TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND
(AN AGRICULTURIST)
COMPOSED WHILE WE WERE LABOURING TOGETHER IN HIS PLEASURE-GROUND

          Spade! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his lands,
          And shaped these pleasant walks by Emont's side,
          Thou art a tool of honour in my hands;
          I press thee, through the yielding soil, with pride.

          Rare master has it been thy lot to know;
          Long hast Thou served a man to reason true;
          Whose life combines the best of high and low,
          The labouring many and the resting few;

          Health, meekness, ardour, quietness secure,
          And industry of body and of mind;                           10
          And elegant enjoyments, that are pure
          As nature is; too pure to be refined.

          Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing
          In concord with his river murmuring by;
          Or in some silent field, while timid spring
          Is yet uncheered by other minstrelsy.

          Who shall inherit Thee when death has laid
          Low in the darksome cell thine own dear lord?
          That man will have a trophy, humble Spade!
          A trophy nobler than a conqueror's sword.                   20

          If he be one that feels, with skill to part
          False praise from true, or, greater from the less,
          Thee will he welcome to his hand and heart,
          Thou monument of peaceful happiness!

          He will not dread with Thee a toilsome day--
          Thee his loved servant, his inspiring mate!
          And, when thou art past service, worn away,
          No dull oblivious nook shall hide thy fate.

          His thrift thy uselessness will never scorn;
          An 'heir-loom' in his cottage wilt thou be:--               30
          High will he hang thee up, well pleased to adorn
          His rustic chimney with the last of Thee!
                                                              1804.

THE SMALL CELANDINE

          There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine,
          That shrinks, like many more, from cold and rain;
          And, the first moment that the sun may shine,
          Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again!

          When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm,
          Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest,
          Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm,
          In close self-shelter, like a Thing at rest.

          But lately, one rough day, this Flower I passed
          And recognised it, though an altered form,                  10
          Now standing forth an offering to the blast,
          And buffeted at will by rain and storm.

          I stopped, and said with inly-muttered voice,
          "It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold:
          This neither is its courage nor its choice,
          But its necessity in being old.

          "The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew;
          It cannot help itself in its decay;
          Stiff in its members, withered, changed of hue."
          And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was grey.               20

          To be a Prodigal's Favourite--then, worse truth,
          A Miser's Pensioner--behold our lot!
          O Man, that from thy fair and shining youth
          Age might but take the things Youth needed not!
                                                              1804.

AT APPLETHWAITE, NEAR KESWICK

          Beaumont! it was thy wish that I should rear
          A seemly Cottage in this sunny Dell,
          On favoured ground, thy gift, where I might dwell
          In neighbourhood with One to me most dear,
          That undivided we from year to year
          Might work in our high Calling--a bright hope
          To which our fancies, mingling, gave free scope
          Till checked by some necessities severe.
          And should these slacken, honoured BEAUMONT! still
          Even then we may perhaps in vain implore                    10
          Leave of our fate thy wishes to fulfil.
          Whether this boon be granted us or not,
          Old Skiddaw will look down upon the Spot
          With pride, the Muses love it evermore.
                                                              1804.

TO THE SUPREME BEING
FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO

          The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed
          If Thou the spirit give by which I pray:
          My unassisted heart is barren clay,
          That of its native self can nothing feed:
          Of good and pious works thou art the seed,
          That quickens only where thou say'st it may:
          Unless Thou show to us thine own true way
          No man can find it: Father! Thou must lead.
          Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind
          By which such virtue may in me be bred                      10
          That in thy holy footsteps I may tread;
          The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind,
          That I may have the power to sing of thee,
          And sound thy praises everlastingly.

ODE TO DUTY

      Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!
      O Duty! if that name thou love
      Who art a light to guide, a rod
      To check the erring, and reprove;
      Thou, who art victory and law
      When empty terrors overawe;
      From vain temptations dost set free;
      And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!

      There are who ask not if thine eye
      Be on them; who, in love and truth,                             10
      Where no misgiving is, rely
      Upon the genial sense of youth:
      Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot
      Who do thy work, and know it not:
      Oh! if through confidence misplaced
      They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.

      Serene will be our days and bright,
      And happy will our nature be,
      When love is an unerring light,
      And joy its own security.                                       20
      And they a blissful course may hold
      Even now, who, not unwisely bold,
      Live in the spirit of this creed;
      Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need.

      I, loving freedom, and untried;
      No sport of every random gust,
      Yet being to myself a guide,
      Too blindly have reposed my trust:
      And oft, when in my heart was heard
      Thy timely mandate, I deferred                                  30
      The task, in smoother walks to stray;
      But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.

