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Nor chide the Muse that stooped to break a spell Which might have else been on me yet:—

FAREWELL.

UPON PERUSING THE FOREGOING EPISTLE THIRTY YEARS AFTER ITS COMPOSITION.

Soon did the Almighty Giver of all rest

Take those dear young Ones to a fearless nest;
And in Death's arms has long reposed the Friend
For whom this simple Register was penned.
Thanks to the moth that spared it for our eyes;
And Strangers even the slighted Scroll may prize,
Moved by the touch of kindred sympathies.
For save the calm, repentance sheds o'er strife
Raised by remembrances of misused life,
The light from past endeavours purely willed
And by Heaven's favour happily fulfilled;
Save hope that we, yet bound to Earth, may share
The joys of the Departed-what so fair
As blameless pleasure, not without some tears,
Reviewed through Love's transparent veil of years?

Note.-LOUGHRIGG TARN, alluded to in the foregoing Epistle, resembles, though much smaller in compass, the Lake Nemi, or Speculum Dianæ as it is often called, not only in its clear waters and circular form, and the beauty immediately surrounding it, but also as being overlooked by the eminence of Langdale Pikes as Lake Nemi is by that of Monte Calvo. Since this Epistle was written Loughrigg Tarn has lost much of its beauty by the felling of many natural clumps of wood, relics of the old forest, particularly upon the farm called "The Oaks," from the abundance of that tree which grew there.

It is to be regretted, upon public grounds, that Sir George Beaumont did not carry into effect his intention of constructing here a Summer Retreat in the style I have described; as his taste would have set an example how buildings, with all the accommodations modern society requires, might be introduced even into the most secluded parts of this country without injuring their native character.

The design was not abandoned from failure of inclination on his part, but in consequence of local untowardnesses which need not be particularised.

II.

GOLD AND SILVER FISHES IN A VASE,

THE soaring lark is blest as proud
When at heaven's gate she sings;
The roving bee proclaims aloud

Her flight by vocal wings;
While Ye, in lasting durance pent,

Your silent lives employ

For something more than dull content,
Though haply less than joy.

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VI.

YE brood of conscience-Spectres! that frequent
The bad Man's restless walk, and haunt his bed-
Fiends in your aspect, yet beneficent

In act, as hovering Angels when they spread
Their wings to guard the unconscious Innocent—
Slow be the Statutes of the land to share
A laxity that could not but impair
Your power to punish crime, and so prevent.
And ye, Beliefs! coiled serpent-like about
The adage on all tongues, "Murder will out,"
How shall your ancient warnings work for good
In the full might they hitherto have shown,
If for deliberate shedder of man's blood
Survive not Judgment that requires his own?

IX.

THOUGH to give timely warning and deter
Is one great aim of penalty, extend
Thy mental vision further and ascend
Far higher, else full surely shalt thou err.
What is a State? The wise behold in her
A creature born of time, that keeps one eye
Fixed on the statutes of Eternity,
To which her judgments reverently defer.
Speaking through Law's dispassionate voice the
State

Endues her conscience with external life
And being, to preclude or quell the strife
Of individual will, to elevate
The grovelling mind, the erring to recal,
And fortify the moral sense of all.

VII.

BEFORE the world had past her time of youth
While polity and discipline were weak,
The precept eye for eye, and tooth for tooth,
Came forth-a light, though but as of day-break,
Strong as could then be borne. A Master meek
Proscribed the spirit fostered by that rule,
Patience his law, long-suffering his school,

And love the end, which all through peace must seek.

But lamentably do they err who strain
His mandates, given rash impulse to controul
And keep vindictive thirstings from the soul,
So far that, if consistent in their scheme,
They must forbid the State to inflict a pain,
Making of social order a mere dream.

X.

OUR bodily life, some plead, that life the shrine
Of an immortal spirit, is a gift

So sacred, so informed with light divine,
That no tribunal, though most wise to sift
Deed and intent, should turn the Being adrift
Into that world where penitential tear
May not avail, nor prayer have for God's ear
A voice-that world whose veil no hand can lift
For earthly sight. "Eternity and Time"
They urge, "have interwoven claims and rights
Not to be jeopardised through foulest crime:
The sentence rule by mercy's heaven-born lights."
Even so; but measuring not by finite sense
Infinite Power, perfect Intelligence.

VIII.

FIT retribution, by the moral code
Determined, lies beyond the State's embrace,
Yet, as she may, for each peculiar case
She plants well-measured terrors in the road
Of wrongful acts. Downward it is and broad,
And, the main fear once doomed to banishment,
Far oftener then, bad ushering worse event,
Blood would be spilt that in his dark abode
Crime might lie better hid. And, should the
change

Take from the horror due to a foul deed,
Pursuit and evidence so far must fail,
And, guilt escaping, passion then might plead
In angry spirits for her old free range,
And the "wild justice of revenge" prevail.

