MOUNTAIN stream! the shepherd and his cot
Are privileged inmates of deep solitude;
Nor would the nicest anchorite exclude
A field or two of brighter green, or plot
Of tillage-ground, that seemeth like a spot
Of stationary sunshine: - thou hast viewed
These only, Duddon! with their paths renewed
By fits and starts, yet this contents thee not.
Thee hath some awful spirit impelled to leave,
Utterly to desert, the haunts of men,
Though simple thy companions were and few;
And through this wilderness a passage cleave,
Attended but by thy own voice, save when
The clouds and fowls of the air thy way pursue!
FROM this deep chasm, where quivering sunbeams play
Upon its loftiest crags, mine eyes behold
A gloomy niche, capacious, blank, and cold;
A concave free from shrubs and mosses gray;
In semblance fresh, as if, with dire affray,
Some statue, placed amid these regions old
For tutelary service, thence had rolled,
Startling the flight of timid yesterday!
Was it by mortals sculptured?
weary slaves
Of slow endeavor! or abruptly cast
Into rude shape by fire, with roaring blast
Tempestuously let loose from central caves?
Or fashioned by the turbulence of waves,
Then when o'er highest hills the deluge passed? William Wordsworth.
WHENCE that low voice? A whisper from the heart,
That told of days long past, when here I roved
With friends and kindred tenderly beloved;
Some who had early mandates to depart,
Yet are allowed to steal my path athwart
By Duddon's side; once more do we unite,
Once more beneath the kind earth's tranquil light,
And smothered joys into new being start.
From her unworthy seat, the cloudy stall
Of time, breaks forth triumphant Memory;
Her glistening tresses bound, yet light and free
As golden locks of birch, that rise and fall
On gales that breathe too gently to recall
Aught of the fading year's inclemency!
O long as Duddon 'twixt his cloud-girt walls
Thridding the woody chambers of the hills
Warbles from vaulted grot and pebbled halls
Welcome or farewell to the meadow rills;
So long as linnets chant low madrigals
Near that brown nook the laborer whistling tills,
Or the late-reddening apple forms and falls
Mid dewy brakes the autumnal redbreast thrills,
So long, last poet of the great old race,
Shall thy broad song through England's bosom roll, A river singing anthems in its placé,
And be to later England as a soul.
Glory to Him who made thee, and increase
To them that hear thy word, of love and peace!
WHEN first that precinct sacrosanct I trod
Autumn was there, but Autumn just begun;
Fronting the portals of a sinking sun,
The queen of quietude in vapor stood,
Her sceptre o'er the dimly crimsoned wood
Resting in light. The year's great work was done;
Summer had vanished, and repinings none
Troubled the pulse of thoughtful gratitude.
Wordsworth! the autumn of our English song
Art thou; 't was thine our vesper psalms to sing:
Chaucer sang matins; sweet his note and strong,
His singing-robe the green, white garb of Spring:
Thou like the dying year art rightly stoled,
Pontific purple and dark harvest gold.
Dupath Well.
DUPATH WELL.
EAR how the noble Siward died!
The leech hath told the woful bride "Tis vain his passing hour is nigh,
And death must quench her warrior's eye.
"Bring me," he said, "the steel I wore, When Dupath spring was dark with gore; The spear I raised for Githa's glove, Those trophies of my wars and love."
Upright he sate within the bed,
The helm on his unyielding head;
Sternly he leaned upon his spear,
He knew his passing hour was near.
"Githa! thine hand!" How wild that cry,
How fiercely glared his flashing eye!
"Sound! herald!" was his shout of pride:
Hear how the noble Siward died.
A roof must shade that storied stream,
Her dying lord's remembered theme;
A daily vow that lady said,
Where glory wreathed the hero dead.
Gaze, maiden, gaze on Dupath Well.
Time yet hath spared that solemn cell,
In memory of old love and pride:
Hear how the noble Siward died.
THIS city is celebrated
In the whole empire of the Britons.
The road to it is steep.
It is surrounded with rocks,
And with curious plants.
The Wear flows round it,
A river of rapid waves;
And there live in it
Fishes of various kinds,
Mingling with the floods.
And there grow
Great forests;
There live in the recesses
Wild animals of many sorts;
In the deep valleys
Deer innumerable.
There is in this city
Also well known to men
|