      Through no disturbance of my soul,
      Or strong compunction in me wrought,
      I supplicate for thy control;
      But in the quietness of thought:
      Me this unchartered freedom tires;
      I feel the weight of chance-desires:
      My hopes no more must change their name,
      I long for a repose that ever is the same.                      40

      Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
      The Godhead's most benignant grace;
      Nor know we anything so fair
      As is the smile upon thy face:
      Flowers laugh before thee on their beds
      And fragrance in thy footing treads;
      Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;
      And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.

      To humbler functions, awful Power!
      I call thee: I myself commend                                   50
      Unto thy guidance from this hour;
      Oh, let my weakness have an end!
      Give unto me, made lowly wise,
      The spirit of self-sacrifice;
      The confidence of reason give;
      And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live!
                                                              1805.

TO A SKY-LARK

          Up with me! up with me into the clouds!
              For thy song, Lark, is strong;
          Up with me, up with me into the clouds!
                  Singing, singing,
          With clouds and sky about thee ringing,
              Lift me, guide me till I find
          That spot which seems so to thy mind!

          I have walked through wildernesses dreary
          And to-day my heart is weary;
          Had I now the wings of a Faery,                             10
          Up to thee would I fly.
          There is madness about thee, and joy divine
          In that song of thine;
          Lift me, guide me high and high
          To thy banqueting-place in the sky.

                  Joyous as morning
          Thou art laughing and scorning;
          Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest,
          And, though little troubled with sloth,
          Drunken Lark! thou would'st be loth                         20
          To be such a traveller as I.
          Happy, happy Liver,
          With a soul as strong as a mountain river
          Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver,
              Joy and jollity be with us both!

          Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven,
          Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind;
          But hearing thee, or others of thy kind,
          As full of gladness and as free of heaven,
          I, with my fate contented, will plod on,                    30
          And hope for higher raptures, when life's day is done.

                                                              1805.

FIDELITY

          A barking sound the Shepherd hears,
          A cry as of a dog or fox;
          He halts--and searches with his eyes
          Among the scattered rocks:
          And now at distance can discern
          A stirring in a brake of fern;
          And instantly a dog is seen,
          Glancing through that covert green.

          The Dog is not of mountain breed;
          Its motions, too, are wild and shy;                         10
          With something, as the Shepherd thinks,
          Unusual in its cry:
          Nor is there any one in sight
          All round, in hollow or on height;
          Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear;
          What is the creature doing here?

          It was a cove, a huge recess,
          That keeps, till June, December's snow;
          A lofty precipice in front,
          A silent tarn below!                                        20
          Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,
          Remote from public road or dwelling,
          Pathway, or cultivated land;
          From trace of human foot or hand.

          There sometimes doth a leaping fish
          Send through the tarn a lonely cheer;
          The crags repeat the raven's croak,
          In symphony austere;
          Thither the rainbow comes--the cloud--
          And mists that spread the flying shroud;                    30
          And sunbeams; and the sounding blast,
          That, if it could, would hurry past;
          But that enormous barrier holds it fast.

          Not free from boding thoughts, a while
          The Shepherd stood; then makes his way
          O'er rocks and stones, following the Dog
          As quickly as he may;
          Nor far had gone before he found
          A human skeleton on the ground;
          The appalled Discoverer with a sigh                         40
          Looks round, to learn the history.

          From those abrupt and perilous rocks
          The Man had fallen, that place of fear!
          At length upon the Shepherd's mind
          It breaks, and all is clear:
          He instantly recalled the name,
          And who he was, and whence he came;
          Remembered, too, the very day
          On which the Traveller passed this way.

          But hear a wonder, for whose sake                           50
          This lamentable tale I tell!
          A lasting monument of words
          This wonder merits well.
          The Dog, which still was hovering nigh,
          Repeating the same timid cry,
          This Dog, had been through three months' space
          A dweller in that savage place.

          Yes, proof was plain that, since the day
          When this ill-fated Traveller died,
          The Dog had watched about the spot,                         60
          Or by his master's side:
          How nourished here through such long time
          He knows, who gave that love sublime;
          And gave that strength of feeling, great
          Above all human estimate!
                                                              1805.

INCIDENT
CHARACTERISTIC OF A FAVOURITE DOG

          On his morning rounds the Master
          Goes to learn how all things fare;
          Searches pasture after pasture,
          Sheep and cattle eyes with care;
          And, for silence or for talk,
          He hath comrades in his walk;
          Four dogs, each pair of different breed,
          Distinguished two for scent, and two for speed.

          See a hare before him started!
          --Off they fly in earnest chase;                            10
          Every dog is eager-hearted,
          All the four are in the race:
          And the hare whom they pursue,
          Knows from instinct what to do;
          Her hope is near: no turn she makes;
          But, like an arrow, to the river takes.

          Deep the river was, and crusted
          Thinly by a one night's frost;
          But the nimble Hare hath trusted
          To the ice, and safely crost;                               20
          She hath crost, and without heed
          All are following at full speed,
          When, lo! the ice, so thinly spread,
          Breaks--and the greyhound, DART, is overhead!

