O! wildest cottage of the wild!

I see thee waking from thy breathless sleep!

Scarcely distinguish'd from the rocky steep, High o'er thy roof in forms fantastic piled.

More beauteous art thou than of yore, With joy all glistering after sorrow's gloom; And they who in that paradise abide, By sadness and misfortune beautified, There brighter walk than o'er yon island-sh.o.r.e, As loveliness wakes lovelier from the tomb.

Long mayst thou stand in sun and dew, And spring thy faded flowers renew, Unharm'd by frost or blight!

Without, the wonder of each eye, Within, as happy as the sky, Encompa.s.s'd with delight.

--May thy old-age be calm and bright, Thou grey-hair'd one!--like some sweet night Of winter, cold, but clear, and shining far Through mists, with many a melancholy star.

--O fairy child! what can I wish for thee?

Like a perennial flow'ret mayst thou be, That spends its life in beauty and in bliss!

Soft on thee fall the breath of time, And still retain in heavenly clime The bloom that charm'd in this!

O, happy Parents of so sweet a child, Your share of grief already have you known; But long as that fair spirit is your own, To either lot you must be reconciled.

Dear was she in yon palmy grove, When fear and sorrow mingled with your love, And oft you wished that she had ne'er been born; While, in the most delightful air Th' angelic infant sang, at times her voice, That seem'd to make even lifeless things rejoice, Woke, on a sudden, dreams of dim despair, As if it breathed, "For me, an Orphan, mourn!"

Now can they listen when she sings With mournful voice of mournful things, Almost too sad to hear; And when she chaunts her evening-hymn, Glad smile their eyes, even as they swim With many a gushing tear.

Each day she seems to them more bright And beautiful,--a gleam of light That plays and dances o'er the shadowy earth!

It fadeth not in gloom or storm,-- For Nature charter'd that aerial form In yonder fair Isle when she bless'd her birth!

The Isle of Palms! whose forests tower again, Darkening with solemn shade the face of heaven.

Now far away they like the clouds are driven, And as the pa.s.sing night-wind dies my strain!

END OF THE ISLE OF PALMS.

THE ANGLER'S TENT.

_The moving accident is not my trade, To curl the blood I have no ready arts; 'Tis my delight alone in summer-shade, To pipe a simple song to thinking hearts._

WORDSWORTH.

ADVERTIs.e.m.e.nT.

The following Poem is the narrative of one day, the pleasantest of many pleasant ones, of a little Angling-excursion made three summers ago among the mountains of Westmoreland, Lancashire, and c.u.mberland. A tent, large panniers filled with its furniture, with provisions, &c. were loaded upon horses, and while the anglers, who separated every morning, pursued each his own sport up the torrents, were carried over the mountains to the appointed place by some lake or stream, where they were to meet again in the evening.

In this manner they visited all the wildest and most secluded scenes of the country. On the first Sunday they pa.s.sed among the hills, their tent was pitched on the banks of Wast-Water, at the head of that wild and solitary lake, which they had reached by the mountain-path that pa.s.ses Barn-Moor Tarn from Eskdale. Towards evening the inhabitants of the valley, not exceeding half a dozen families, with some too from the neighbouring glens, drawn by the unusual appearance, came to visit the strangers in their tent.

Without, the evening was calm and beautiful; within, were the gaiety and kindness of simple mirth. At a late hour, their guests departed under a most refulgent moon that lighted them up the surrounding mountains, on which they turned to hail with long-continued shouts and songs the blazing of a huge fire, that was hastily kindled at the door of the tent to bid them a distant farewell.

The images and feelings of these few happy days, and above all, of that delightful evening, the author wished to preserve in poetry. What he has written, while it serves to himself and his friends as a record of past happiness, may, he hopes, without impropriety be offered to the public, since, if at all faithful to its subject, it will have some interest to those who delight in the wilder scenes of Nature, and who have studied with respect and love the character of their simple inhabitants.

