NEAR DOVER, SEPTEMBER 1802

          Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood;
          And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear,
          The coast of France--the coast of France how near!
          Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood.
          I shrunk; for verily the barrier flood
          Was like a lake, or river bright and fair,
          A span of waters; yet what power is there!
          What mightiness for evil and for good!
          Even so doth God protect us if we be
          Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and waters roll,             10
          Strength to the brave, and Power, and Deity;
          Yet in themselves are nothing! One decree
          Spake laws to 'them', and said that by the soul
          Only, the Nations shall be great and free.

WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER 1802

          O friend! I know not which way I must look
          For comfort, being, as I am, opprest,
          To think that now our life is only drest
          For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook,
          Or groom!--We must run glittering like a brook
          In the open sunshine, or we are unblest:
          The wealthiest man among us is the best:
          No grandeur now in nature or in book
          Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
          This is idolatry; and these we adore:                       10
          Plain living and high thinking are no more:
          The homely beauty of the good old cause
          Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,
          And pure religion breathing household laws.

LONDON, 1802

          Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour:
          England hath need of thee: she is a fen
          Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
          Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
          Have forfeited their ancient English dower
          Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
          Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
          And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
          Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
          Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:            10
          Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
          So didst thou travel on life's common way,
          In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
          The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

"GREAT MEN HAVE BEEN AMONG US"

          Great men have been among us; hands that penned
          And tongues that uttered wisdom--better none:
          The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington,
          Young Vane, and others who called Milton friend.
          These moralists could act and comprehend:
          They knew how genuine glory was put on;
          Taught us how rightfully nation shone
          In splendour: what strength was, that would not bend
          But in magnanimous meekness. France, 'tis strange,
          Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then.            10
          Perpetual emptiness! unceasing change!
          No single volume paramount, no code,
          No master spirit, no determined road;
          But equally a want of books and men!

"IT IS NOT TO BE THOUGHT OF"

          It is not to be thought of that the Flood
          Of British freedom, which, to the open sea
          Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity
          Hath flowed, "with pomp of waters, unwithstood,"
          Roused though it be full often to a mood
          Which spurns the check of salutary bands,
          That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands
          Should perish; and to evil and to good
          Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung
          Armoury of the invincible Knights of old:                   10
          We must be free or die, who speak the tongue
          That Shakspeare spake; the faith and morals hold
          Which Milton held.--In everything we are sprung
          Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold.

"WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN MEMORY"

          When I have borne in memory what has tamed
          Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart
          When men change swords for ledgers, and desert
          The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed
          I had, my Country!--am I to be blamed?
          Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,
          Verily, in the bottom of my heart,
          Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.
          For dearly must we prize thee; we who find
          In thee a bulwark for the cause of men:                     10
          And I by my affection was beguiled:
          What wonder if a Poet now and then,
          Among the many movements of his mind,
          Felt for thee as a lover or a child!

COMPOSED AFTER A JOURNEY ACROSS THE HAMBLETON HILLS, YORKSHIRE

          Dark and more dark the shades of evening fell;
          The wished-for point was reached--but at an hour
          When little could be gained from that rich dower
          Of prospect, whereof many thousands tell.
          Yet did the glowing west with marvellous power
          Salute us; there stood Indian citadel,
          Temple of Greece, and minster with its tower
          Substantially expressed--a place for bell
          Or clock to toll from! Many a tempting isle,
          With groves that never were imagined, lay                   10
          'Mid seas how steadfast! objects all for the eye
          Of silent rapture; but we felt the while
          We should forget them; they are of the sky,
          And from our earthly memory fade away.

STANZAS
WRITTEN IN MY POCKET-COPY OF THOMSON'S "CASTLE OF INDOLENCE"

          Within our happy Castle there dwelt One
          Whom without blame I may not overlook;
          For never sun on living creature shone
          Who more devout enjoyment with us took:
          Here on his hours he hung as on a book,
          On his own time here would he float away,
          As doth a fly upon a summer brook;
          But go to-morrow, or belike to-day,
          Seek for him,--he is fled; and whither none can say.

          Thus often would he leave our peaceful home,                10
          And find elsewhere his business or delight;
          Out of our Valley's limits did he roam:
          Full many a time, upon a stormy night,
          His voice came to us from the neighbouring height:
          Oft could we see him driving full in view
          At mid-day when the sun was shining bright;
          What ill was on him, what he had to do,
          A mighty wonder bred among our quiet crew.

          Ah! piteous sight it was to see this Man
          When he came back to us, a withered flower,--               20
          Or like a sinful creature, pale and wan.
          Down would he sit; and without strength or power
          Look at the common grass from hour to hour:
          And oftentimes, how long I fear to say,
          Where apple-trees in blossom made a bower,
          Retired in that sunshiny shade he lay;
          And, like a naked Indian, slept himself away.

          Great wonder to our gentle tribe it was
          Whenever from our Valley he withdrew;
          For happier soul no living creature has                     30
          Than he had, being here the long day through.
          Some thought he was a lover, and did woo:
          Some thought far worse of him, and judged him wrong;
          But verse was what he had been wedded to;
          And his own mind did like a tempest strong
          Come to him thus, and drove the weary Wight along.

