2.

Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go?

Festively she puts forth in trim array; As vigorous as a Lark at break of day: Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?

What boots the enquiry? Neither friend nor foe She cares for; let her travel where she may, She finds familiar names, a beaten way Ever before her, and a wind to blow.

Yet still I ask, what Haven is her mark?

And, almost as it was when ships were rare, From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there Crossing the waters; doubt, and something dark, Of the old Sea some reverential fear, Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark!

3. COMPOSED after a Journey across THE HAMILTON HILLS, YORKSHIRE.

Ere we had reach'd the wish'd-for place, night fell: We were too late at least by one dark hour, And nothing could we see of all that power Of prospect, whereof many thousands tell.

The western sky did recompence us well With Grecian Temple, Minaret, and Bower; And, in one part, a Minster with its Tower Substantially distinct, a place for Bell Or Clock to toll from. Many a glorious pile Did we behold, sights that might well repay All disappointment! and, as such, the eye Delighted in them; but we felt, the while, We should forget them: they are of the sky, And from our earthly memory fade away.

4.

...._they are of the sky, And from our earthly memory fade away_.

These words were utter'd in a pensive mood, Even while mine eyes were on that solemn sight: A contrast and reproach to gross delight, And life's unspiritual pleasures daily woo'd!

But now upon this thought I cannot brood: It is unstable, and deserts me quite; Nor will I praise a Cloud, however bright, Disparaging Man's gifts, and proper food.

The Grove, the sky-built Temple, and the Dome, Though clad in colours beautiful and pure, Find in the heart of man no natural home: The immortal Mind craves objects that endure: These cleave to it; from these it cannot roam, Nor they from it: their fellowship is secure.

5. TO SLEEP.

O gentle Sleep! do they belong to thee, These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove, A Captive never wishing to be free.

This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to me A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove Upon a fretful rivulet, now above, Now on the water vex'd with mockery.

I have no pain that calls for patience, no; Hence am I cross and peevish as a child: Am pleas'd by fits to have thee for my foe, Yet ever willing to be reconciled: O gentle Creature! do not use me so, But once and deeply let me be beguiled.

6. TO SLEEP.

A flock of sheep that leisurely pa.s.s by, One after one; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky; I've thought of all by turns; and still I lie Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees; And the first Cuckoo's melancholy cry.

Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth: So do not let me wear to night away: Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?

Come, blessed barrier betwixt day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

7. TO SLEEP.

Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep!

And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names; The very sweetest words that fancy frames When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep!

Dear bosom Child we call thee, that dost steep In rich reward all suffering; Balm that tames All anguish; Saint that evil thoughts and aims Takest away, and into souls dost creep, Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone; I surely not a man ungently made, Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost?

Perverse, self-will'd to own and to disown, Mere Slave of them who never for thee pray'd, Still last to come where thou art wanted most!

8.

With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed; Some lying fast at anchor in the road, Some veering up and down, one knew not why.

A goodly Vessel did I then espy Come like a Giant from a haven broad; And l.u.s.tily along the Bay she strode, Her tackling rich, and of apparel high.

This Ship was nought to me, nor I to her, Yet I pursued her with a Lover's look; This Ship to all the rest did I prefer: When will she turn, and whither? She will brook No tarrying; where she comes the winds must stir: On went She, and due north her journey took.

9. TO THE RIVER DUDDON.

O mountain Stream! the Shepherd and his Cot Are privileg'd Inmates of deep solitude: Nor would the nicest Anchorite exclude A Field or two of brighter green, or Plot Of tillage-ground, that seemeth like a spot Of stationary sunshine: thou hast view'd These only, Duddon! with their paths renew'd By fits and starts, yet this contents thee not.

Thee hath some awful Spirit impell'd to leave, Utterly to desert, the haunts of men, Though simple thy Companions were and few; And through this wilderness a pa.s.sage cleave Attended but by thy own Voice, save when The Clouds and Fowls of the air thy way pursue.

10. FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO.

Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep pace, And I be undeluded, unbetray'd; For if of our affections none find grace In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath G.o.d made The world which we inhabit? Better plea Love cannot have, than that in loving thee Glory to that eternal Peace is paid, Who such Divinity to thee imparts As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.

His hope is treacherous only whose love dies With beauty, which is varying every hour; But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower, That breathes on earth the air of paradise.

11. FROM THE SAME.

No mortal object did these eyes behold When first they met the placid light of thine, And my Soul felt her destiny divine, And hope of endless peace in me grew bold: Heav'n-born, the Soul a heav'n-ward course must hold; Beyond the visible world She soars to seek, For what delights the sense is false and weak, Ideal Form, the universal mould.

The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest In that which perishes: nor will he lend His heart to aught which doth on time depend.

'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love, Which kills the soul: Love betters what is best, Even here below, but more in heaven above.

12. FROM THE SAME.