POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES
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 out walk
          Along the public way, this Peak, 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 favourite haunt:
          The star of Jove, so beautiful and large                    10
          In the mid heavens, 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 loved
          With such communion, that no place on earth
          Can ever be a solitude to me,
          Hath to this lonely Summit given my Name.
                                                              1800.

POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES
IV

          A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags,
          A rude and natural causeway, interposed
          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,
          Sauntered on this retired and difficult way.
          ----Ill suits the road with one in haste; but we            10
          Played with our time; and, as we strolled along,
          It was our occupation to observe
          Such objects as the waves had tossed ashore--
          Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough,
          Each on the other heaped, 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,
          That skimmed the surface of the dead calm lake,
          Suddenly halting now--a lifeless stand!                     20
          And starting off again with freak as sudden;
          In all its sportive wanderings, all the while,
          Making report of an invisible breeze
          That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse,
          Its playmate, rather say, its moving soul.
          --And often, trifling with a privilege
          Alike indulged to all, we paused, 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                         30
          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 fern,
          So stately, of the queen Osmunda named;
          Plant lovelier, in its own retired abode
          On Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by the side
          Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere,
          Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
          --So fared we that bright morning: from the fields
          Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth                40
          Of reapers, men and women, boys and girls.
          Delighted much to listen to those sounds,
          And feeding thus our fancies, we advanced
          Along the indented shore; when suddenly,
          Through a thin veil of glittering haze was seen
          Before us, on a point of jutting land,
          The tall and upright figure of a Man
          Attired in peasant's garb, who stood alone,
          Angling beside the margin of the lake.
          "Improvident and reckless," we exclaimed,                   50
          "The Man must be, who thus can lose a day
          Of the mid harvest, when the labourer's hire
          Is ample, and some little might be stored
          Wherewith to cheer him in the winter time."
          Thus talking of that Peasant, we approached
          Close to the spot where with his rod and line
          He stood alone; whereat he turned his head
          To greet us--and we saw a Mam worn down
          By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks
          And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean                 60
          That for my single self I looked at them,
          Forgetful of the body they sustained.--
          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 changed
          To serious musing and to self-reproach.                     70
          Nor did we fail to see within ourselves
          What need there is to be reserved in speech,
          And temper all our thoughts with charity.
          --Therefore, unwilling to forget that day,
          My Friend, Myself, and She who then received
          The same admonishment, have called the place
          By a memorial name, uncouth indeed
          As e'er by mariner was given to bay
          Or foreland, on a new-discovered coast;
          And POINT RASH-JUDGMENT is the name it bears.               80
                                                              1800.

POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES
V. TO M. H.

          Our walk was far among the ancient trees:
          There was no road, nor any woodman's path;
          But a thick umbrage--checking the wild growth
          Of weed and sapling, along soft green turf
          Beneath the branches--of itself had made
          A track, that 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-basin which the herdsman's hand               10
          Had shaped 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,                   20
          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!
                                                              1800.

THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE

                                   I

          "Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf,"
          Exclaimed an angry Voice,
          "Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self
          Between me and my choice!"
          A small Cascade fresh swoln with snows
          Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose,
          That, all bespattered with his foam,
          And dancing high and dancing low,
          Was living, as a child might know,
          In an unhappy home.

                                   II

          "Dost thou presume my course to block?
          Off, off! or, puny Thing!
          I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock
          To which thy fibres cling."
          The Flood was tyrannous and strong;
          The patient Briar suffered long,
          Nor did he utter groan or sigh,
          Hoping the danger would be past;
          But, seeing no relief, at last,
          He ventured to reply.

                                  III

          "Ah!" said the Briar, "blame me not;
          Why should we dwell in strife?
          We who in this sequestered spot
          Once lived a happy life!
          You stirred me on my rocky bed--
          What pleasure through my veins you spread
          The summer long, from day to day,
          My leaves you freshened and bedewed;
          Nor was it common gratitude
          That did your cares repay.

                                   IV

          "When spring came on with bud and bell,
          Among these rocks did I
          Before you hang my wreaths to tell
          That gentle days were nigh!
          And in the sultry summer hours,
          I sheltered you with leaves and flowers;
          And in my leaves--now shed and gone,
          The linnet lodged, and for us two
          Chanted his pretty songs, when you
          Had little voice or none.

                                   V

          "But now proud thoughts are in your breast--
          What grief is mine you see,
          Ah! would you think, even yet how blest
          Together we might be!
          Though of both leaf and flower bereft,
          Some ornaments to me are left--
          Rich store of scarlet hips is mine,
          With which I, in my humble way,
          Would deck you many a winter day,
          A happy Eglantine!"

