It hath its worshippers: it sends a voice, A voice creating elevated thoughts, Into the hearts of our bold peasantry Following the plough along these fertile vales, Or up among the misty solitude Beside the wild sheep-fold. The fishermen, Who on the clear wave ply their silent trade, Oft pa.s.sing lean upon their dripping oars, And bless the heroes: Idling in the joy Of summer sunshine, as in light canoe The stranger glides among these lovely isles, This little temple to his startled soul Oft sends a gorgeous vision, gallant crews In fierce joy cheering as they onwards bear To break the line of battle, meteor-like Long ensigns brightening on the towery mast, And sails in awful silence o'er the main Lowering like thunder-clouds!--

Then, stranger! give A blessing on this temple, and admire The gaudy pendant round the painted staff Wreathed in still splendour, or in wanton folds, Even like a serpent bright and beautiful, Streaming its burnished glory on the air.

And whether silence sleep upon the stones Of this small edifice, or from within Steal the glad voice of laughter and of song, Pa.s.s on with alter'd thoughts, and gently own That Windermere, with all her radiant isles Serenely floating on her azure breast, Like stars in heaven, with kindest smiles may robe This monument, to heroes dedicate, Nor Nature feel her holy reign profaned By work of art, though framed in humblest guise, When a high spirit prompts the builder's soul.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] The late Sir John Legard, Bart.

PICTURE OF A BLIND MAN.

Why sits so long beside you cottage-door That aged man with tresses thin and h.o.a.r?

Fix'd are his eyes in one continued gaze, Nor seem to feel the sun's meridian blaze; Yet are the orbs with youth-like colours bright, As o'er the Iris falls the trembling light.

Changeless his mien; not even one flitting trace Of spirit wanders o'er his furrow'd face; No feeling moves his venerable head: --He sitteth there--an emblem of the dead!

The staff of age lies near him on the seat, His faithful dog is slumbering at his feet, And you fair child, who steals an hour for play While thus her father rests upon his way, Her sport will leave, nor cast one look behind, Soon as she hears his voice,--for he is blind!

List! as in tones through deep affection mild He speaks by name to the delighted child!

Then, bending mute in dreams of painful bliss, Breathes o'er her neck a father's tenderest kiss, And with light hand upon her forehead fair Smooths the stray ringlets of her silky hair!

A beauteous phantom rises through the night For ever brooding o'er his darken'd sight, So clearly imaged both in form and limb, He scarce remembers that his eyes are dim, But thinks he sees in truth the vernal wreath His gentle infant wove, that it might breathe A sweet restoring fragrance through his breast, Chosen from the wild-flowers that he loves the best.

In that sweet trance he sees the sparkling glee That sanctifies the face of infancy; The dimpled cheek where playful fondness lies, And the blue softness of her smiling eyes; The spirit's temple unprofaned by tears, Where G.o.d's unclouded loveliness appears; Those gleams of soul to every feature given, When youth walks guiltless by the light of heaven!

And oh! what pleasures through his spirit burn, When to the gate his homeward steps return; When fancy's eye the curling smoke surveys, And his own hearth is gaily heard to blaze!

How beams his sightless visage! when the press Of Love's known hand, with cheerful tenderness, Falls on his arm, and leads with guardian care His helpless footsteps to the accustomed chair; When that dear voice he joy'd from youth to hear With kind enquiry comes unto his ear, And tremulous tells how lovely still must be Those fading beauties that he ne'er must see!

Though ne'er by him his cottage-home be seen, Where to the wild brook slopes the daisied green; Though the bee, slowly borne on laden wing, To him be known but by its murmuring; And the long leaf that trembles in the breeze Be all that tells him of his native trees; Yet dear to him each viewless object round Familiar to his soul from touch or sound.

The stream, 'mid banks of osier winding near, Lulls his calm spirit through the listening ear: Deeply his soul enjoys the loving strife When the warm summer air is fill'd with life; And as his limbs in quiet dreams are laid, Blest is the oak's contemporary shade.

