The stars of midnight shall be dear

To her; and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place

Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound

And vital feelings of delight

Shall rear her form to stately height,

Her virgin bosom swell;

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give

While she and I together live

Here in this happy dell."

Thus Nature spake-The work was done

How soon my Lucy's race was run!

She died, and left to me

This heath, this calm, and quiet scene;

The memory of what has been,

And never more will be.

A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL.

Comp. 1799.

Pub. 1800.

[Written in Germany.]

A SLUMBER did my spirit seal;

I had no human fears:

She seemed a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force;

She neither hears nor sees;

Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees.

ART thou a Statist1 in the van
Of public conflicts trained and bred ?2
-First learn to love one living man;
Then may'st thou think upon the dead.

A Lawyer art thou ?-draw not nigh!
Go, carry to some fitter places
The keenness of that practised eye,
The hardness of that sallow face.

Art thou a Man of purple cheer?
A rosy Man, right plump to see?
Approach; yet, Doctor, not too near,
This grave no cushion is for thee.

Or art thou one of gallant pride,"
A Soldier and no man of chaff ?
Welcome!-but lay thy sword aside,
And lean upon a peasant's staff.

1

Physician art thou? one all eyes,
Philosopher a fingering slave,
One that would peep and botanize
Upon his mother's grave?

Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece,
O turn aside, and take, I pray,
That he below may rest in peace,
Thy ever-dwindling soul, away!1

A Moralist perchance appears;

1936.

Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod:
And he has neither eyes nor ears;
Himself his world, and his own God;

One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling
Nor form, nor feeling, great or small;2
A reasoning, self-sufficing thing,

An intellectual All-in-all!

Shut close the door; press down the latch;

Sleep in thy intellectual crust;

Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch
Near this unprofitable dust.

But who is He, with modest looks,
And clad in homely russet brown?
He murmurs near the running brooks
A music sweeter than their own.

He is retired as noontide dew,

Or fountain in a noon-day grove;

And you must love him, ere to you
He will seem worthy of your love.

The outward shows of sky and earth,
Of hill and valley, he has viewed;
And impulses of deeper birth
Have come to him in solitude.

In common things that round us lie
Some random truths he can impart,—
The harvest of a quiet eye

That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

But he is weak; both Man and Boy,
Hath been a idler in the land;
Contented if he might enjoy
The things which others understand.

-Come hither in thy hour of strength;
Come, weak as is a breaking wave!
Here stretch thy body at full length;

Or build thy house upon this grave?

See the Fenwick note to the poem, "Lines written in Germany, &c." --ED.

ADDRESS TO THE SCHOLARS OF THE VILLAGE

SCHOOL OF

Comp. 1799.

Pub. 1845.

[Composed at Goslar, in Germany.]

I COME, ye little noisy Crew,
Not long your pastime to prevent;
I heard the blessing which to you
Our common Friend and Father sent.

I kissed his cheek before he died;
And when his breath was fled,
I raised, while kneeling by his side,
His hand-it dropped like lead.
Your hands, dear Little-ones, do all
That can be done, will never fall
Like his till they are dead.
By night or day, blow foul or fair,
Ne'er will the best of all your train
Play with the locks of his white hair
Or stand between his knees again.

Here did he sit confined for hours;
But he could see the woods and plains,
Could hear the wind and mark the showers
Come streaming down the streaming panes.
Now stretched beneath his grass-green mound

He rests a prisoner of the ground.
He loved the breathing air,

He loved the sun, but if it rise

Or set, to him where now he lies,
Brings not a moment's care.

Alas! what idle words; but take

The Dirge which for our Master's sake
And yours, love prompted me to make.
The rhymes so homely in attire
With learned ears may ill agree,

But chanted by your Orphan Quire
Will make a touching melody.

DIRGE.

Mourn, Shepherd, near thy old grey stone;

Thou Angler, by the silent flood;

And mourn when thou art all alone,

Thou Woodman, in the distant wood!