THE ANGLER'S TENT.

The hush of bliss was on the sunny hills, The clouds were sleeping on the silent sky, We travelled in the midst of melody Warbled around us from the mountain-rills.

The voice was like the glad voice of a friend Murmuring a welcome to his happy home; We felt its kindness with our spirits blend, And said, "This day no farther will we roam!"

The coldest heart that ever looked on heaven, Had surely felt the beauty of that day, And, as he paused, a gentle blessing given To the sweet scene that tempted him to stay.

But we, who travelled through that region bright, Were joyful pilgrims under Nature's care, From youth had loved the dreams of pure delight, Descending on us through the lonely air, When Heaven is clothed with smiles, and Earth as Heaven is fair!

Seven lovely days had like a happy dream Died in our spirits silently away, Since Gra.s.smere, waking to the morning ray, Met our last lingering look with farewell gleam.

I may not tell what joy our beings filled, Wand'ring like shadows over plain and steep, What beauteous visions lonely souls can build When 'mid the mountain solitude they sleep.

I may not tell how the deep power of sound Can back to life long-faded dreams recall, When lying mid the noise that lives around Through the hush'd spirit flows a waterfall.

To thee, my WORDSWORTH![1] whose inspired song Comes forth in pomp from Nature's inner shrine, To thee by birth-right such high themes belong, The unseen grandeur of the earth is thine!

One lowlier simple strain of human love be mine.

How leapt our hearts, when from an airy height, On which we paused for a sweet fountain's sake, With green fields fading in a peaceful lake, A deep-sunk vale burst sudden on our sight!

We felt as if at home; a magic sound, As from a spirit whom we must obey, Bade us descend into the vale profound, And in its silence pa.s.s the Sabbath-day.

The placid lake that rested far below, Softly embosoming another sky, Still as we gazed a.s.sumed a lovelier glow, And seem'd to send us looks of amity.

Our hearts were open to the gracious love Of Nature, smiling like a happy bride; So following the still impulse from above, Down the green slope we wind with airy glide, And pitch our snowy tent on that fair water's side.

Ah me! even now I see before me stand, Among the verdant holly-boughs half hid, The little radiant airy pyramid, Like some wild dwelling built in Fairy land.

As silently as gathering cloud it rose, And seems a cloud descended on the earth, Disturbing not the Sabbath-day's repose, Yet gently stirring at the quiet birth Of every short-lived breeze: the sun-beams greet The beauteous stranger in the lonely bay; Close to its shading tree two streamlets meet, With gentle glide, as weary of their play.

And in the liquid l.u.s.tre of the lake Its image sleeps, reflected far below; Such image as the clouds of summer make, Clear seen amid the waveless water's glow, As slumbering infant still, and pure as April snow.

Wild though the dwelling seem, thus rising fair, A sudden stranger 'mid the sylvan scene, One spot of radiance on surrounding green, Human it is--and human souls are there!

Look through that opening in the canva.s.s wall, Through which by fits the scarce-felt breezes play, --Upon three happy souls thine eyes will fall, The summer lambs are not more blest than they!

On the green turf all motionless they lie, In dreams romantic as the dreams of sleep, The filmy air slow-glimmering on their eye, And in their ear the murmur of the deep.

Or haply now by some wild winding brook, Deep, silent pool, or waters rushing loud, In thought they visit many a fairy nook That rising mists in rainbow colours shroud, And ply the Angler's sport involved in mountain-cloud!

Yes! dear to us that solitary trade, 'Mid vernal peace in peacefulness pursued, Through rocky glen, wild moor, and hanging wood, White-flowering meadow, and romantic glade!

The sweetest visions of our boyish years Come to our spirits with a murmuring tone Of running waters,--and one stream appears, Remember'd all, tree, willow, bank, and stone!

How glad were we, when after sunny showers Its voice came to us issuing from the school!

How fled the vacant, solitary hours, By dancing rivulet, or silent pool!