Happy old Man! no vain regrets intrude On the still hour of sightless solitude.

Though deepest shades o'er outward Nature roll, Her cloudless beauty lives within thy soul --Oft to you rising mount thy steps ascend, As to the spot where dwelt a former friend; From whose green summit thou could'st once behold Mountains far-off in dim confusion roll'd, Lakes of blue mist, where gleam'd the whitening sail, And many a woodland interposing vale.

Thou seest them still: and oh! how soft a shade Does memory breathe o'er mountain, wood, and glade!

Each craggy pa.s.s, where oft in sportive scorn Had sprung thy limbs in life's exulting morn; Each misty cataract, and torrent-flood, Where thou a silent angler oft hast stood; Each shelter'd creek where through the roughest day Floated thy bark without the anchor's stay; Each nameless field by nameless thought endear'd; Each little hedge-row that thy childhood rear'd, That seems unalter'd yet in form and size, Though fled the clouds of fifty summer skies, Rise on thy soul,--on high devotion springs Through Nature's beauty borne on Fancy's wings, And while the blissful vision floats around, Of loveliest form, fair hue, and melting sound, Thou carest not, though blindness may not roam,-- For Heaven's own glory smiles around thy home.

TROUTBECK CHAPEL.

How sweet and solemn at the close of day, After a long and lonely pilgrimage Among the mountains, where our spirits held With wildering fancy and her kindred powers High converse, to descend as from the clouds Into a quiet valley, fill'd with trees By Nature planted, crowding round the brink Of an oft-hidden rivulet, or hung A beauteous shelter o'er the humble roof Of many a moss-grown cottage!

In that hour Of pensive happiness, the wandering man Looks for some spot of still profounder rest, Where nought may break the solemn images Sent by the setting sun into his soul.

Up to you simple edifice he walks, That seems beneath its sable grove of pines More silent than the home where living thing Abides, yea, even than desolated tower Wrapt in its ivy-shroud.

I know it well,-- The village-chapel: many a year ago, That little dome to G.o.d was dedicate; And ever since, hath undisturbed peace Sat on it, moveless as the brooding dove That must not leave her nest. A mossy wall, Bathed though in ruins with a flush of flowers, (A lovely emblem of that promised life That springs from death) doth placidly enclose The bed of rest, where with their fathers sleep The children of the vale, and the calm stream That murmurs onward with the self-same tone For ever, by the mystic power of sound Binding the present with the past, pervades The holy hush as if with G.o.d's own voice, Filling the listening heart with piety.

Oh! ne'er shall I forget the hour, when first Thy little chapel stole upon my heart, Secluded TROUTBECK! 'Twas the Sabbath-morn, And up the rocky banks of thy wild stream I wound my path, full oft I ween delay'd By sounding waterfall, that 'mid the calm Awoke such solemn thoughts as suited well The day of peace; till all at once I came Out of the shady glen, and with fresh joy Walk'd on encircled by green pastoral hills.

Before me suddenly thy chapel rose As if it were an image: even then The noise of thunder roll'd along the sky, And darkness veil'd the heights,--a summer-storm Of short forewarning and of transient power.

Ah me! how beautifully silent thou Didst smile amid the tempest! O'er thy roof Arch'd a fair rainbow, that to me appear'd A holy shelter to thee in the storm, And made thee shine amid the brooding gloom, Bright as the morning star. Between the fits Of the loud thunder, rose the voice of Psalms, A most soul-moving sound. There unappall'd, A choir of youths and maidens hymned their G.o.d, With tones that robb'd the thunder of its dread, Bidding it rave in vain.

Out came the sun In glory from his clouded tabernacle; And, waken'd by the splendour, up the lark Rose with a loud and yet a louder song, Chaunting to heaven the hymn of grat.i.tude.

The service closed; and o'er the church-yard spread The happy flock who in that peaceful fold Had worshipp'd Jesus, carrying to their homes The comfort of a faith that cannot die, That to the young supplies a guiding light, Steadier than reason's, and far brighter too, And to the aged sanctifies the gra.s.s That grows upon the grave.

