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And the ship, in all her pride,
With eager eyes the Master pries; Looks in and out, and through and through ; Says nothing — till at last he spies A wound upon the Mastiff's head, A wound, where plainly might be read What feats an Ass's hoof can do ! But drop the rest :— this aggravation, This complicated provocation, A hoard of grievances unsealed ; All past forgiveness it repealed ; And thus, and through distempered blood On both sides, Benjamin the good, The patient, and the tender-hearted, Was from his team and wagon parted; When duty of that day was o'er, Laid down his whip — and served no more. — Nor could the wagon long survive, Which Benjamin had ceased to drive : It lingered on;— guide after guide Ambitiously the office tried ; But each unmanageable hill Called for his patience and his skill ; And sure it is, that through this night, VOL. II.
And what the morning brought to light,
Accept, O Friend, for praise or blame,
That in this uneventful place Gave to the days a mark and name By which we knew them when they came. - Yes, I, and all about me here, Through all the changes of the year, Had seen him through the mountains go, In pomp of mist or pomp of snow, Majestically huge and slow : Or, with a milder grace adorning The landscape of a summer's morning ; While Grasmere smoothed her liquid plain The moving image to detain ; And mighty Fairfield, with a chime Of echoes, to his march kept time; When little other business stirred, And little other sound was heard; In that delicious hour of balm, Stillness, solitude, and calm, While yet the valley is arrayed, On this side with a sober shade, On that is prodigally bright Crag, lawn, and wood — with rosy light. - But most of all, thou lordly Wain ! I wish to have thee here again, When windows flap and chimney roars, And all is dismal out of doors ; And, sitting by my fire, I see Eight sorry carts, no less a train ! Unworthy successors of thee, Come straggling through the wind and rain :
And oft, as they pass slowly on,
POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION.
THERE WAS A BOY. THERE was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs And islands of Winander ! — many a time, At evening, when the earliest stars began To move along the edges of the hills, Rising or setting, would he stand alone, Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake; And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, That they might answer him. And they would
shout Across the watery vale, and shout again, Responsive to his call, — with quivering peals, And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud Redoubled and redoubled ; concourse wild Of jocund din! And when there came a pause Of silence such as baffled his best skill, Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise Has carried far into his heart the voice