EMONT (EAMONT), THE RIVER. Above the abyss of common doom, To us descending to the tomb, So, like one weary and worn, who sinks And give us good rest, O good Lord!" 233 Dinah Maria Mulock Craik. Emont (Eamont), the River. MONASTIC RUINS. THE varied banks Of Emont, hitherto unnamed in song, Inspired, that river and those mouldering towers Have seen us side by side, when, having clomb The darksome windings of a broken stair, Or, not less pleased, lay on some turret's head, William Wordsworth. Esthwaite. LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE, WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE, ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, COMMANDING A BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT. [AY, traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands NAY, Far from all human dwelling: what if here No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb? What if the bee love not these barren boughs? Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves, That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. Who he was That piled these stones and with the mossy sod First covered o'er, and taught this aged tree No common soul. In youth by science nursed, Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth Which genius did not hallow; 'gainst the taint All but neglect. The world, for so it thought, And with the food of pride sustained his soul And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze - how lovely 't is Thou seest! — and he would gaze till it became Would he forget those beings to whose minds, The world and human life appeared a scene Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale If thou be one whose heart the holy forms Of young imagination have kept pure, Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride, Is littleness, that he who feels contempt Which he has never used, that thought with him Is ever on himself doth look on one The least of nature's works, one who might move The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds Unlawful, ever. O, be wiser, thou! Instructed that true knowledge leads to love; Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, William Wordsworth. Eton. ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE. E distant spires, ye antique towers, YE That crown the watery glade, Where grateful Science still adores Her Henry's holy shade; And ye, that from the stately brow Of Windsor's heights the expanse below Of grove, of lawn, of mead, survey, Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among Wanders the hoary Thames along His silver-winding way: Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! Ah, fields beloved in vain! Where once my careless childhood strayed, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing, My weary soul they seem to soothe, And, redolent of joy and youth, To breathe a second spring. Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen Disporting on thy margent green, The paths of pleasure trace; |