          With him there often walked in friendly guise,
          Or lay upon the moss by brook or tree,
          A noticeable Man with large gray eyes,
          And a pale face that seemed undoubtedly                     40
          As if a blooming face it ought to be;
          Heavy his low-hung lip did oft appear,
          Deprest by weight of musing Phantasy;
          Profound his forehead was, though not severe;
          Yet some did think that he had little business here:

          Sweet heaven forfend! his was a lawful right;
          Noisy he was, and gamesome as a boy;
          His limbs would toss about him with delight
          Like branches when strong winds the trees annoy.
          Nor lacked his calmer hours device or toy                   50
          To banish listlessness and irksome care;
          He would have taught you how you might employ
          Yourself; and many did to him repair,--
          And certes not in vain; he had inventions rare.

          Expedients, too, of simplest sort he tried:
          Long blades of grass, plucked round him as he lay,
          Made, to his ear attentively applied,
          A pipe on which the wind would deftly play;
          Glasses he had, that little things display,
          The beetle panoplied in gems and gold,                      60
          A mailed angel on a battle-day;
          The mysteries that cups of flowers enfold,
          And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.

          He would entice that other Man to hear
          His music, and to view his imagery:
          And, sooth, these two were each to the other dear:
          No livelier love in such a place could be:
          There did they dwell--from earthly labour free,
          As happy spirits as were ever seen;
          If but a bird, to keep them company,                        70
          Or butterfly sate down, they were, I ween,
          As pleased as if the same had been a Maiden-queen.
                                                              1802.

TO H. C.
SIX YEARS OLD

          O thou! whose fancies from afar are brought;
          Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel,
          And fittest to unutterable thought
          The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol;
          Thou faery voyager! that dost float
          In such clear water, that thy boat
          May rather seem
          To brood on air than on an earthly stream;
          Suspended in a stream as clear as sky,
          Where earth and heaven do make one imagery;                 10
          O blessed vision! happy child!
          Thou art so exquisitely wild,
          I think of thee with many fears
          For what may be thy lot in future years.
            I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest,
          Lord of thy house and hospitality;
          And Grief, uneasy lover! never rest
          But when she sate within the touch of thee.
          O too industrious folly!
          O vain and causeless melancholy!                            20
          Nature will either end thee quite;
          Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,
          Preserve for thee, by individual right,
          A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks.
          What hast thou to do with sorrow,
          Or the injuries of to-morrow?
          Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth,
          Ill fitted to sustain unkindly shocks,
          Or to be trailed along the soiling earth;
          A gem that glitters while it lives,                         30
          And no forewarning gives;
          But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife
          Slips in a moment out of life.
                                                              1802.

TO THE DAISY

              "Her divine skill taught me this,
              That from every thing I saw
              I could some instruction draw,
              And raise pleasure to the height
              Through the meanest objects sight.
              By the murmur of a spring,
              Or the least bough's rustelling;
              By a Daisy whose leaves spread
              Shut when Titan goes to bed;
              Or a shady bush or tree;
              She could more infuse in me
              Than all Nature's beauties can
              In some other wiser man.'
                                                  G. Wither.

          IN youth from rock to rock I went,
          From hill to hill in discontent
          Of pleasure high and turbulent,
              Most pleased when most uneasy;
          But now my own delights I make,--
          My thirst at every rill can slake,
          And gladly Nature's love partake,
              Of Thee, sweet Daisy!

          Thee Winter in the garland wears
          That thinly decks his few grey hairs;                       10
          Spring parts the clouds with softest airs,
              That she may sun thee;
          Whole Summer-fields are thine by right;
          And Autumn, melancholy Wight!
          Doth in thy crimson head delight
              When rains are on thee.

          In shoals and bands, a morrice train,
          Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane;
          Pleased at his greeting thee again;
              Yet nothing daunted,                                    20
          Nor grieved if thou be set at nought:
          And oft alone in nooks remote
          We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,
              When such are wanted.

          Be violets in their secret mews
          The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose;
          Proud be the rose, with rains and dews
              Her head impearling,
          Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim,
          Yet hast not gone without thy fame;                         30
          Thou art indeed by many a claim
              The Poet's darling.

          If to a rock from rains he fly,
          Or, some bright day of April sky,
          Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie
              Near the green holly,
          And wearily at length should fare;
          He needs but look about, and there
          Thou art!--a friend at hand, to scare
              His melancholy.                                         40

          A hundred times, by rock or bower,
          Ere thus I have lain couched an hour,
          Have I derived from thy sweet power
              Some apprehension;
          Some steady love; some brief delight;
          Some memory that had taken flight;
          Some chime of fancy wrong or right;
              Or stray invention.

          If stately passions in me burn,
          And one chance look to Thee should turn,                    50
          I drink out of an humbler urn
              A lowlier pleasure;
          The homely sympathy that heeds
          The common life, our nature breeds;
          A wisdom fitted to the needs
              Of hearts at leisure.

          Fresh-smitten by the morning ray,
          When thou art up, alert and gay,
          Then, cheerful Flower! my spirits play
              With kindred gladness:                                  60
          And when, at dusk, by dews opprest
          Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest
          Hath often eased my pensive breast
              Of careful sadness.

          And all day long I number yet,
          All seasons through, another debt,
          Which I, wherever thou art met,
              To thee am owing;
          An instinct call it, a blind sense;
          A happy, genial influence,                                  70
          Coming one knows not how, nor whence,
              Nor whither going.

          Child of the Year! that round dost run
          Thy pleasant course,--when day's begun
          As ready to salute the sun
              As lark or leveret,
          Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain;
          Nor be less dear to future men
          Than in old time;--thou not in vain
              Art Nature's favourite.                                 80
                                                              1802.