Steeple tower,
  The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by
  Came forth to greet me, and when he had ask'd,
  "How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid!
  And when will she return to us?" he paus'd,
  And after short exchange of village news,
  He with grave looks demanded, for what cause,
  Reviving obsolete Idolatry,
  I like a Runic Priest, in characters
  Of formidable size, had chisel'd out
  Some uncouth name upon the native rock,
  Above the Rotha, by the forest side.
  —Now, by those dear immunities of heart
  Engender'd betwixt malice and true love,
  I was not both to be so catechiz'd,
  And this was my reply.—"As it befel,
  One summer morning we had walk'd abroad
  At break of day, Joanna and myself.
  —'Twas that delightful season, when the broom,
  Full flower'd, and visible on every steep,
  Along the copses runs in veins of gold."

  Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks,
  And when we came in front of that tall rock
  Which looks towards the East, I there stopp'd short,
  And trac'd the lofty barrier with my eye
  From base to summit; such delight I found
  To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower,
  That intermixture of delicious hues,
  Along so vast a surface, all at once,
  In one impression, by connecting force
  Of their own beauty, imag'd in the heart.

  —When I had gaz'd perhaps two minutes' space,
  Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld
  That ravishment of mine, and laugh'd aloud.
  The rock, like something starting from a sleep,
  Took up the Lady's voice, and laugh'd again:
  That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag
  Was ready with her cavern; Hammar-Scar,
  And the tall Steep of Silver-How sent forth
  A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard,
  And Fairfield answer'd 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 toss'd it from his misty head.
  Now whether, (said I to our cordial Friend
  Who in the hey-day of astonishment
  Smil'd in my face) this were in simple truth
  A work accomplish'd by the brotherhood
  Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touch'd
  With dreams and visionary impulses,
  Is not for me to tell; but sure I am
  That there was a loud uproar in the hills.
  And, while we both were listening, to my side
  The fair Joanna drew, is if she wish'd
  To shelter from some object of her fear.

  —And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons
  Were wasted, as I chanc'd to walk alone
  Beneath this rock, at sun-rise, on a calm
  And silent morning, I sate down, and there,
  In memory of affections old and true,
  I chissel'd out in those rude characters
  Joanna's name upon the living stone.
  And I, and all who dwell by my fire-side
  Have call'd the lovely rock, Joanna's Rock.

NOTE.

In Cumberland and Westmoreland are several Inscriptions upon the native rock which from the wasting of Time and the rudeness of the Workmanship had been mistaken for Runic. They are without doubt Roman.

The Roths, mentioned in this poem, is the River which flowing through the Lakes of Grasmere and Rydole fells into Wyndermere. On Helm-Crag, that impressive single Mountain at the head of the Vale of Grasmere, is a Rock which from most points of view bears a striking resemblance to an Old Woman cowering. Close by this rock is one of those Fissures or Caverns, which in the language of the Country are called Dungeons. The other Mountains either immediately surround the Vale of Grasmere, or belong to the same Cluster.

III.

  There is an Eminence,—of these our hills
  The last that parleys with the setting sun.
  We can behold it from our Orchard seat.
  And, when at evening we pursue our walk
  Along the public way, this Cliff, so high
  Above us, and so distant in its height,
  Is visible, and often seems to send
  Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts.
  The meteors make of it a favorite haunt:
  The star of Jove, so beautiful and large
  In the mid heav'ns, is never half so fair
  As when he shines above it. 'Tis in truth
  The loneliest place we have among the clouds.

  And She who dwells with me, whom I have lov'd
  With such communion, that no place on earth
  Can ever be a solitude to me,
  Hath said, this lonesome Peak shall bear my Name.

IV.

  A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags,
  A rude and natural causeway, interpos'd
  Between the water and a winding slope
  Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore
  Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy.
  And there, myself and two beloved Friends,
  One calm September morning, ere the mist
  Had altogether yielded to the sun,
  Saunter'd on this retir'd and difficult way.
  —Ill suits the road with one in haste, but we
  Play'd with our time; and, as we stroll'd along,

  It was our occupation to observe
  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 nam'd,
  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 chear 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 receiv'd
  The same admonishment, have call'd the plate
  By a memorial name, uncouth indeed
  As e'er by Mariner was giv'n to Bay
  Or Foreland on a new-discover'd coast,
  And, POINT RASH-JUDGMENT is the Name it bears.