rrows past: And to the attendant promise will give heed - The prophecy, - like that of this wild blast, Which, while it makes the heart with sadness shrink, Tells also of bright calms that shall succeed. x x x ; , , - , . : - , , . , ; , , , , . THE FRENCH AND THE SPANISH GUERILLAS Hunger, and sultry heat, and nipping blast From bleak hill-top, and length of march by night Through heavy swamp, or over snow-clad height - These hardships ill-sustained, these dangers past, The roving Spanish Bands are reached at last, Charged, and dispersed like foam: but as a flight Of scattered quails by signs do reunite, So these, - and, heard of once again, are chased With combinations of long-practised art And newly-kindled hope; but they are fled - Gone are they, viewless as the buried dead: Where now? - Their sword is at the Foeman's heart; And thus from year to year his walk they thwart, And hang like dreams around his guilty bed.   , , , , , , , , , , , , - , , , , - ! , , , - , . ? ! . x x x "Weak is the will of Man, his judgement blind; Remembrance persecutes, and Hope betrays; Heavy is woe;-and joy, for human-kind, A mournful thing so transient is the blaze!" Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days Who wants the glorious faculty assigned To elevate the more-than-reasoning Mind, And colour life's dark cloud with orient rays. Imagination is that sacred power, Imagination lofty and refined: 'Tis hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of Faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind. x x x " ; , !" - , , . - , , , - , . x x x Surprised by joy-impatient as the Wind I turned to share the transport - Oh! with whom But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb, That spot which no vicissitude can find? Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind - But how could I forget thee? Through what power, Even for the least division of an hour, Have I been so beguiled as to be blind To my most grievous loss! - That thought's return Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more; That neither present time, nor years unborn Could to my sight that heavenly face restore. x x x , , - , ? - , , . ! ... , , ? ? , - , , , , , . SEPTEMBER 1815 While not a leaf seems faded; while the fields, With ripening harvest prodigally fair, In brightest sunshine bask; this nipping air, Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields His icy scimitar, a foretaste yields Of bitter change, and bids the flowers beware; And whispers to the silent birds, "Prepare Against the threatening foe your trustiest shields." For me, who under kindlier laws belong To Nature's tuneful quire, this rustling dry Through leaves yet green, and yon crystalline sky, Announce a season potent to renew, 'Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song, And nobler cares than listless summer knew.   While not a leaf seems faded. , , , , , , , , . : , ! , , , , , , , , . x x x Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour! Not dull art Thou as undiscerning Night; But studious only to remove from sight Day's mutable distinctions. - Ancient Power! Thus did the waters gleam, the mountains lower, To the rude Briton, when, in wolf-skin vest Here roving wild, he laid him down to rest On the bare rock, or through a leafy bower Looked ere his eyes were closed. By him was seen The self-same Vision which we now behold, At thy meek bidding, shadowy Power! brought forth; These mighty barriers, and the gulf between; The flood, the stars, - a spectacle as old As the beginning of the heavens and earth! x x x , ! , , , , . - ! , , , ? , , ? - , : , , - , . From the Prologue to "Peter Bell" " " x x x There's something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon; But through the clouds I'll never float Until I have a little Boat, Shaped like the crescent-moon. And now I _have_ a little Boat, In shape a very crescent-moon Fast through the clouds my boat can sail; But if perchance your faith should fail, Look up - and you shall see me soon! The woods, my Friends, are round you roaring, Rocking and roaring like a sea; The noise of danger's in your ears, And ye have all a thousand fears Both for my little Boat and me! Meanwhile untroubled I admire The pointed horns of my canoe; And, did not pity touch my breast, To see how ye are all distrest, Till my ribs ached, I'd laugh at you! Away we go, my Boat and I - Frail man ne'er sate in such another; Whether among the winds we strive, Or deep into the clouds we dive, Each is contented with the other. Away we go - and what care we For treasons, tumults, and for wars? We are as calm in our delight As is the crescent-moon so bright Among the scattered stars. Up goes my Boat among the stars Through many a breathless field of light, Through many a long blue field of ether, Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her: Up goes my little Boat so bright! The Crab, the Scorpion, and the Bull - We pry among them all; have shot High o'er the red-haired race of Mars, Covered from top to toe with scars; Such company I like it not! The towns in Saturn