          Better fate have PRINCE and SWALLOW--
          See them cleaving to the sport!
          MUSIC has no heart to follow,
          Little MUSIC, she stops short.
          She hath neither wish nor heart,
          Hers is now another part:                                   30
          A loving creature she, and brave!
          And fondly strives her struggling friend to save.

          From the brink her paws she stretches,
          Very hands as you would say!
          And afflicting moans she fetches,
          As he breaks the ice away.
          For herself she hath no fears,--
          Him alone she sees and hears,--
          Makes efforts with complainings; nor gives o'er
          Until her fellow sinks to re-appear no more.                40
                                                              1805.

TRIBUTE
TO THE MEMORY OF THE SAME DOG

          Lie here, without a record of thy worth,
          Beneath a covering of the common earth!
          It is not from unwillingness to praise,
          Or want of love, that here no Stone we raise;
          More thou deserv'st; but 'this' man gives to man,
          Brother to brother, 'this' is all we can.
          Yet they to whom thy virtues made thee dear
          Shall find thee through all changes of the year:
          This Oak points out thy grave; the silent tree
          Will gladly stand a monument of thee.                       10
            We grieved for thee, and wished thy end were past;
          And willingly have laid thee here at last:
          For thou hadst lived till everything that cheers
          In thee had yielded to the weight of years;
          Extreme old age had wasted thee away,
          And left thee but a glimmering of the day;
          Thy ears were deaf, and feeble were thy knees,--
          I saw thee stagger in the summer breeze,
          Too weak to stand against its sportive breath,
          And ready for the gentlest stroke of death.                 20
          It came, and we were glad; yet tears were shed;
          Both man and woman wept when thou wert dead;
          Not only for a thousand thoughts that were,
          Old household thoughts, in which thou hadst thy share;
          But for some precious boons vouchsafed to thee,
          Found scarcely anywhere in like degree!
          For love, that comes wherever life and sense
          Are given by God, in thee was most intense;
          A chain of heart, a feeling of the mind,
          A tender sympathy, which did thee bind                      30
          Not only to us Men, but to thy Kind:
          Yea, for thy fellow-brutes in thee we saw
          A soul of love, love's intellectual law:--
          Hence, if we wept, it was not done in shame;
          Our tears from passion and from reason came,
          And, therefore, shalt thou be an honoured name!
                                                              1805.

TO THE DAISY

          Sweet Flower! belike one day to have
          A place upon thy Poet's grave,
          I welcome thee once more:
          But He, who was on land, at sea,
          My Brother, too, in loving thee,
          Although he loved more silently,
          Sleeps by his native shore.

          Ah! hopeful, hopeful was the day
          When to that Ship he bent his way,
          To govern and to guide:                                     10
          His wish was gained: a little time
          Would bring him back in manhood's prime
          And free for life, these hills to climb;
          With all his wants supplied.

          And full of hope day followed day
          While that stout Ship at anchor lay
          Beside the shores of Wight;
          The May had then made all things green;
          And, floating there, in pomp serene,
          That Ship was goodly to be seen,                            20
          His pride and his delight!

          Yet then, when called ashore, he sought
          The tender peace of rural thought:
          In more than happy mood
          To your abodes, bright daisy Flowers!
          He then would steal at leisure hours,
          And loved you glittering in your bowers
          A starry multitude.

          But hark the word!--the ship is gone;--
          Returns from her long course:--anon                         30
          Sets sail:--in season due,
          Once more on English earth they stand:
          But, when a third time from the land
          They parted, sorrow was at hand
          For Him and for his crew.

          Ill-fated Vessel!--ghastly shock!
          --At length delivered from the rock,
          The deep she hath regained;
          And through the stormy night they steer;
          Labouring for life, in hope and fear,                       40
          To reach a safer shore--how near,
          Yet not to be attained!

          "Silence!" the brave Commander cried:
          To that calm word a shriek replied,
          It was the last death-shriek.
          --A few (my soul oft sees that sight)
          Survive upon the tall mast's height;
          But one dear remnant of the night--
          For Him in vain I seek.

          Six weeks beneath the moving sea                            50
          He lay in slumber quietly;
          Unforced by wind or wave
          To quit the Ship for which he died,
          (All claims of duty satisfied;)
          And there they found him at her side;
          And bore him to the grave.

          Vain service! yet not vainly done
          For this, if other end were none,
          That He, who had been cast
          Upon a way of life unmeet                                   60
          For such a gentle Soul and sweet,
          Should find an undisturbed retreat
          Near what he loved, at last--

          That neighbourhood of grove and field
          To Him a resting-place should yield,
          A meek man and a brave!
          The birds shall sing and ocean make
          A mournful murmur for 'his' sake;
          And Thou, sweet Flower, shalt sleep and wake
          Upon his senseless grave.                                   70
                                                              1805.