XIX. TRIBUTARY STREAM. My frame hath often trembled with delight On the calm depth of his transparent breast, Swoln by that voice- whose murmur musical Announces to the thirsty fields a boon Dewy and fresh, till showers again shall fall. XX. THE PLAIN OF DONNERDALE. THE old inventive Poets, had they seen, Or rather felt, the entrancement that detains And countenanced like a soft cerulean sky, Shalt change thy temper; and, with many a shock Giver and received in mutual jeopardy, Dance, like a Bacchanal, from rock to rock, Tossing her frantic thyrsus wide and high! XXI. WHENCE that low voice?-A whisper from the heart, Some who had early mandates to depart, By Duddon's side; once more do we unite, From her unworthy seat, the cloudy stall XXII. TRADITION. A LOVE-LORN Maid, at some far-distant time, And, gazing, saw that Rose, which from the prime Of echo doth reverberate some sweet sound: The starry treasure from the blue profound She longed to ravish; - shall she plunge, or climb The humid precipice, and seize the guest Of April, smiling high in upper air? Desperate alternative! what fiend could dare To prompt the thought? - Upon the steep rock's breast The lonely Primrose yet renews its bloom, Untouched memento of her hapless doom! XXIII. SHEEP-WASHING. SAD thoughts, avaunt! - the fervour of the year, Poured on the fleece-encumbered flock, invites To laving currents, for prelusive rites Duly performed before the Dales-men shear Their panting charge. The distant Mountains hear, Hear and repeat, the turmoil that unites Clamour of boys with innocent despites Of barking dogs, and bleatings from strange fear. Thickens, the pastoral River will forgive Such wrong; nor need we blame the licensed joys, Though false to Nature's quiet equipoise: Frank are the sports, the stains are fugitive. |