are decayed, And melancholy Spectres throng them; - The Pleiads, that appear to kiss Each other in the vast abyss, With joy I sail among them. Swift Mercury resounds with mirth, Great Jove is full of stately bowers; But these, and all that they contain, What are they to that tiny grain, That little Earth of ours? Then back to Earth, the dear green Earth: - Whole ages if I here should roam, The world for my remarks and me Would not a whit the better be; I've left my heart at home. See! there she is, the matchless Earth! There spreads the famed Pacific Ocean! Old Andes thrusts yon craggy spear Through the grey clouds; the Alps are here, Like waters in commotion! Yon tawny slip is Libya's sands; That silver thread the river Dnieper! And look, where clothed in brightest green Is a sweet Isle, of isles the Queen; Ye fairies, from all evil keep her! x x x , , , , . , , , , . ! , , , , , , . , , , , , , , . , . , , , . . , , ? , . , . , , . . . , . , , - . , , , . . . . , - ? ! ! , , . . ! , - . , , . , , . From "The River Duddon, A Series of Sonnets... and Other Poems" " " THE RIVER DUDDON x x x Not envying Latian shades - if yet they throw A grateful coolness round that crystal Spring, Blandusia, prattling as when long ago The Sabine Bard was moved her praise to sing; Careless of flowers that in perennial blow Round the moist marge of Persian fountains cling; Heedless of Alpine torrents thundering Through ice-built arches radiant as heaven's bow; I seek the birthplace of a native Stream. - All hail, ye mountains! hail, thou morning light! Better to breathe at large on this clear height Than toil in needless sleep from dream to dream: Pure flow the verse, pure, vigorous, free, and bright, For Duddon, long-loved Duddon, is my theme!   x x x , , , . , , . , , . , - , . x x x Child of the clouds! remote from every taint Of sordid industry thy lot is cast; Thine are the honours of the lofty waste Not seldom, when with heat the valleys faint, Thy handmaid Frost with spangled tissue quaint Thy cradle decks;-to chant thy birth, thou hast No meaner Poet than the whistling Blast, And Desolation is thy Patron-saint! She guards thee, ruthless Power! who would not spare Those mighty forests, once the bison's screen, Where stalked the huge deer to his shaggy lair Through paths and alleys roofed with darkest green; Thousands of years before the silent air Was pierced by whizzing shaft of hunter keen! x x x ! , , . . - , , . , , . x x x How shall I paint thee? - Be this naked stone My seat, while I give way to such intent; Pleased could my verse, a speaking monument, Make to the eyes of men thy features known. But as of all those tripping lambs not one Outruns his fellows, so hath Nature lent To thy beginning nought that doth present Peculiar ground for hope to build upon. To dignity the spot that gives thee birth No sign of hoar Antiquity's esteem Appears, and none of modern Fortune's care; Yet thou thyself hast round thee shed a gleam Of brilliant moss, instinct with freshness rare; Prompt offering to thy Foster-mother, Earth!   ? - , : . , , , . - , - . , , - . THE PLAIN OF DONNERDALE The old inventive Poets, had they seen, Or rather felt, the entrancement that detains Thy waters, Duddon! 'mid these flowery plains - The still repose, the liquid lapse serene, Transferred to bowers imperishably green, Had beautified Elysium! But these chains Will soon be broken;-a rough course remains, Rough as the past; where Thou, of placid mien, Innocuous as a firstling of the flock, And countenanced like a soft cerulean sky, Shalt change thy temper; and, with many a shock Given and received in mutual jeopardy, Dance, like a Bacchanal, from rock to rock, Tossing her frantic thyrsus wide and high!   , , . , - , , . , , , , , , , . AFTER-THOUGHT I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide. As being past away. - Vain sympathies! For, backward, Duddon! as I cast my eyes, I see what was, and is, and will abide; Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide; The Form remains, the Function never dies; While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise; We Men, who in our morn of youth defied The elements, must vanish; - be it so! Enough, if something from our hands have power To live, and act, and serve the future hour; And if, as toward the silent tomb we go, Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower. We feel that we are greater than we know.   , , . - ! , , , , . , , , , - , , , , - . - ! , , , , , , - . , ! THE PILGRIM'S DREAM A Pilgrim, when the summer day Had closed upon his weary way, A lodging begged beneath a castle's roof; But him the haughty Warder spurned; And from the gate the Pilgrim turned, To seek such covert as the field Or heath-besprinkled copse might yield, Or lofty wood, shower-proof. He paced along; and, pensively, Halting beneath a shady tree, Whose moss-grown root might serve for couch or seat, Fixed on a Star his upward eye; Then, from the tenant of the sky He turned, and watched with kindred look, A Glow-worm, in a dusky nook, Apparent at his feet. The murmur of a neighbouring stream Induced a soft and slumbrous dream, A pregnant dream, within whose shadowy bounds He recognised the earth-born Star, And _That_ which glittered from afar; And (strange to witness!) from the frame Of the ethereal Orb, there came Intelligible sounds. Much did it taunt the humble Light That now, when day was fled, and night Hushed the dark earth, fast closing weary eyes, A very reptile could presume To show her taper in the gloom, As if in rivalship with One Who sate a ruler on his throne Erected in the skies. "Exalted Star!" the Worm replied, "Abate this unbecoming pride, Or with a less uneasy lustre shine; Thou shrink'st as momently thy rays Are mastered by the breathing haze; While neither mist, nor thickest cloud That shapes in heaven its murky shroud, Hath power to injure mine. But not for this do I aspire To match the spark of local fire, That at my will burns on the dewy lawn, With thy acknowledged glories;-No! Yet, thus upbraided, I may show What favours do attend me here, Till, like thyself, I disappear Before the purple dawn." When this in modest guise was said, Across the welkin seemed to spread A boding sound-for aught but sleep unfit! Hills quaked, the rivers backward ran; That Star, so proud of late, looked wan; And reeled with visionary stir In the blue depth, like Lucifer Cast headlong to the pit! Fire raged: and, when the spangled floor Of ancient ether was no more, New heavens succeeded, by the dream brought forth: And all the happy Souls that rode Transfigured through that fresh abode, Had heretofore, in humble trust, Shone meekly 'mid their native dust, The Glow-worms of the earth! This knowledge, from an Angel's voice Proceeding, made the heart rejoice Of Him who slept upon the open lea: Waking at morn he murmured not; And, till life's journey closed, the spot Was to the Pilgrim's soul endeared, Where by that dream he had been cheered Beneath the shady tree.   , , , . , , , . . ... - , . ... , . - - , , , , . : , . ? , ? : " , , , . . , , , , , - , , ... ". - . , , , , , , . . . , . , , . , . , , . SEPTEMBER 1819 The sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields Are hung, as if with golden shields, Bright trophies of the sun! Like a fair sister of the sky, Unruffled doth the blue lake lie, The mountains looking on. And, sooth to say, yon vocal grove, Albeit uninspired by love, By love untaught to ring, May well afford to mortal ear An impulse more profoundly dear Than music of the Spring. For _that_ from turbulence and heat Proceeds, from some uneasy seat In nature's struggling frame, Some region of impatient life: And jealousy, and quivering strife, Therein a portion claim. This, this is holy; - while I hear These vespers of another year, This hymn of thanks and praise, My spirit seems to mount above The anxieties of human love, And earth's precarious days. But list! - though winter storms be nigh, Unchecked is that soft harmony: There lives Who can provide For all his creatures; and in Him, Even like the radiant Seraphim, These choristers confide.  , , . , , , , . , . , - , . , , , , . , , . , ; , , . , , , . , ! ! , , , , , , , , , , . ON SEEING A TUFT OF SNOWDROPS IN A STORM When haughty expectations prostrate lie, And grandeur crouches like a guilty thing, Oft shall the lowly weak, till nature bring Mature release, in fair society Survive, and Fortune's utmost anger try; Like these frail snowdrops that together cling, And nod their helmets, smitten by the wing Of many a furious whirl-blast sweeping by. Observe the faithful flowers! if small to great May lead the thoughts, thus struggling used to stand The Emathian phalanx, nobly obstinate; And so the bright immoral Theban band, Whom onset, fiercely urged at Jove's command, Might overwhelm, but could not separate! x x x , , , , , . , , . ! : ; , , , , , . SONG FOR THE SPINNING WHEEL Swiftly turn the murmuring wheel! Night has brought the welcome hour, When the weary fingers feel Help, as if from faery power; Dewy night o'ershades the ground; Turn the swift wheel round and round! Now, beneath the starry sky, Couch the widely-scattered sheep; - Ply the pleasant labour, ply! For the spindle, while they sleep, Runs with speed more smooth and fine, Gathering up a trustier line. Short-lived likings may be bred By a glance from fickle eyes; But true love is like the thread Which the kindly wool supplies, When the flocks are all at rest Sleeping on the mountain's breast.   , , , - , , . , , - , . - . , , - , . THE HAUNTED TREE Those silver clouds collected round the sun His mid-day warmth abate not, seeming less To overshade than multiply his beams By soft reflection - grateful to the sky, To rocks, fields, woods. Nor doth our human sense Ask, for its pleasure, screen or canopy More ample than the time-dismantled Oak Spreads o'er this tuft of heath, which now, attired In the whole fulness of its bloom, affords Couch beautiful as e'er for earthly use Was fashioned; whether, by the hand of Art, That eastern Sultan, amid flowers enwrought On silken tissue, might diffuse his limbs In languor; or, by Nature, for repose Of pan