XI.

AH, think how one compelled for life to abide
Locked in a dungeon needs must eat the heart
Out of his own humanity, and part
With every hope that mutual cares provide;
And, should a less unnatural doom confide
In life-long exile on a savage coast,
Soon the relapsing penitent may boast
Of yet more heinous guilt, with fiercer pride.
Hence thoughtful Mercy, Mercy sage
and pure,
Sanctions the forfeiture that Law demands,
Leaving the final issue in His hands
Whose goodness knows no change, whose love is

sure,

Who sees, foresees; who cannot judge amiss, And wafts at will the contrite soul to bliss.

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XII.

SEE the Condemned alone within his cell
And prostrate at some moment when remorse
Stings to the quick, and, with resistless force,
Assaults the pride she strove in vain to quell.
Then mark him, him who could so long rebel,
The crime confessed, a kneeling Penitent
Before the Altar, where the Sacrament
Softens his heart, till from his eyes outwell
Tears of salvation. Welcome death! while Heaven
Does in this change exceedingly rejoice;
While yet the solemn heed the State hath given
Helps him to meet the last Tribunal's voice
In faith, which fresh offences, were he cast
On old temptations, might for ever blast.

XIII.

CONCLUSION.

YES, though He well may tremble at the sound

Of his own voice, who from the judgment-seat
Sends the pale Convict to his last retreat

In death; though Listeners shudder all around,
They know the dread requital's source profound;
Nor is, they feel, its wisdom obsolete-
(Would that it were!) the sacrifice unmeet

For Christian Faith. But hopeful signs abound;
The social rights of man breathe purer
air;
Religion deepens her preventive care;
Then, moved by needless fear of past abuse,
Strike not from Law's firm hand that awful rod,
But leave it thence to drop for lack of use:
Oh, speed the blessed hour, Almighty God!

XIV.

APOLOGY.

THE formal World relaxes her cold chain
For One who speaks in numbers; ampler scope
His utterance finds; and, conscious of the gain,
Imagination works with bolder hope

The cause of grateful reason to sustain ;

And, serving Truth, the heart more strongly beats
Against all barriers which his labour meets
In lofty place, or humble Life's domain.
Enough ;-before us lay a painful road,
And guidance have I sought in duteous love

From Wisdom's heavenly Father. Hence hath flowed

Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the way
Each takes in this high matter, all may move
Cheered with the prospect of a brighter day.

1840

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

1.

EPISTLE

TO SIR GEORGE HOWLAND BEAUMONT, BART. FROM THE SOUTH-WEST COAST OF CUMBERLAND.-1811.

FAR from our home by Grasmere's quiet Lake,
From the Vale's peace which all her fields partake,
Here on the bleakest point of Cumbria's shore
We sojourn stunned by Ocean's ceaseless roar;
While, day by day, grim neighbour! huge Black
Comb

Frowns deepening visibly his native gloom,
Unless, perchance rejecting in despite
What on the Plain we have of warmth and light,
In his own storms he hides himself from sight.

Rough is the time; and thoughts, that would be free
From heaviness, oft fly, dear Friend, to thee;
Turn from a spot where neither sheltered road
Nor hedge-row screen invites my steps abroad;
Where one poor Plane-tree, having as it might
Attained a stature twice a tall man's height,
Hopeless of further growth, and brown and sere
Through half the summer, stands with top cut sheer,
Like an unshifting weathercock which proves
How cold the quarter that the wind best loves,
Or like a Centinel that, evermore
Darkening the window, ill defends the door
Of this unfinished house-a Fortress bare,
Where strength has been the Builder's only care;
Whose rugged walls may still for years demand
The final polish of the Plasterer's hand.

Those heights (like Phoebus when his golden He veiled, attendant on Thessalian flocks) And, in disguise, a Milkmaid with her pai Trips down the pathways of some winding d Or, like a Mermaid, warbles on the shores To fishers mending nets beside their doors; Or, Pilgrim-like, on forest moss reclined, Gives plaintive ditties to the heedless wind, Or listens to its play among the boughs Above her head and so forgets her vows If such a Visitant of Earth there be And she would deign this day to smile on And aid my verse, content with local bond Of natural beauty and life's daily rounds, Thoughts, chances, sights, or doings, which Without reserve to those whom we love welThen haply, Beaumont! words in current ess Will flow, and on a welcome page appear Duly before thy sight, unless they perish ber

What shall I treat of? News from Maki Such have we, but unvaried in its style; No tales of Runagates fresh landed, whene And wherefore fugitive or on what preten Of feasts, or scandal, eddying like the wind Most restlessly alive when most confined. Ask not of me, whose tongue can best appetit The mighty tumults of the HOUSE OF KETš The last year's cup whose Ram or Heifer What slopes are planted, or what mosses d An eye of fancy only can I cast

-This Dwelling's Inmate more than three weeks' On that proud pageant now at hand or past

space

And oft a Prisoner in the cheerless place,
I-of whose touch the fiddle would complain,
Whose breath would labour at the flute in vain,
In music all unversed, nor blessed with skill
A bridge to copy, or to paint a mill,
Tired of my books, a scanty company!
And tired of listening to the boisterous sea-
Pace between door and window muttering rhyme,
An old resource to cheat a froward time!

