XX.

TO THE RIVER DERWENT.

AMONG the mountains were we nursed, loved Stream!
Thou, near the eagle's nest - within brief sail,
I, of his bold wing floating on the gale,
Where thy deep voice could lull me! - Faint the beam
Of human life when first allowed to gleam

On mortal notice. - Glory of the Vale,

Such thy meek outset, with a crown though frail
Kept in perpetual verdure by the steam

Of thy soft breath! Less vivid wreath entwined
Nemæan Victor's brow; less bright was worn,
Meed of some Roman Chief. in triumph borne
With captives chained; and shedding from his car
The sunset splendours of a finished war
Upon the proud enslavers of mankind!

XXI.

COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE VALLEYS OF WESTMORLAND,
ON EASTER SUNDAY.

WITH each recurrence of this glorious morn

That saw the Saviour in his human frame

Rise from the dead, erewhile the Cottage-dame
Put on fresh raiment till that hour unworn:

Domestic hands the home-bred wool had shorn,
And she who span it culled the daintiest fleece,
In thoughtful reverence to the Prince of Peace,
Whose temples bled beneath the platted thorn.
A blest estate when piety sublime

These humble props disdained not! O green dales!
Sad may I be who heard your sabbath chime
When Art's abused inventions were unknown;
Kind Nature's various wealth was all your own;
And benefits were weighed in Reason's scales!

XXII.

GRIEF, thou hast lost an ever-ready Friend
Now that the cottage spinning-wheel is mute;
And Care a Comforter that best could suit
Her froward mood, and softliest reprehend;
And Love.

a Charmer's voice, that used to lend,

More efficaciously than aught that flows

From harp or lute, kind influence to compose

The throbbing pulse, -else troubled without end:

Ev'n Joy could tell, Joy craving truce and rest

From her own overflow, what power sedate
On those revolving motions did await
Assiduously, to soothe her aching breast-
And to a point of just relief — abate
The mantling triumphs of a day too blest.

XXIII.

TO S. H.

EXCUSE is needless when with love sincere

Of occupation, not by fashion led,

Thou turn'st the Wheel that slept with dust o'erspread; My nerves from no such murmur shrink,- tho' near, Soft as the Dorhawk's to a distant ear,

When twilight shades bedim the mountain's head. She who was feigned to spin our vital thread Might smile, O Lady! on a task once dear

To household virtues. Venerable Art,

Torn from the Poor! yet will kind Heaven protect

Its own, not left without a guiding chart,
If Rulers, trusting with undue respect

To proud discoveries of the Intellect,

Sanction the pillage of man's ancient heart.

OFT have I seen, ere Time had ploughed my cheek,

Matrons and Sires

who, punctual to the call

Of their loved Church, on Fast or Festival

Through the long year the House of Prayer would seek:
By Christmas snows, by visitation bleak

Of Easter winds, unscared, from Hut or Hall
They came to lowly bench or sculptured Stall,
But with one fervour of devotion meek.

I see the places where they once were known,
And ask, surrounded even by kneeling crowds,
Is ancient Piety for ever flown?

Alas! even then they seemed like fleecy clouds

That, struggling through the western sky, have won Their pensive light from a departed sun!