1

Our Human-nature throws away

Its second twilight, and looks gay;
A land of promise and of pride
Unfolding, wide as life is wide.

Ah! see her helpless Charge! enclosed
Within himself it seems, composed;
To fear of loss, and hope of gain,
The strife of happiness and pain,
Utterly dead! yet, in the guise
Of little infants, when their eyes
Begin to follow to and fro

The persons that before them go,
He tracks her motions, quick or slow.
Her buoyant spirit can prevail
Where common cheerfulness would fail;
She strikes upon him with the heat
Of July suns; he feels it sweet;
An animal delight though dim!
'Tis all that now remains for him.

1827.

The more I looked, I wondered more-
And, while I scanned them o'er and o'er, 1
Some inward trouble suddenly

1

Broke from the Matron's strong black eye?
A remnant of uneasy light,

A flash of something over-bright!

Nor long this mystery did detain

My thoughts;-she told in pensive strain1
That she had borne a heavy yoke,
Been striken by a twofold stroke;
Ill health of body; and had pined
Beneath worse ailments of the mind.

So be it but let praise ascend
To Him who is our lord and friend!
Who from disease and suffering
Hath called for thee a second spring;
Repaid thee for that sore distress
By no untimely joyousness;

Which makes of thine a blissful state;

And cheers thy melancholy Mate !

"We were received with hearty welcome by a good woman, who, though above seventy years old, moved about as briskly as if she was only seventeen. Those parts of the house which we were to occupy were neat and clean; she showed me every corner, and, before I had been ten minutes in the house, opened her very drawers that I might see what a stock of linen she had; then asked how long we should stay, and said she wished we were come for three months. She was a most remarkable person; the alacrity with which she ran up-stairs when we rung the bell, and guessed at, and strove to prevent, our wants was surprising; she had a quick eye, and keen strong features, and a joyousness in her motions, like what used to be in old Molly when she was particularly elated. I found afterwards that she had been subject to fits of dejection and ill-health: we then conjectured that her overflowing gaiety and strength might in part be attributed to the same cause as her former dejection. Her husband was deaf and infirm, and sate in a chair with scarcely the power to move a limb-an affecting contrast! The old woman said they had been a very hardworking pair; they had wrought like slaves at their trade her husband had been a currier; and she told me how they had portioned off their daughters with money, and each a feather bed, and that in their old age they had laid out the little they could spare in building and

1 1827.

And how she made this matter plain,

And told me in a thoughtful strain,

1807.

furnishing that house, and she added with pride that she had lived in her youth in the family of Lady Egerton, who was no high lady, and now was in the habit of coming to her house whenever she was at Jedburgh, and a hundred other things; for when she once began with Lady Egerton, she did not know how to stop, nor did I wish it, for she was very entertaining. Mr Scott sat with us an hour or two, and repeated a part of the Lay of the Last Minstrel. When he was gone

our hostess came to see if we wanted anything, and to wish us goodnight. On all occasions her manners were governed by the same spirit: there was no withdrawing one's attention from her. We were so much interested that William, long afterwards, thought it worth while to express in verse the sensations which she had excited, and which then remained as vividly in his mind as at the moment when we lost sight of Jedburgh." (From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, Sept. 20, 1803.)-ED.

ON APPROACHING HOME, AFTER A TOUR

IN SCOTLAND.

Comp. Sept. 25, 1803.

Pub. 1815.

[This was actually composed the last day of our tour between Dalston and Grasmere.]

FLY, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale! 1
Say that we come, and come by this day's light;
Fly upon swiftest wing round field and height,2
But chiefly let one Cottage hear the tale;
There let a mystery of joy prevail,
The kitten frolic, like a gamesome sprite,3
And Rover whine, as at a second sight
Of near-approaching good that shall not fail:

1 1836.

Fly, some kind spirit, fly to Grasmere Vale!

1815.

2 1836.

Glad tidings! spread them over field and height,

1815.

And from that Infant's face let joy appear;
Yea, let our Mary's one companion child-
That hath her six weeks' solitude beguiled
With intimations manifold and dear,

While we have wandered over wood and wild—
Smile on his Mother now with bolder cheer.

"Sunday, September 25, 1803.-A beautiful autumnal day. Breakfasted at a public-house by the road-side; dined at Threlkeld; arrived at home between eight and nine o'clock, where we found Mary in perfect health, Joanna Hutchinson with her, and little John asleep in the clothes-basket by the fire."-(From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, 1803.)-ED.

THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY.

A TALE TOLD BY THE FIRE-SIDE, AFTER RETURNING to the
VALE OF GRASMERE.

[The story was told me by George Mackereth, for many years parishclerk of Grasmere. He had been an eye-witness of the occurence. The vessel in reality was a washing-tub, which the little fellow had met with on the shores of the Loch.]

Now we are tired of boisterous joy,
Have romped enough, my little Boy!
Jane hangs her head upon my breast,
And you shall bring your stool and rest;
This corner is your own.

There! take your seat, and let me see

That you can listen quietly:

And, as I promised, I will tell

That strange adventure which befel

A poor blind Highland Boy.

A Highland Boy!-why call him so?
Because, my Darlings, ye must know
That, under hills which rise like towers,1
Far higher hills than these of ours!
He from his birth had lived.

He ne'er had seen one earthly sight,
The sun, the day; the stars, the night;
Or tree, or butterfly, or flower,

Or fish in stream, or bird in bower,
Or woman, man, or child.

And yet he neither drooped nor pined,
Nor had a melancholy mind;

For God took pity on the Boy,

And was his friend; and gave him joy
Of which we nothing know.

His Mother, too, no doubt, above
Her other children him did love:

For, was she here, or was she there,
She thought of him with constant care,
And more than mother's love.

And proud she was of heart, when, clad
In crimson stockings, tartan plaid,
And bonnet with a feather gay,
To Kirk he on the sabbath day
Went hand in hand with her.