WHAT strong allurement draws, what spirit guides, To the
Thee, Vesper! brightening still, as if the nearer Planet Venus
Thou com'st to man's abode the spot grew dearer
Night after night? True is it Nature hides
Her treasures less and less.-Man now presides,
In power, where once he trembled in his weakness;
Science advances with gigantic strides ;

But are we aught enriched in love and meekness?
Aught dost thou see, bright Star! of pure and wise
More than in humbler times graced human story;
That makes our hearts more apt to sympathize
With heaven, our souls more fit for future glory,
When earth shall vanish from our closing eyes,
Ere we lie down in our last dormitory?

WANSFELL! this Household has a favoured lot, Wansfell
Living with liberty on thee to gaze,

To watch while Morn first crowns thee with

her rays,

Or when along thy breast serenely float

Evening's angelic clouds. Yet ne'er a note
Hath sounded (shame upon the Bard) thy praise
For all that thou, as if from heaven, hast brought,
Of glory lavished on our quiet days.

Bountiful Son of Earth! when we are gone
From every object dear to mortal sight,
As soon we shall be, may these words attest
How oft, to elevate our spirits, shone

The visionary majesties of light,

How in thy pensive glooms our hearts found rest.

Dec. 24, 1842

A lowly WHILE beams of orient light shoot wide and high, cloud and Deep in the vale a little rural Town

clouds of Breathes forth a cloud-like creature of its own, heavenly glory over That mounts not toward the radiant morning sky, Ambleside But, with a less ambitious sympathy,

Hangs o'er its Parent waking to the cares
Troubles and toils that every day prepares.
So Fancy, to the musing Poet's eye,

Endears that Lingerer. And how blest her sway
(Like influence never may my soul reject)
If the calm Heaven, now to its zenith decked
With glorious forms in numberless array,
To the lone shepherd on the hills disclose
Gleams from a world in which the saints repose.


A vision of In my mind's eye a Temple, like a cloud
a Temple Slowly surmounting some invidious hill,

Rose out of darkness: the bright Work stood still;
And might of its own beauty have been proud,
But it was fashioned and to God was vowed
By Virtues that diffused, in every part,
Spirit divine through forms of human art:
Faith had her arch-her arch, when winds blow

Into the consciousness of safety thrilled;

And Love her towers of dread foundation laid Under the grave of things; Hope had her spire Star-high, and pointing still to something higher; Trembling I gazed, but heard a voice-it said, "Hell-gates are powerless Phantoms when we build."

Is then no nook of English ground secure

On the Pro

From rash assault? Schemes of retirement sown jected Kendal

In youth, and 'mid the busy world kept pure

and Winder

mere Rail

As when their earliest flowers of hope were blown, way
Must perish ;-how can they this blight endure? Oct. 12, 1844
And must he too the ruthless change bemoan
Who scorns a false utilitarian lure

Mid his paternal fields at random thrown?
Baffle the threat, bright Scene, from Orrest-head
Given to the pausing traveller's rapturous glance:
Plead for thy peace, thou beautiful romance
Of nature; and, if human hearts be dead,
Speak, passing winds; ye torrents, with your strong
And constant voice, protest against the wrong.


The peace of the Mountains outraged

PROUD were ye, Mountains, when, in times of old,
Your patriot sons, to stem invasive war,
Intrenched your brows; ye gloried in each scar:
Now, for your shame, a Power, the Thirst of Gold, 1844
That rules o'er Britain like a baneful star,
Wills that your peace, your beauty, shall be sold,
And clear way made for her triumphal car
Through the beloved retreats your arms enfold!
Heard YE that Whistle? Asher long-linked Train
Swept onwards, did the vision eross your view?
Yes, ye were startled ;—and, in balance true,
Weighing the mischief with the promised gain,
Mountains, and Vales, and Floods, I call on you
To share the passion of a just disdain.

At Furness HERE, where, of havoc tired and rash undoing,
Abbey Man left this Structure to become Time's prey,
A soothing spirit follows in the way

That Nature takes, her counter-work pursuing.
See how her ivy clasps the sacred Ruin,
Fall to prevent or beautify decay;

And, on the mouldered walls, how bright, how gay,
The flowers in pearly dews their bloom renewing!
Thanks to the place, blessings upon the hour;
Even as I speak the rising Sun's first smile
Gleams on the grass-crowned top of yon tall Tower
Whose cawing occupants with joy proclaim
Prescriptive title to the shattered pile

Where, Cavendish, thine seems nothing but a name!


At Furness WELL have yon Railway Labourers to THIS ground Abbey Withdrawn for noontide rest. They sit, they walk June 21, 1845 Among the Ruins, but no idle talk

Is heard; to grave demeanour all are bound;
And from one voice a Hymn with tuneful sound
Hallows once more the long-deserted Quire
And thrills the old sepulchral earth, around.
Others look up, and with fixed eyes admire
That wide-spanned arch, wondering how it was

To keep, so high in air, its strength and grace:
All seem to feel the spirit of the place,
And by the general reverence God is praised :
Profane Despoilers, stand ye not reproved,
While thus these simple-hearted men are moved?


CALM is all nature as a resting wheel.
The kine are couched upon the dewy grass;
The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,
Is cropping audibly his later meal:

Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal
O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky.
Now, in this blank of things, a harmony,
Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal
That grief for which the senses still supply
Fresh food; for only then, when memory
Is hushed, am I at rest. My friends! restrain
Those busy cares that would allay my pain;
Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feel
The officious touch that makes me droop again.

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Written in

very early youth

On seeing a

In languid streams through every thrilling vein; Lady weep

Dim were my swimming eyes-my pulse beat slow, 1786
And my full heart was swell'd to dear delicious pain.
Life left my loaded heart, and closing eye;
A sigh recall'd the wanderer to my breast;
Dear was the pause of life, and dear the sigh
That call'd the wanderer home, and home to rest.
That tear proclaims-in thee each virtue dwells,
And bright will shine in misery's midnight hour;
As the soft star of dewy evening tells

What radiant fires were drown'd by day's malig-
nant pow'r,

That only wait the darkness of the heart

To cheer the wand'ring wretch with hospitable light.

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