O happy lot, Methought, to tend a little flock like this, Loving them all, and by them all beloved!

So felt their shepherd on that Sabbath-morn Returning their kind smiles;--a pious man, Content in this lone vale to teach the truths Our Saviour taught, nor wishing other praise Than of his great task-master. Yet his youth Not unadorn'd with science, nor the lore Becoming in their prime accomplish'd men, Told that among the worldly eminent Might lie his shining way:--but, wiser far, He to the shades of solitude retired, The birth-place of his fathers, and there vow'd His talents and his virtues, rarest both, To G.o.d who gave them, rendering by his voice This beauteous chapel still more beautiful, And the blameless dwellers in this quiet dale Happier in life and death.

PEACE AND INNOCENCE.

The lingering l.u.s.tre of a vernal day From the dim landscape slowly steals away; One lovely hour!--and then the stars of Even Will sparkling hail the apparent Queen of Heaven; For the tired Sun, now softly sinking down, To his fair daughter leaves his silent throne.

Almost could I believe with life embued, And hush'd in dreams, this gentle solitude.

Look where I may, a tranquillizing soul Breathes forth a life-like pleasure o'er the whole.

The shadows settling on the mountain's breast Recline, as conscious of the hour of rest; Stedfast as objects in a peaceful dream, The sleepy trees are bending o'er the stream; The stream, half veil'd in snowy vapour, flows With sound like silence, motion like repose.

My heart obeys the power of earth and sky, And 'mid the quiet slumbers quietly!

A wreath of smoke, that feels no breath of air, Melts amid you fair clouds, itself as fair, And seems to link in beauteousness and love That earthly cottage to the domes above.

There my heart rests,--as if by magic bound: Blessings be on that plat of orchard-ground!

Wreathed round the dwelling like a fairy ring, Its green leaves lost in richest blossoming.

Within that ring no creature seems alive; The bees have ceased to hum around the hive; On the tall ash the rooks have roosted long, And the fond dove hath coo'd his latest song; Now, shrouded close beneath the holly-bush, Sits on her low-built nest the sleeping thrush.

All do not sleep: behold a spotless lamb Looks bleating round, as if it sought its dam.

Its restless motion and its piteous moan Tell that it fears all night to rest alone, Though heaven's most gracious dew descends in peace Softly as snow-flakes on its radiant fleece.

That mournful bleat hath touch'd the watchful ear Of one to whom the little lamb is dear, As innocent and lovely as itself!

See where with springs she comes, the smiling elf!

Well does the lamb her infant guardian know: Joy brightening dances o'er her breast of snow, And light as flying leaf, with sudden glide, Fondly she presses to the maiden's side.

With kindness quieting its late alarms, The sweet child folds it in her nursing arms; And calling it by every gentle name That happy innocence through love can frame, With tenderest kisses lavish'd on its head, Conducts it frisking to its shelter'd bed.

Kind hearted infant! be thy slumbers bland!

Dream that thy sportive lambkin licks thy hand, Or, wearied out by races short and fleet, Basks in the sunshine, resting on thy feet; That waking from repose, unbroken, deep, Thou scarce shalt know that thou hast been asleep!

With eye-lids trembling through thy golden hair, I hear thee lisping low thy nightly prayer.

O sweetest voice! what beauty breathes therein!

Ne'er hath its music been impaired by sin.

In all its depths my soul shall carry hence The air serene born of thy innocence.

To me most awful is thy hour of rest, For little children sleep in Jesus' breast!

LOUGHRIG TARN.

Thou guardian Naiad of this little Lake, Whose banks in unprofaned Nature sleep, (And that in waters lone and beautiful Dwell spirits radiant as the homes they love, Have poets still believed) O surely blest Beyond all genii or of wood or wave, Or sylphs that in the shooting sunbeams dwell, Art thou! yea, happier even than summer-cloud Beloved by air and sky, and floating slow O'er the still bosom of upholding heaven.