And mineral crown, beside his jagged urn William Wordsworth. Grasmere. THE WISHING-GATE. IN the vale of Grasmere, by the side of the old highway leading to Ambleside, is a gate which, time out of mind, has been called the Wishing-gate, from a belief that wishes formed or indulged there have a favorable issue. TOPE rules a land forever green: HORE All powers that serve the bright-eyed queen Clouds at her bidding disappear; Points she to aught?—the bliss draws near, Not such the land of Wishes, there Yet how forlorn, should ye depart, How poor, were human life! When magic lore abjured its might, One tender claim abate; Witness this symbol of your sway, Surviving near the public way, The rustic Wishing-gate! Inquire not if the faery race If here a warrior left a spell, Enough that all around is fair, Peace to embosom and content, The selfish to reprove. Yea! even the stranger from afar, The infection of the ground partakes, Then why should conscious spirits fear The mystic stirrings that are here, The ancient faith disclaim? The local genius ne'er befriends Desires whose course in folly ends, Smile if thou wilt, but not in scorn, If some have thirsted to renew A broken vow, or bind a truc And not in vain, when thoughts are cast Upon the irrevocable past, Some penitent sincere May for a worthier future sigh, No unavailing tear. The worldling, pining to be freed Might stop before this favored scene, The sage, who feels how blind, how weak And thirst for insight to allay Or when the church-clock's knell profound William Wordsworth. LINES WRITTEN AT GRASMERE, ON TIDINGS OF THE APPROACHING DEATH OF CHARLES JAMES FOX. L OUD is the Vale! the voice is up With which she speaks when storms are gone, A mighty unison of streams! Of all her voices, one! Loud is the Vale! this inland depth In peace is roaring like the sea; Yon star upon the mountain-top Is listening quietly. Sad was I, even to pain deprest, The Comforter hath found me here, And many thousands now are sad, For he must die who is their stay, - A power is passing from the earth That man, who is from God sent forth, Then wherefore should we mourn? William Wordsworth. A REMEMBRANCE OF GRASMERE. VALE and lake, within your mountain urn Still, still unchanged, may one sweet region wear Smiles that subdue the soul to love and tears and prayer. Felicia Hemans. |