The River Duddon
A Series Of Sonnets, 1820.
X. The Same Subject


          NOT so that Pair whose youthful spirits dance
          With prompt emotion, urging them to pass;
          A sweet confusion checks the Shepherd-lass;
          Blushing she eyes the dizzy flood askance;
          To stop ashamed--too timid to advance;
          She ventures once again--another pause!
          His outstretched hand He tauntingly withdraws--
          She sues for help with piteous utterance!
          Chidden she chides again; the thrilling touch
          Both feel, when he renews the wished-for aid:               10
          Ah! if their fluttering hearts should stir too much,
          Should beat too strongly, both may be betrayed.
          The frolic Loves, who, from yon high rock, see
          The struggle, clap their wings for victory!

The River Duddon
A Series Of Sonnets, 1820.
XI. The Faery Chasm


          NO fiction was it of the antique age:
          A sky-blue stone, within this sunless cleft,
          Is of the very footmarks unbereft
          Which tiny Elves impressed;--on that smooth stage
          Dancing with all their brilliant equipage
          In secret revels--haply after theft
          Of some sweet Babe--Flower stolen, and coarse Weed left
          For the distracted Mother to assuage
          Her grief with, as she might!--But, where, oh! where
          Is traceable a vestige of the notes                         10
          That ruled those dances wild in character?--
          Deep underground? Or in the upper air,
          On the shrill wind of midnight? or where floats
          O'er twilight fields the autumnal gossamer?

The River Duddon
A Series Of Sonnets, 1820.
XII. Hints For The Fancy


          ON, loitering Muse--the swift Stream chides us--on!
          Albeit his deep-worn channel doth immure
          Objects immense portrayed in miniature,
          Wild shapes for many a strange comparison!
          Niagaras, Alpine passes, and anon
          Abodes of Naiads, calm abysses pure,
          Bright liquid mansions, fashioned to endure
          When the broad oak drops, a leafless skeleton,
          And the solidities of mortal pride,
          Palace and tower, are crumbled into dust!--                 10
          The Bard who walks with Duddon for his guide,
          Shall find such toys of fancy thickly set:
          Turn from the sight, enamoured Muse--we must;
          And, if thou canst, leave them without regret!

The River Duddon
A Series Of Sonnets, 1820.
XIII. Open Prospect


          HAIL to the fields--with Dwellings sprinkled o'er,
          And one small hamlet, under a green hill
          Clustering, with barn and byre, and spouting mill!
          A glance suffices,--should we wish for more,
          Gay June would scorn us. But when bleak winds roar
          Through the stiff lance-like shoots of pollard ash,
          Dread swell of sound! loud as the gusts that lash
          The matted forests of Ontario's shore
          By wasteful steel unsmitten--then would I
          Turn into port; and, reckless of the gale,                  10
          Reckless of angry Duddon sweeping by,
          While the warm hearth exalts the mantling ale,
          Laugh with the generous household heartily
          At all the merry pranks of Donnerdale!

The River Duddon
A Series Of Sonnets, 1820.
XIV


          O MOUNTAIN Stream! the Shepherd and his Cot
          Are privileged Inmates of deep solitude;
          Nor would the nicest Anchorite exclude
          A field or two of brighter green, or plot
          Of tillage-ground, that seemeth like a spot
          Of stationary sunshine:--thou hast viewed
          These only, Duddon! with their paths renewed
          By fits and starts, yet this contents thee not.
          Thee hath some awful Spirit impelled to leave,
          Utterly to desert, the haunts of men,                       10
          Though simple thy companions were and few;
          And through this wilderness a passage cleave
          Attended but by thy own voice, save when
          The clouds and fowls of the air thy way pursue!
                                                              1806.

The River Duddon
A Series Of Sonnets, 1820.
XV


          FROM this deep chasm, where quivering sunbeams play
          Upon its loftiest crags, mine eyes behold
          A gloomy NICHE, capacious, blank, and cold;
          A concave free from shrubs and mosses grey;
          In semblance fresh, as if, with dire affray,
          Some Statue, placed amid these regions old
          For tutelary service, thence had rolled,
          Startling the flight of timid Yesterday!
          Was it by mortals sculptured?--weary slaves
          Of slow endeavour! or abruptly cast                         10
          Into rude shape by fire, with roaring blast
          Tempestuously let loose from central caves?
          Or fashioned by the turbulence of waves,
          Then, when o'er highest hills the Deluge passed?

The River Duddon
A Series Of Sonnets, 1820.
XVI. American Tradition


          SUCH fruitless questions may not long beguile
          Or plague the fancy 'mid the sculptured shows
          Conspicuous yet where Oroonoko flows;
          'There' would the Indian answer with a smile
          Aimed at the White Man's ignorance, the while,
          Of the GREAT WATERS telling how they rose,
          Covered the plains, and, wandering where they chose,
          Mounted through every intricate defile,
          Triumphant--Inundation wide and deep,
          O'er which his Fathers urged, to ridge and steep            10
          Else unapproachable, their buoyant way;
          And carved, on mural cliff's undreaded side,
          Sun, moon, and stars, and beast of chase or prey;
          Whate'er they sought, shunned, loved, or deified!

The River Duddon
A Series Of Sonnets, 1820.
XVII. Return

          A DARK plume fetch me from yon blasted yew,
          Perched on whose top the Danish Raven croaks;
          Aloft, the imperial Bird of Rome invokes
          Departed ages, shedding where he flew
          Loose fragments of wild wailing, that bestrew
          The clouds and thrill the chambers of the rocks;
          And into silence hush the timorous flocks,
          That, calmly couching while the nightly dew
          Moistened each fleece, beneath the twinkling stars
          Slept amid that lone Camp on Hardknot's height,             10
          Whose Guardians bent the knee to Jove and Mars:
          Or, near that mystic Round of Druid frame
          Tardily sinking by its proper weight
          Deep into patient Earth, from whose smooth breast it came!
 

The River Duddon
A Series Of Sonnets, 1820.
XVIII. Seathwaite Chapel


          SACRED Religion! "mother of form and fear,"
          Dread arbitress of mutable respect,
          New rites ordaining when the old are wrecked,
          Or cease to please the fickle worshipper;
          Mother of Love! (that name best suits thee here)
          Mother of Love! for this deep vale, protect
          Truth's holy lamp, pure source of bright effect,
          Gifted to purge the vapoury atmosphere
          That seeks to stifle it;--as in those days
          When this low Pile a Gospel Teacher knew,                   10
          Whose good works formed an endless retinue:
          A Pastor such as Chaucer's verse portrays;
          Such as the heaven-taught skill of Herbert drew;
          And tender Goldsmith crowned with deathless praise!

The River Duddon
A Series Of Sonnets, 1820.
XIX. Tributary Stream


          MY frame hath often trembled with delight
          When hope presented some far-distant good,
          That seemed from heaven descending, like the flood
          Of yon pure waters, from their aery height
          Hurrying, with lordly Duddon to unite;
          Who, 'mid a world of images imprest
          On the calm depth of his transparent breast,
          Appears to cherish most that Torrent white,
          The fairest, softest, liveliest of them all!
          And seldom hath ear listened to a tune                      10
          More lulling than the busy hum of Noon,
          Swoln by that voice--whose murmur musical
          Announces to the thirsty fields a boon
          Dewy and fresh, till showers again shall fall.