What happy moments did I count!

Bless'd was I then all bliss above!

Now, for this consecrated Fount Of murmuring, sparkling, living love, What have I? shall I dare to tell?

A comfortless, and hidden WELL.

A Well of love--it may be deep-- I trust it is, and never dry: What matter? if the Waters sleep In silence and obscurity.

--Such change, and at the very door Of my fond Heart, hath made me poor.

I am not One who much or oft delight To season my fireside with personal talk, About Friends, who live within an easy walk, Or Neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight: And, for my chance-acquaintance, Ladies bright, Sons, Mothers, Maidens withering on the stalk, These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night.

Better than such discourse doth silence long, Long, barren silence, square with my desire; 10 To sit without emotion, hope, or aim, By my half-kitchen my half-parlour fire, And listen to the flapping of the flame, Or kettle, whispering it's faint undersong.

"Yet life," you say, "is life; we have seen and see, And with a living pleasure we describe; And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe The languid mind into activity.

Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee, Are foster'd by the comment and the gibe." 20 Even be it so: yet still among your tribe, Our daily world's true Worldlings, rank not me!

Children are blest, and powerful; their world lies More justly balanced; partly at their feet, And part far from them:--sweetest melodies Are those that are by distance made more sweet; Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes He is a Slave; the meanest we can meet!

Wings have we, and as far as we can go We may find pleasure: wilderness and wood, 30 Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood Which with the lofty sanctifies the low: Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.

There do I find a never-failing store Of personal themes, and such as I love best; Matter wherein right voluble I am: Two will I mention, dearer than the rest; 40 The gentle Lady, married to the Moor; And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb.

Nor can I not believe but that hereby Great gains are mine: for thus I live remote From evil-speaking; rancour, never sought, Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie.

Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I Smooth pa.s.sions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought: And thus from day to day my little Boat Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably. 50 Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us n.o.bler loves, and n.o.bler cares, The Poets, who on earth have made us Heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays!

Oh! might my name be numbered among theirs, Then gladly would I end my mortal days.

Yes! full surely 'twas the Echo, Solitary, clear, profound, Answering to Thee, shouting Cuckoo!

Giving to thee Sound for Sound.

Whence the Voice? from air or earth?

This the Cuckoo cannot tell; But a startling sound had birth, As the Bird must know full well;

Like the voice through earth and sky By the restless Cuckoo sent; 10 Like her ordinary cry, Like--but oh how different!

Hears not also mortal Life?

Hear not we, unthinking Creatures!

Slaves of Folly, Love, or Strife, Voices of two different Natures?

Have not We too? Yes we have Answers, and we know not whence; Echoes from beyond the grave, Recogniz'd intelligence? 20

Such within ourselves we hear Oft-times, ours though sent from far; Listen, ponder, hold them dear; For of G.o.d, of G.o.d they are!

_TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND_, (AN AGRICULTURIST.) Composed while we were labouring together in his Pleasure-Ground.

Spade! with which Wilkinson hath till'd his Lands, And shap'd these pleasant walks by Emont's side, Thou art a tool of honour in my hands; I press thee through the yielding soil with pride.

Rare Master has it been thy lot to know; Long hast Thou serv'd a Man to reason true; Whose life combines the best of high and low, The toiling many and the resting few;

Health, quiet, meekness, ardour, hope secure, And industry of body and of mind; 10 And elegant enjoyments, that are pure As Nature is; too pure to be refined.

Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing In concord with his River murmuring by; Or in some silent field, while timid Spring Is yet uncheer'd by other minstrelsy.

Who shall inherit Thee when Death hath laid Low in the darksome Cell thine own dear Lord?

That Man will have a trophy, humble, Spade!

More n.o.ble than the n.o.blest Warrior's sword. 20

If he be One that feels, with skill to part False praise from true, or greater from the less, Thee will he welcome to his hand and heart, Thou monument of peaceful happiness!

With Thee he will not dread a toilsome day, His powerful Servant, his inspiring Mate!

And, when thou art past service, worn away, Thee a surviving soul shall consecrate.

His thrift thy uselessness will never scorn; An _Heir-loom_ in his cottage wilt thou be:-- 30 High will he hang thee up, and will adorn His rustic chimney with the last of Thee!

_SONG_, AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE, Upon the RESTORATION OF LORD CLIFFORD, the SHEPHERD, to the Estates and Honours of his Ancestors.

High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate.

And Emont's murmur mingled with the Song.-- The words of ancient time I thus translate, A festal Strain that hath been silent long.

From Town to Town, from Tower to Tower, The Red Rose is a gladsome Flower.

Her thirty years of Winter past; The Red Rose is revived at last;

She lifts her head for endless spring, For everlasting blossoming! 10 Both Roses flourish, Red and White.

In love and sisterly delight The two that were at strife are blended, And all old sorrows now are ended.-- Joy! joy to both! but most to her Who is the Flower of Lancaster!

Behold her how She smiles to day On this great throng, this bright array!

Fair greeting doth she send to all From every corner of the Hall; 20 But, chiefly, from above the Board Where sits in state our rightful Lord, A Clifford to his own restored.

They came with banner, spear, and shield; And it was proved in Bosworth-field.

Not long the Avenger was withstood, Earth help'd him with the cry of blood: St. George was for us, and the might Of blessed Angels crown'd the right.

Loud voice the Land hath utter'd forth, 30 We loudest in the faithful North: Our Fields rejoice, our Mountains ring, Our Streams proclaim a welcoming; Our Strong-abodes and Castles see The glory of their loyalty.

How glad is Skipton at this hour Though she is but a lonely Tower!