                                   VI

          What more he said I cannot tell,
          The Torrent down the rocky dell
          Came thundering loud and fast;
          I listened, nor aught else could hear;
          The Briar quaked--and much I fear
          Those accents were his last.
                                                              1800.

THE OAK AND THE BROOM
A PASTORAL

                                   I

          His simple truths did Andrew glean
          Beside the babbling rills;
          A careful student he had been
          Among the woods and hills.
          One winter's night, when through the trees
          The wind was roaring, on his knees
          His youngest born did Andrew hold:
          And while the rest, a ruddy quire,
          Were seated round their blazing fire,
          This Tale the Shepherd told.

                                   II

          "I saw a crag, a lofty stone
          As ever tempest beat!
          Out of its head an Oak had grown,
          A Broom out of its feet.
          The time was March, a cheerful noon--
          The thaw-wind, with the breath of June,
          Breathed gently from the warm south-west:
          When, in a voice sedate with age,
          This Oak, a giant and a sage,
          His neighbour thus addressed:--

                                  III

          "'Eight weary weeks, through rock and clay,
          Along this mountain's edge,
          The Frost hath wrought both night and day,
          Wedge driving after wedge.
          Look up! and think, above your head
          What trouble, surely, will be bred;
          Last night I heard a crash--'tis true,
          The splinters took another road--
          I see them yonder--what a load
          For such a Thing as you!

                                   IV

          "'You are preparing as before,
          To deck your slender shape;
          And yet, just three years back--no more--
          You had a strange escape:
          Down from yon cliff a fragment broke;
          It thundered down, with fire and smoke,
          And hitherward pursued its way;
          This ponderous block was caught by me,
          And o'er your head, as you may see,
          'Tis hanging to this day!

                                   V

          "'If breeze or bird to this rough steep
          Your kind's first seed did bear;
          The breeze had better been asleep,
          The bird caught in a snare:
          For you and your green twigs decoy
          The little witless shepherd-boy
          To come and slumber in your bower;
          And, trust me, on some sultry noon,
          Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon!
          Will perish in one hour.

                                   VI

          "'From me this friendly warning take'--
          The Broom began to doze,
          And thus, to keep herself awake,
          Did gently interpose:
          'My thanks for your discourse are due;
          That more than what you say is true,
          I know, and I have known it long;
          Frail is the bond by which we hold
          Our being, whether young or old,
          Wise, foolish, weak, or strong.

                                  VII

          "'Disasters, do the best we can,
          Will reach both great and small;
          And he is oft the wisest man,
          Who is not wise at all.
          For me, why should I wish to roam?
          This spot is my paternal home,
          It is my pleasant heritage;
          My father many a happy year,
          Spread here his careless blossoms, here
          Attained a good old age.

                                  VIII

          "'Even such as his may be my lot.
          What cause have I to haunt
          My heart with terrors? Am I not
          In truth a favoured plant!
          On me such bounty Summer pours,
          That I am covered o'er with flowers;
          And, when the Frost is in the sky,
          My branches are so fresh and gay
          That you might look at me and say,
          This Plant can never die.

                                   IX

          "'The butterfly, all green and gold,
          To me hath often flown,
          Here in my blossoms to behold
          Wings lovely as his own.
          When grass is chill with rain or dew,
          Beneath my shade, the mother-ewe
          Lies with her infant lamb; I see
          The love they to each other make,
          And the sweet joy which they partake,
          It is a joy to me.'

                                   X

          "Her voice was blithe, her heart was light;
          The Broom might have pursued
          Her speech, until the stars of night
          Their journey had renewed;
          But in the branches of the oak
          Two ravens now began to croak
          Their nuptial song, a gladsome air;
          And to her own green bower the breeze
          That instant brought two stripling bees
          To rest, or murmur there.

                                   XI

          "One night, my Children! from the north
          There came a furious blast;
          At break of day I ventured forth,
          And near the cliff I passed.
          The storm had fallen upon the Oak,
          And struck him with a mighty stroke,
          And whirled, and whirled him far away;
          And, in one hospitable cleft,
          The little careless Broom was left
          To live for many a day."
                                                              1800.

HART-LEAP WELL

          The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor
          With the slow motion of a summer's cloud,
          And now, as he approached a vassal's door,
          "Bring forth another horse!" he cried aloud.

          "Another horse!"--That shout the vassal heard
          And saddled his best Steed, a comely grey;
          Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third
          Which he had mounted on that glorious day.

          Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes;
          The horse and horseman are a happy pair;                    10
          But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies,
          There is a doleful silence in the air.

          A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall,
          That as they galloped made the echoes roar;
          But horse and man are vanished, one and all;
          Such race, I think, was never seen before.

          Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,
          Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain:
          Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind,
          Follow, and up the weary mountain strain.                   20

          The Knight hallooed, he cheered and chid them on
          With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern;
          But breath and eyesight fail; and, one by one,
          The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern.

          Where is the throng, the tumult of the race?
          The bugles that so joyfully were blown?
          --This chase it looks not like an earthly chase;
          Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone.

          The poor Hart toils along the mountainside;
          I will not stop to tell how far he fled,                    30
          Nor will I mention by what death he died;
          But now the Knight beholds him lying dead.

          Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn;
          He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy:
          He neither cracked his whip, nor blew his horn,
          But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.

          Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned,
          Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat;
          Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned;
          And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet.              40

          Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched:
          His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill,
          And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched
          The waters of the spring were trembling still.

          And now, too happy for repose or rest,
          (Never had living man such joyful lot!)
          Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west,
          And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot.

          And climbing up the hill--(it was at least
          Four roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found                50
          Three several hoof-marks which the hunted Beast
          Had left imprinted on the grassy ground.

          Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, "Till now
          Such sight was never seen by human eyes:
          Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow,
          Down to the very fountain where he lies.

          "I'll build a pleasure-house upon this spot,
          And a small arbour, made for rural joy;
          'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot,
          A place of love for damsels that are coy.                   60

          "A cunning artist will I have to frame
          A basin for that fountain in the dell!
          And they who do make mention of the same,
          From this day forth, shall call it HART-LEAP WELL.

          "And, gallant Stag! to make thy praises known,
          Another monument shall here be raised;
          Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn stone,
          And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed.

          "And, in the summer-time when days are long,
          I will come hither with my Paramour;                        70
          And with the dancers and the minstrel's song
          We will make merry in that pleasant bower.

          "Till the foundations of the mountains fail
          My mansion with its arbour shall endure;--
          The joy of them who till the fields of Swale,
          And them who dwell among the woods of Ure!"

          Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead,
          With breathless nostrils stretched above the spring.
          --Soon did the Knight perform what he had said;
          And far and wide the fame thereof did ring.                 80

          Ere thrice the Moon into her port had steered,
          A cup of stone received the living well;
          Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared,
          And built a house of pleasure in the dell.

          And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall
          With trailing plants and trees were intertwined,--
          Which soon composed a little sylvan hall,
          A leafy shelter from the sun and wind.

          And thither, when the summer days were long,
          Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour;                      90
          And with the dancers and the minstrel's song
          Made merriment within that pleasant bower.

          The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time,
          And his bones lie in his paternal vale.--
          But there is matter for a second rhyme,
          And I to this would add another tale.

                              PART SECOND

          THE moving accident is not my trade;
          To freeze the blood I have no ready arts:
          'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade,
          To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.                 100

          As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair,
          It chanced that I saw standing in a dell
          Three aspens at three corners of a square;
          And one, not four yards distant, near a well.

          What this imported I could ill divine:
          And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop,
          I saw three pillars standing in a line,--
          The last stone-pillar on a dark hill-top.

          The trees were grey, with neither arms nor head;
          Half wasted the square mound of tawny green;               120
          So that you just might say, as then I said,
          "Here in old time the hand of man hath been."

          I looked upon the hill both far and near,
          More doleful place did never eye survey;
          It seemed as if the spring-time came not here,
          And Nature here were willing to decay.

          I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost,
          When one, who was in shepherd's garb attired,
          Came up the hollow:--him did I accost,
          And what this place might be I then inquired.              130

          The Shepherd stopped, and that same story told
          Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed.
          "A jolly place," said he, "in times of old!
          But something ails it now: the spot is curst.

          "You see these lifeless stumps of aspen wood--
          Some say that they are beeches, others elms--
          These were the bower; and here a mansion stood,
          The finest palace of a hundred realms!

          "The arbour does its own condition tell;
          You see the stones, the fountain, and the stream;          140
          But as to the great Lodge! you might as well
          Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.

          "There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep,
          Will wet his lips within that cup of stone;
          And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep,
          This water doth send forth a dolorous groan.

          "Some say that here a murder has been done,
          And blood cries out for blood: but, for my part,
          I've guessed, when I've been sitting in the sun,
          That it was all for that unhappy Hart.                     150

          "What thoughts must through the creature's brain have past!
          Even from the topmost stone, upon the steep,
          Are but three bounds--and look, Sir, at this last--
          O Master! it has been a cruel leap.

          "For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race;
          And in my simple mind we cannot tell
          What cause the Hart might have to love this place,
          And come and make his deathbed near the well.

          "Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank,
          Lulled by the fountain in the summer-tide;                 160
          This water was perhaps the first he drank
          When he had wandered from his mother's side.

