Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough, Each on the other heaped, along the line

Of the dry wreck. And, in our vacant mood, Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard,

That skimmed the surface of the dead calm lake, Suddenly halting now-a lifeless stand!

And starting off again with freak as sudden;
In all its sportive wanderings, all the while,
Making report of an invisible breeze

That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse,
Its playmate, rather say its moving soul.
And often, trifling with a privilege

Alike indulged to all, we paused, one now,
And now the other, to point out, perchance
To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fair
Either to be divided from the place

On which it grew, or to be left alone

To its own beauty. Many such there are,
Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall fern,
So stately, of the Queen Osmunda named;
Plant lovelier in its own retired abode

On Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by the side
Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere,
Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
So fared we that bright morning: from the fields,
Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth
Of reapers, men and women, boys and girls.
Delighted much to listen to those sounds,
And feeding thus our fancies, we advanced

Along the indented shore; when suddenly,
Through a thin veil of glittering haze was seen
Before us, on a point of jutting land,
The tall and upright figure of a man
Attired in peasant's garb, who stood alone,
Angling beside the margin of the lake.
"Improvident and reckless," we exclaimed,
"The man must be, who thus can lose a day
Of the mid-harvest, when the labourer's hire
Is ample, and some little might be stored
Wherewith to cheer him in the winter-time."
Thus talking of that peasant, we approached
Close to the spot where with his rod and line
He stood alone; whereat he turned his head
To greet us and we saw a man worn down
By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks
And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean
That for my single self I looked at them,
Forgetful of the body they sustained.-
Too weak to labour in the harvest field,
The man was using his best skill to gain
A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake
That knew not of his wants. I will not say
What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how
The happy idleness of that sweet morn,
With all its lovely images, was changed
To serious musing and to self-reproach.
Nor did we fail to see within ourselves
What need there is to be reserved in speech,
And temper all our thoughts with charity.

Therefore, unwilling to forget that day,
My friend, myself, and she who then received
The same admonishment, have called the place
By a memorial name, uncouth indeed
As e'er by mariner was given to bay

Or foreland, on a new-discovered coast;
And Point Rash Judgment is the name it bears.

1800.

HART-LEAP WELL.

Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about five miles from Richmond in Yorkshire, and near the side of the road that leads from Richmond to Askrigg. Its name is derived from a remarkable chase, the memory of which is preserved by the monuments spoken of in the second part of the following poem, which monuments do now exist as I have there described them.

THE knight had ridden down from Wensley
Moor

With the slow motion of a summer's cloud;
He turned aside towards a vassal's door,
And "Bring another horse !" he cried aloud.

"Another horse!" - That shout the vassal heard,

And saddled his best steed, a comely grey; Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third Which he had mounted on that glorious day.

Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes; The horse and horseman are a happy pair; But though Sir Walter like a falcon flies, There is a doleful silence in the air.

A rout this morning left Sir Walter's hall,
That as they galloped made the echoes roar ;
But horse and man are vanished one and all;
Such race, I think, was never seen before.

Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,
Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain :
Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind,
Follow, and up the weary mountain strain.

The knight hallooed, he cheered, and chid them on

With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern; But breath and eyesight fail: and, one by one, The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern.

Where is the throng, the tumult of the race?
The bugles that so joyfully were blown?
This chase it looks not like an earthly chase;
Sir Walter and the hart are left alone.

The poor hart toils along the mountain side;
I will not stop to tell how far he fled;
Nor will I mention by what death he died;
But now the knight beholds him lying dead.

Dismounting then, he leaned against a thorn; He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy : He neither cracked his whip, nor blew his horn, But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.

Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned, Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat: Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned; And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet. Upon his side the hart was lying stretched; His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill, And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched

The waters of the spring were trembling still.

And now, too happy for repose or rest,

(Never had living man such joyful lot!)

Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and

west,

And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot.

And climbing up the hill-(it was at least
Nine roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found
Three several hoof-marks which the hunted
beast

Had left imprinted on the grassy ground.

Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, "Till now Such sight was never seen by living eyes: Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow Down to the very fountain where he lies.