Has carried far into his heart the voice

Of mountain torrents; or the visible scene
Would enter unawares into his mind
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,

Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received Into the bosom of the steady lake.

This boy was taken from his mates, and died
In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old.
Fair is the spot, most beautiful the vale
Where he was born: the grassy church-yard
hangs

Upon a slope above the village school;
And through that church-yard when my way

has led

At evening, I believe, that oftentimes

A long half-hour together I have stood
Mute-looking at the grave in which he lies!

1799.

NUTTING.

It seems a day

(I speak of one from many singled out)
One of those heavenly days which cannot die ;
When, in the eagerness of boyish hope,

I left our cottage threshold, sallying forth
With a huge wallet o'er my shoulder slung,
A nutting-crook in hand, and turned my steps

Towards the distant woods, a Figure quaint, Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds Which for that service had been husbanded, By exhortation of my frugal Dame.

Motley accoutrement, of power to smile

At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,—and in truth,

More ragged than need was! Among the woods,

And o'er the pathless rocks, I forced my way,
Until, at length, I came to one dear nook
Unvisited, where not a broken bough
Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious
sign

Of devastation, but the hazels rose

Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung, A virgin scene !—A little while I stood, Breathing with such suppression of the heart As joy delights in; and with wise restraint Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed

The banquet,—or beneath the trees I sate Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played;

A temper known to those, who, after long
And weary expectation, have been blest
With sudden happiness beyond all hope.-
Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves
The violets of five seasons re-appear
And fade, unseen by any human eye;
Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on

For ever, and I saw the sparkling foam,
And with my cheek on one of those green stones
That, fleeced with moss, beneath the shady
trees,

Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep,
I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound,
In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay
Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure,
The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,
Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,
And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,
And dragged to earth both branch and bough,
with crash

And merciless ravage; and the shady nook
Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower,
Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up
Their quiet being: and, unless I now
Confound my present feelings with the past,
Even then, when from the bower I turned away
Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,
I felt a sense of pain when I beheld
The silent trees and the intruding sky.-
Then, dearest Maiden! move along these
shades

In gentleness of heart: with gentle hand
Touch-for there is a spirit in the woods.

LUCY POEMS.

I.

66 SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN

WAYS."

SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,

A maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stone
Half-hidden from the eye!

Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and, oh,

1799.

The difference to me!

II.

"I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN."

I TRAVELLED among unknown men,
In lands beyond the sea;

Nor, England! did I know till then
What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time; for still I seem
To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire;

And she I cherished turned her wheel
Beside an English fire.

Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed
The bowers where Lucy played;

And thine too is the last green field
That Lucy's eyes surveyed.