It was in sooth a happy thought
That grafted, on so fair a spot,

So confident a token

Of coming good; the charm is fled,
Indulgent centuries spun a thread,

Which one harsh day has broken.

Alas! for him who gave the word;
Could he no sympathy afford,

Derived from earth or heaven,
To hearts so oft by hope betrayed:
Their very wishes wanted aid

Which here was freely given?

Where, for the love-lorn maiden's wound,
Will now so readily be found
A balm of expectation?

Anxious for far-off children, where
Shall mothers breathe a like sweet air
Of home-felt consolation?

And not unfelt will prove the loss
'Mid trivial care and petty cross

And each day's shallow grief;

Though the most easily beguiled
Were oft among the first that smiled
At their own fond belief.

VOL. II.

If still the reckless change we mourn,
A reconciling thought may turn

To harm that might lurk here,
Ere judgment prompted from within
Fit aims, with courage to begin,
And strength to persevere.

P

Or when the church-clock's knell profound
To Time's first step across the bound
Of midnight makes reply;

Time pressing on with starry crest,
To filial sleep upon the breast
Of dread eternity.

1828.

XLII.

THE WISHING-GATE DESTROYED.

'Tis gone with old belief and dream
That round it clung, and tempting scheme
Released from fear and doubt;

And the bright landscape too must lie,
By this blank wall, from every eye,
Relentlessly shut out.

Bear witness ye who seldom passed
That opening-but a look ye cast
Upon the lake below,

What spirit-stirring power it gained
From faith which here was entertained,
Though reason might say no.

Blest is that ground, where, o'er the springs
Of history, Glory claps her wings,

Fame sheds the exulting tear; Yet earth is wide, and many a nook Unheard of is, like this, a book

For modest meanings dear.

It was in sooth a happy thought
That grafted, on so fair a spot,

So confident a token

Of coming good;--the charm is fled,
Indulgent centuries spun a thread,

Which one harsh day has broken.

Alas! for him who gave the word;
Could he no sympathy afford,

Derived from earth or heaven,
To hearts so oft by hope betrayed:
Their very wishes wanted aid

Which here was freely given?

Where, for the love-lorn maiden's wound,
Will now so readily be found
A balm of expectation?
Anxious for far-off children, where
Shall mothers breathe a like sweet air
Of home-felt consolation?

And not unfelt will prove the loss
'Mid trivial care and petty cross

And each day's shallow grief;

Though the most easily beguiled
Were oft among the first that smiled
At their own fond belief.

VOL. II.

If still the reckless change we mourn,
A reconciling thought may turn

To harm that might lurk here,
Ere judgment prompted from within
Fit aims, with courage to begin,
And strength to persevere.

Not Fortune's slave is Man: our state
Enjoins, while firm resolves await
On wishes just and wise,
That strenuous action follow both,
And life be one perpetual growth
Of heaven-ward enterprise.

So taught, so trained, we boldly face
All accidents of time and place ;
Whatever props may fail,

Trust in that sovereign law can spread
New glory o'er the mountain's head,
Fresh beauty through the valc.

That truth informing mind and heart, The simplest cottager may part,

Ungrieved, with charm and spell; And yet, lost Wishing-gate, to thee The voice of grateful memory

Shall bid a kind farewell!

See Note at the end of the Volume.

XLIII.

THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK.

[WRITTEN at Rydal Mount. The Rock stands on the right hand a little way leading up the middle road from Rydal to Grasmere. We have been in the habit of calling it the glow-worm rock from the number of glow-worms we have often seen hanging on it as described. The tuft of primrose has, I fear, been washed away by the heavy rains.]

A Rock there is whose homely front

The passing traveller slights;

Yet there the glow-worms hang their lamps,
Like stars, at various heights;

And one coy Primrose to that Rock

The vernal breeze invites.

What hideous warfare hath been waged,
What kingdoms overthrown,
Since first I spied that Primrose-tuft
And marked it for my own;
A lasting link in Nature's chain
From highest heaven let down!

The flowers, still faithful to the stems,
Their fellowship renew ;

The stems are faithful to the root,

That worketh out of view;

And to the rock the root adheres
In every fibre true.