          "In April here beneath the flowering thorn
          He heard the birds their morning carols sing;
          And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born
          Not half a furlong from that self-same spring.

          "Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade;
          The sun on drearier hollow never shone;
          So will it be, as I have often said,
          Till trees, and stones, and fountain, all are gone."       170

          "Grey-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well;
          Small difference lies between thy creed and mine:
          This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell;
          His death was mourned by sympathy divine.

          "The Being, that is in the clouds and air,
          That is in the green leaves among the groves,
          Maintains a deep and reverential care
          For the unoffending creatures whom he loves.

          "The pleasure-house is dust:--behind, before,
          This is no common waste, no common gloom;                  180
          But Nature, in due course of time, once more
          Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom.

          "She leaves these objects to a slow decay,
          That what we are, and have been, may be known;
          But at the coming of the milder day,
          These monuments shall all be overgrown.

          "One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,
          Taught both by what she shows, and what conceals;
          Never to blend our pleasure or our pride
          With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels."              190
                                                              1800.

"'TIS SAID, THAT SOME HAVE DIED FOR LOVE"

          'Tis said, that some have died for love:
          And here and there a churchyard grave is found
          In the cold north's unhallowed ground,
          Because the wretched man himself had slain,
          His love was such a grievous pain.
          And there is one whom I five years have known;
          He dwells alone
          Upon Helvellyn's side:
          He loved--the pretty Barbara died;
          And thus he makes his moan:                                 10
          Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid
          When thus his moan he made:

          "Oh, move, thou Cottage, from behind that oak!
          Or let the aged tree uprooted lie,
          That in some other way yon smoke
          May mount into the sky!
          The clouds pass on; they from the heavens depart.
          I look--the sky is empty space;
          I know not what I trace;
          But when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart.           20

          "Oh! what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves,
          That murmur once so dear, when will it cease?
          Your sound my heart of rest bereaves,
          It robs my heart of peace.
          Thou Thrush, that singest loud--and loud and free,
          Into yon row of willows flit,
          Upon that alder sit;
          Or sing another song, or choose another tree.

          "Roll back, sweet Rill! back to thy mountain-bounds,
          And there for ever be thy waters chained!                   30
          For thou dost haunt the air with sounds
          That cannot be sustained;
          If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough
          Headlong yon waterfall must come,
          Oh let it then be dumb!
          Be anything, sweet Rill, but that which thou art now.

          "Thou Eglantine, so bright with sunny showers,
          Proud as a rainbow spanning half the vale,
          Thou one fair shrub, oh! shed thy flowers,
          And stir not in the gale.                                   40
          For thus to see thee nodding in the air,
          To see thy arch thus stretch and bend,
          Thus rise and thus descend,--
          Disturbs me till the sight is more than I can dear."

          The Man who makes this feverish complaint
          Is one of giant stature, who could dance
          Equipped from head to foot in iron mail.
          Ah gentle Love! if ever thought was thine
          To store up kindred hours for me, thy face
          Turn from me, gentle Love! nor let me walk                  50
          Within the sound of Emma's voice, nor know
          Such happiness as I have known to-day.
                                                              1800.

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 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.

      Fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six months before,
      Filled the funeral basin at Timothy's door;                     10
      A coffin through Timothy's threshold had past;
      One Child did it bear, and that Child was his last.

      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.              20
                                                              1800.

SONG
FOR THE WANDERING JEW

          Though the torrents from their fountains
          Roar down many a craggy steep,
          Yet they find among the mountains
          Resting-places calm and deep.

          Clouds that love through air to hasten,
          Ere the storm its fury stills,
          Helmet-like themselves will fasten
          On the heads of towering hills.

          What, if through the frozen centre
          Of the Alps the Chamois bound,                              10
          Yet he has a home to enter
          In some nook of chosen ground:

          And the Sea-horse, though the ocean
          Yield him no domestic cave,
          Slumbers without sense of motion,
          Couched upon the rocking wave.

          If on windy days the Raven
          Gambol like a dancing skiff,
          Not the less she loves her haven
          In the bosom of the cliff.                                  20

          The fleet Ostrich, till day closes,
          Vagrant over desert sands,
          Brooding on her eggs reposes
          When chill night that care demands.

          Day and night my toils redouble,
          Never nearer to the goal;
          Night and day, I feel the trouble
          Of the Wanderer in my soul.
                                                              1800.

RURAL ARCHITECTURE

      There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore,
      Three rosy-cheeked 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 gathered up as they lay:
      They built him and christened him all in one day,
      An urchin both vigorous and hale;
      And so without scruple they called him Ralph Jones.             10
      Now Ralph is renowned 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
      By Christian disturbers more savage than Turks,                 20
      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 giant with you.
                                                              1801.