Of his own Household: nor, while from his bed He looks, through the open door-place, toward the lake
And to the stirring breezes, does he want
Creations lovely as the work of sleep, -
Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy!
WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL ON A STONE, ON THE SIDE
OF THE MOUNTAIN OF BLACK COMB.
STAY, bold Adventurer; rest awhile thy limbs
On this commodious Seat! for much remains
Of hard ascent before thou reach the top
Of this huge Eminence, — from blackness named
And to far-travelled storms of sea and land
A favorite spot of tournament and war!
But thee may no such boisterous visitants
Molest; may gentle breezes fan thy brow;
And neither cloud conceal, nor misty air
Bedim, the grand terraqueous spectacle,
From centre to circumference unveiled!
Know, if thou grudge not to prolong thy rest,
That on the summit whither thou art bound
A geographic Laborer pitched his tent,
With books supplied and instruments of art,
To measure height and distance; lonely task,
Week after week pursued! — To him was given
Full many a glimpse (but sparingly bestowed On timid man) of Nature's processes
Upon the exalted hills. He made report
That once, while there he plied his studious work
Within that canvas Dwelling, colors, lines,
And the whole surface of the out-spread map,
Became invisible for all around
As if the golden day itself had been
Extinguished in a moment; total gloom,
In which he sat alone, with unclosed eyes,
Upon the blinded mountain's silent top!
WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL UPON A STONE, THE LAR GEST OF A HEAP LYING NEAR A DESERTED QUARRY, UPOJ ONE OF THE ISLANDS AT RYDAL.
STRANGER! this hillock of misshapen stones
Is not a Ruin spared or made by time,
Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the Cairn
Of some old British Chief: 't is nothing more
Than the rude embryo of a little Dome
Or Pleasure-house, once destined to be built
Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle.
But, as it chanced, Sir William having learned
That from the shore a full-grown man might wade, And make himself a freeman of this spot
At any hour he chose, the prudent Knight
Desisted, and the quarry and the mound
Are monuments of his unfinished task.
The block on which these lines are traced, perhaps,
Was once selected as the corner-stone
Of that intended Pile, which would have been
Some quaint odd plaything of elaborate skill,
So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush,
And other little builders who dwell here,
Had wondered at the work. But blame him not,
For old Sir William was a gentle Knight,
Bred in this vale, to which he appertained
With all his ancestry. Then peace to him,
And for the outrage which he had devised,
Entire forgiveness ! - But if thou art one
On fire with thy impatience to become
An inmate of these mountains, - if, disturbed
By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn
Out of the quiet rock the elements
Of thy trim Mansion destined soon to blaze
In snow-white splendor, think again; and, taught
By old Sir William and his quarry, leave
Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose;
There let the vernal slow-worm sun himself,
And let the redbreast hop from stone to stone.
IN these fair vales hath many a Tree
At Wordsworth's suit been spared;
And from the builder's hard this Stone,
For some rude beauty of its own,
Was rescued by the Bard:
So let it rest; and time will come
When here the tender-hearted
May heave a gentle sigh for him,
As one of the departed.
THE massy Ways, carried across these heights
By Roman perseverance, are destroyed,
Or hidden under ground, like sleeping worms.
How venture then to hope that Time will spare
This humble Walk? Yet on the mountain's side
A POET's hand first shaped it; and the steps
Of that same Bard — repeated to and fro
At morn, at noon, and under moonlight skies
Through the vicissitudes of many a year-
Forbade the weeds to creep o'er its gray line.
No longer, scattering to the heedless winds
The vocal raptures of fresh poesy,
Shall he frequent these precincts; locked no more
In earnest converse with beloved Friends,
Here will he gather stores of ready bliss.
As from the beds and borders of a garden
Choice flowers are gathered! But, if Power may
spring
Out of a farewell yearning, favored more
Than kindred wishes mated suitably
With vain regrets, · the Exile would consign
This Walk, his loved possession, to the care
Of those pure Minds that reverence the Muse.
INSCRIPTIONS SUPPOSED TO BE FOUND IN AND NEAR A HERMIT'S CELL.
HOPES, what are they? Beads of morning
Strung on slender blades of grass;
Or a spider's web adorning
In a strait and treacherous pass.
What are fears but voices airy,
Whispering harm where harm is not,
And deluding the unwary
Till the fatal bolt is shot?
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