WRITTEN IN RETIREMENT, IN A MOUN
Nec vixit malè, qui natus moriensque fefellit.
DRIVEN from the sweet society of man,
Where shall the solitary being find
Companions for his thoughts, associates
Meet and instructive?-May the simple lay
Point out to those by adverse circumstance,
And manifold adventure, separate
From cheerful haunts of man, to those divorc'd
For ever from the smiles of fickle fortune,
Haply some soothing solaces of pain,
Some secret sources of concealed delight,
Innocent, yet ennobling, free to all,
And independent of another's will.
Man hath an eye to see; but, indisposed, Neglects the gift, save in the gaudy scene Of glittering art. But there are forms unknown, Save to the watchful, meditative eye,
Which yield sincere delight, The harmonious
Of nature, and the harmonious scenes of art,-
Where modest art, not striving for a vain
Pre-eminence, is nature's minister,
Affect a feeling deeper than the sense
Of beauty thoughts of moral good they raise,
Visions of innocence, and holy peace;
Not those fantastic dreams of old Romance,
And pastoral Folly; these severe and pure,
As those enervating, corrupt, inane.
Can heart unmoved, that hath a sentiment
Of goodness left, the cottager behold,
Who duly to his toil goes forth at morn,
And brings at close of each laborious week
His hard-earned pittance; while his partner's
thrift
In wholesome fare discreetly parcels out
The fruit of honest industry. His babes
Cleanly, though coarsely clad, his neat fire-side,
Bespeak accordant industry at home;
And save when sickness visits-common foe
Of rich and poor-the unregarded hut,
Where dwells this humble pair, go when you
feast upon a scene of peace.
Nor do domestic scenes in rural life Alone delight the grey stone church, the cot Of rudest fabric, or the pastoral farm, Placed midway on some tempest-howling hill, Protected solemnly by ancient pines, Are not unnoticed by the poet's eye, Nor by his heart unfelt.*
To which I often turn; the rustic bridge
'Neath whose grey arch, in days of wintry gloom,
Whitens far off the torrent's foam; the bridge;
The inn for tired foot-passenger, who haunts
These seldom trodden scenes; the village school,
The village green, where little rustics sport,
And dance, and sing; the mill, the waterfall,
Make up the measure of its simple charms;
*This is as exact a description, as it is in the power of the Author to give, of a scene on which a little knot of buildings is collected together, situated about two miles from Ambleside, Westmoreland, and called Skelwith Bridge.
But, these all lie embosomed where the swell
Of mighty mountains, and untravelled hills,
Protects them from the intrusive eye of man,
And wanton Art's capriciousness: this knot
Of little dwellings, should the night o'ertake
The weary mountaineer, with glimmering light
Might haply cheer the wanderer: should his
hand
The latch uplift, a cordial welcome there
Might chance await his weary form; perchance
The foaming can, the gossip's merry tale,
The blazing hearth, and kind officiousness,
Might rouse the sense of long-forgotten joy.
*Mark yon grey scar, where, from the rifted cliff,
The holly, birch, the oak, the yew, and ash,
Start; while the huge mass of that hanging rock,
Cloathed with the ivy's mantling evergreen,
Resembles most some fortress imminent,
Or tower of ancient castle, piled alone
* This description also is topographically exact. The scene is to be found on the right hand side of the river Brathay, about a mile and a half from Ambleside, and is seen to most advantage from the opposite side of that stream.
On pathless height abrupt, 'mid woods and wilds, And savage precipice: in wintry hours
When, like dishevelled tresses; brown sére leaves,
'Mid here and there some haply interspersed
Of sickly yellow, some of blacker dye,——
Rustling with bleak winds, shiver on the oak,
Still the green ivy mantles the grey scar,
And shadowy pines wave darkling; mingled hues
From tawny oak, the ivy, rock, and pine,
Enrich the wild, fantastic imagery.
But when the smiling hours of spring advance,
And vernal suns arise, the slender birth ch
First grateful yields its bloom to fostering gales
Trembling with fairy leaf of feathery gold:
Its silvery stems innumerable, like shafts
Taper and glossy, mock the forest's gloom,
And through its depths conspicuously shine,
As polished pillars of white marble, seen
At night, in some old temple's vast expanse.
Nor, leaving loftier scenes, in days of spring, Do shady lanes retired, a mean delight Afford;-'mid leafy thicket, plume-like fern, On mossy bank, there pale primroses peep; The harebell, orchis, and wild strawberry,
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