INSCRIPTION

For the Spot where the HERMITAGE stood on St. Herbert's Island, Derwent-Water.

If Thou in the dear love of some one Friend

Hast been so happy, that thou know'st what thoughts
Will, sometimes, in the happiness of love

Make the heart sick, then wilt thou reverence
-St. Herbert hither came,

This quiet spot.

And here, for many seasons, from the world
Remov'd, and the affections of the world,

He dwelt in solitude.-But he had left

A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man lov'd
As his own soul. And, when within his cave
Alone he knelt before the crucifix

While o'er the Lake the cataract of Lodore

Peal'd to his orisons, and when he pac'd Along the beach of this small isle and thought Of his Companion, he would pray that both Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain So pray'd he :-as our Chronicles report,

Though here the Hermit number'd his last days, Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved Friend,

Those holy Men both died in the same hour.

LINES

Written with a pencil upon a stone in the wall of the House (an Out-house) on the Island at Grasmere.

Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen
Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintain'd
Proportions more harmonious, and approach'd
To somewhat of a closer fellowship

With the ideal grace. Yet as it is

Do take it in good part; for he, the poor
Vitruvius of our village, had no help

From the great City; never on the leaves
Of red Morocco folio saw display'd

The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts

Of Beauties yet unborn, the rustic Box,

Snug Cot, with Coach-house, Shed and Hermitage.

It is a homely Pile, yet to these walls

The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here
The new-dropp'd lamb finds shelter from the wind.
And hither does one Poet sometimes row

His Pinnace, a small vagrant Barge, up-piled
With plenteous store of heath and wither'd fern,
(A lading which he with his sickle cuts

Among the mountains,) and beneath this roof
He makes his summer couch, and here at noon
Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unshorn, the Sheep
Panting beneath the burthen of their wool

Lie round him, even as if they were a part

Of his own Household: nor, while from his bed He through that door-place looks toward the lake And to the stirring breezes, does he want Creations lovely as the work of sleep,

Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy.

To a SEXTON,

Let thy wheel-barrow alone.
Wherefore, Sexton, piling still

In thy Bone-house bone on bone?

'Tis already like a hill

In a field of battle made,

Where three thousand skulls are laid.

-These died in peace each with the other,

Father, Sister, Friend, and Brother.

Mark the spot to which I point !

From this platform eight feet square

Take not even a finger-joint:

Andrew's whole fire-side is there.