Though these dull hours (mine is it, or their shame?)
Would tempt me to renounce that humble aim.
-But if there be a Muse who, free to take
Her seat upon Olympus, doth forsake

When full five hundred boats in trim arra, With nets and sails outspread and stres And chanted hymns and stiller voice of pay For the old Manx-harvest to the Deep rea Soon as the herring-shoals at distance sh Like beds of moonlight shifting on the bri

Mona from our Abode is daily seen, But with a wilderness of waves between; And by conjecture only can we speak Of aught transacted there in bay or creek. No tidings reach us thence from town ar ie Only faint news her mountain sunbeams pie And some we gather from the misty air,

And some the hovering clouds, our telegraph, declare.

But these poetic mysteries I withhold;

For Fancy hath her fits both hot and cold,
And should the colder fit with You be on
When You might read, my credit would be gone.

Let more substantial themes the pen engage, And nearer interests culled from the opening stage Of our migration.—Ere the welcome dawn Had from the east her silver star withdrawn, 'he Wain stood ready, at our Cottage-door, 'houghtfully freighted with a various store; and long or ere the uprising of the Sun ■'er dew-damped dust our journey was begun, needful journey, under favouring skies, hrough peopled Vales; yet something in the guise f those old Patriarchs when from well to well hey roamed through Wastes where now the tented Arabs dwell.

Say first, to whom did we the charge confide, ho promptly undertook the Wain to guide many a sharply-twining road and down, ad over many a wide hill's craggy crown, rough the quick turns of many a hollow nook, nd the rough bed of many an unbridged brook? blooming Lass-who in her better hand re a light switch, her sceptre of command hen, yet a slender Girl, she often led, Iful and bold, the horse and burthened sled >m the peat-yielding Moss on Gowdar's head. hat could go wrong with such a Charioteer ♫ goods and chattels, or those Infants dear, Pair who smilingly sate side by side, - hope confirming that the salt-sea tide,

ose free embraces we were bound to seek,

uld their lost strength restore and freshen the pale cheek?

I hope did either Parent entertain

ing behind along the silent lane.

And in that griesly object recognise
The Curate's Dog-his long-tried friend, for they,
As well we knew, together had grown grey.
The Master died, his drooping servant's grief
Found at the Widow's feet some sad relief;
Yet still he lived in pining discontent,
Sadness which no indulgence could prevent;
Hence whole day wanderings, broken nightly sleeps
And lonesome watch that out of doors he keeps;
Not oftentimes, I trust, as we, poor brute!
Espied him on his legs sustained, blank, mute,
And of all visible motion destitute,

So that the very heaving of his breath
Seemed stopt, though by some other power than

death.

Long as we gazed upon the form and face,
A mild domestic pity kept its place,
Unscared by thronging fancies of strange hue
That haunted us in spite of what we knew.
Even now I sometimes think of him as lost
In second-sight appearances, or crost
By spectral shapes of guilt, or to the ground,
On which he stood, by spells unnatural bound,
Like a gaunt shaggy Porter forced to wait
In days of old romance at Archimago's gate.

Advancing Summer, Nature's law fulfilled, The choristers in every grove had stilled; But we, we lacked not music of our own, For lightsome Fanny had thus early thrown, Mid the gay prattle of those infant tongues, Some notes prelusive, from the round of songs With which, more zealous than the liveliest bird That in wild Arden's brakes was ever heard, Her work and her work's partners she can cheer, The whole day long, and all days of the year.

Thus gladdened from our own dear Vale we pass And soon approach Diana's Looking-glass! To Loughrigg-tarn, round clear and bright as heaven,

Such name Italian fancy would have given,

Lithe hopes and happy musings soon took flight, Ere on its banks the few grey cabins rose

lo! an uncouth melancholy sightgreen bank a creature stood forlorn half protruded to the light of morn, inder part concealed by hedge-row thorn. Figure called to mind a beast of prey >t of its frightful powers by slow decay, though no longer upon rapine bent, memory keeping of its old intent. started, looked again with anxious eyes,

* A local word for Sledge.

That yet disturb not its concealed repose More than the feeblest wind that idly blows.

Ah, Beaumont! when an opening in the road Stopped me at once by charm of what it showed, The encircling region vividly exprest

Within the mirror's depth, a world at rest-
Sky streaked with purple, grove and craggy bield*,
And the smooth green of many a pendent field,

* A word common in the country, signifying shelter, as in Scotland.

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