I HAVE a debt of my heart's own to Thee, School of my Soul, old lime and cloister shade, Which I, strange suitor, should lament to see Fully acquitted and exactly paid.
The first ripe taste of manhood's best delights, Knowledge imbibed, while mind and heart agree, In sweet belated talk on winter nights,
With friends whom growing time keeps dear to me,- Such things I owe thee, and not only these: I owe thee the far beaconing memories
Of the young dead, who, having crossed the tide Of Life where it was narrow, deep, and clear, Now cast their brightness from the further side. On the dark-flowing hours I breast in fear.
ON COWPER'S GARDEN AT OLNEY.
FROM this forlornest place, at morn and even, Issues a voice imperative, " Begone,
All ye that let your vermin thoughts creep on Beneath the unheeded thunders of high Heaven ; Nor welcome they, who, when free grace is given To flee from usual life's dominion,
Soon as the moving scene or time is gone, Return, like penitents unfitly shriven. But Ye, who long have wooed the memory Of this great Victim of sublime despair, Encompassed round with evil as with air, Yet crying, "God is good, and sinful He,"- Remain, and feel how better 'tis to drink
Of Truth to Madness even than shun that fountain's
WHEN all these order'd fields were one wet moor, This Rock, that is for us a single sight Of wonderment and picturesque delight, Was the salvation of the wandering Poor ; The Hermit here supported to his door The tottering steps invited by the light That, as a lower star, transpierc'd the night, And gave a blessed rest on that hard floor; Yet have we now a compensating gain— The Rock has long return'd to nature's use, Dismantled of its humanising power ; But, 'mid the civilised and fertile plain, We gaily climb or pleasurably muse
On God's protection of each opening hour.
THE Men who called their passion piety, And wrecked this noble argosy of faith,- They little thought how beauteous could be Death, How fair the face of Time's aye-deepening sea!
Nor arms that desolate, nor years that flee,
Nor hearts that fail, can utterly deflower
This grassy floor of sacramental power,
Where we now stand communicants-even We, We of this latter, still protéstant age, With priestly ministrations of the Sun
And Moon and multitudinous quire of stars Maintain this consecration, and assuage
With tender thoughts the past of weary wars,
Masking with good that ill which cannot be undone.
THE CAVE OF THE DYING DEER,
ON THE BANKS OF ULLSWATER.
To our instructed patient-seeking eyes Each day reveals the outer world more clear, Yet Life and Death, Nature's solemnities, Darkly as through a glass alone appear; Whether the thing to scan
Be meditative Man
Or the poor instincts of a dying Deer.
Vex not the inland summer-calm with storms, Beauteous Ullswater! be as calm and grave As when the snows invest the mountain forms, And thy black crystal sleeps without a wave; Triumphant Aira Force!
Hold in thy torrent-course,—
Let Nature pity where she cannot save.
The noblest Stag of all Gowbarrow's park Is struck, but by no mortal hunter's hand; There is no hound to see, no horn to hark, Yet are his legs too weary-weak to stand:
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