And still our souls retain in manhood's prime The love of joys our childish years that blest; So now encircled by these hills sublime, We Anglers, wandering with a tranquil breast, Build in this happy vale a fairy bower of rest!

Within that bower are strewn in careless guise, Idle one day, the angler's simple gear; Lines that, as fine as floating gossamer, Dropt softly on the stream the silken flies; The limber rod that shook its trembling length, Almost as airy as the line it threw, Yet often bending in an arch of strength When the tired salmon rose at last to view, Now lightly leans across the rushy bed, On which at night we dream of sports by day; And, empty now, beside it close is laid The goodly pannier framed of osiers gray; And, maple bowl in which we wont to bring The limpid water from the morning wave, Or from some mossy and sequester'd spring To which dark rocks a grateful coolness gave, Such as might Hermit use in solitary cave!

And ne'er did Hermit, with a purer breast, Amid the depths of sylvan silence pray, Than prayed we friends on that mild quiet day, By G.o.d and man beloved, the day of rest!

All pa.s.sions in our souls were lull'd to sleep, Ev'n by the power of Nature's holy bliss; While Innocence her watch in peace did keep Over the spirit's thoughtful happiness!

We view'd the green earth with a loving look, Like us rejoicing in the gracious sky; A voice came to us from the running brook That seem'd to breathe a grateful melody.

Then all things seem'd embued with life and sense, And as from dreams with kindling smiles to wake, Happy in beauty and in innocence; While, pleased our inward quiet to partake, Lay hush'd, as in a trance, the scarcely-breathing lake.

Yet think not, in this wild and fairy spot, This mingled happiness of earth and heaven, Which to our hearts this Sabbath-day was given, Think not, that far-off friends were quite forgot.

Helm-crag arose before our half-closed eyes With colours brighter than the brightening dove; Beneath that guardian mount a [2]cottage lies Encircled by the halo breathed from Love!

And sweet that dwelling[3] rests upon the brow (Beneath its sycamore) of Orest-hill, As if it smiled on Windermere below, Her green recesses and her islands still!

Thus, gently-blended many a human thought With those that peace and solitude supplied, Till in our hearts the moving kindness wrought With gradual influence, like a flowing tide, And for the lovely sound of human voice we sigh'd.

And hark! a laugh, with voices blended, stole Across the water, echoing from the sh.o.r.e!

And during pauses short, the beating oar Brings the glad music closer to the soul.

We leave our tent; and lo! a lovely sight Glides like a living creature through the air, For air the water seems thus pa.s.sing bright, A living creature beautiful and fair!

Nearer it glides; and now the radiant glow That on its radiant shadow seems to float, Turns to a virgin band, a glorious shew, Rowing with happy smiles a little boat.

Towards the tent their lingering course they steer, And cheerful now upon the sh.o.r.e they stand, In maiden bashfulness, yet free from fear, And by our side, gay-moving hand in hand, Into our tent they go, a beauteous sister-band!

Scarce from our hearts had gone the sweet surprise, Which this glad troop of rural maids awoke; Scarce had a more familiar kindness broke From the mild l.u.s.tre of their smiling eyes, Ere the tent seem'd encircled by the sound Of many voices; in an instant stood Men, women, children, all the circle round, And with a friendly joy the strangers view'd, Strange was it to behold this gladsome crowd Our late so solitary dwelling fill; And strange to hear their greetings mingling loud Where all before was undisturb'd and still.

Yet was the stir delightful to our ear, And moved to happiness our inmost blood, The sudden change, the unexpected cheer, Breaking like sunshine on a pensive mood, This breath and voice of life in seeming solitude!

Hard task it was, in our small tent to find Seats for our quickly-gather'd company; But in them all was such a mirthful glee, I ween they soon were seated to their mind!

Some viewing with a hesitating look The panniers that contained our travelling fare, On them at last their humble station took, Pleased at the thought, and with a smiling air.