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WE Rothay's stream is running near,
The voice that was to him so dear;
But the poet doth not hear.
All around his dwelling rise,
But he doth not ope his eyes.
From the little church the hum
But the godlike lips are dumb.
What and if he deaf doth lie?
The shocks that jar the music of the heart,
Of peace, content, and joy, art thou, Grasmere!
IN GREAT BEALINGS CHURCH YARD.
EAR witness, many a loved and lovely scene
Which I no more may visit, are ye not Thus still my own ? Thy groves of shady green,
Sweet Gosfield ! or thou, wild, romantic spot ! Where by gray craggy cliff, and lonely grot,
The shallow Dove rolls o'er his rocky bed: You still remain as fresh and unforgot
As if but yesterday mine eyes had fed Upon your charms; and yet months, years, since then
Their silent course. And thus it ought to be,
Should I sojourn far hence in distant years, Thou lovely dwelling of the dead! with thee:
For there is much about thee that endears
Thy peaceful landscape; much the heart reveres,
Much that it loves, and all it could desire In meditation's haunt, when hopes and fears
Have been too busy, and we would retire Even from ourselves awhile, yet of ourselves inquire.
Then art thou such a spot as man night choose
For still communion : all around is sweet And calm and soothing; when the light breeze wooes
The lofty limes that shadow thy retreat,
O’ertop and almost hide the edifice
Of innocent lambs, or notes which speak the bliss Of happy birds unseen. What could a hermit miss ?
from the public way you turn your steps Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, You will suppose that with an upright path Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. But courage! for around that boisterous brook The mountains have all opened out themselves,
And made a hidden valley of their own.
THOUGH clouds obscured the morning hour,
And keen and eager blew the blast, And drizzling fell the cheerless shower,
As, doubtful, to the skiff we passed,
All soon, propitious to our prayer,
Gave promise of a brighter day; The clouds dispersed in purer air,
The blasts in zephyrs died away.
So have we, love, a day enjoyed,
On which we both — and yet who knows? May dwell with pleasure unalloyed,
And dread no thorn beneath the rose.
How pleasant from that dome-crowned hill
To view the varied scene below,
Woods, ships, and spires, and, lovelier still,
The circling Thames' majestic flow!
How sweet, as indolently laid,
We overhung that long-drawn dale, To watch the checkered light and shade
That glanced upon the shifting sail!
And when the shadow's rapid growth
Proclaimed the noontide hour expired, And, though unwearied, nothing loath,
We to our simple meal retired;
The sportive wile, the blameless jest,
The careless mind's spontaneous flow, Gave to that simple meal a zest
Which richer tables may not know.
The babe that on the mother's breast
Has toyed and wantoned for a while, And, sinking in unconscious rest,
Looks up to catch a parting smile,
Feels less assured than thou, dear maid,
When, ere thy ruby lips could part (As close to mine thy cheek was laid),
Thine eyes had opened all thy heart.
Then, then I marked the chastened joy
That lightly o’er thy features stole, From vows repaid (my sweet employ),
From truth, from innocence of soul;