FOR A SEAT IN THE GROVES OF COLEORTON.
BENEATH yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound, Rugged and high, of Charnwood's forest ground, Stand yet, but, Stranger! hidden from thy view, The ivied Ruins of forlorn Grace Dieu; Erst a religious House, which day and night With hymns resounded, and the chanted rite: And when those rites had ceased, the Spot gave birth
To honorable Men of various worth :
There, on the margin of a streamlet wild, Did Francis Beaumont sport, an eager child; There, under shadow of the neighboring rocks, Sang youthful tales of shepherds and their flocks; Unconscious prelude to heroic themes, Heart-breaking tears, and melancholy dreams Of slighted love, and scorn, and jealous rage, With which his genius shook the buskined stage. Communities are lost, and Empires die,
And things of holy use unhallowed lie;
They perish; - but the Intellect can raise, From airy words alone, a Pile that ne'er decays.
WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL UPON A STONE IN THE WALL OF THE HOUSE (AN OUT-HOUSE), ON THE
RUDE is this Edifice, and thou hast seen Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained. Proportions more harmonious, and approached To closer fellowship with ideal grace.
But take it in good part:—
Vitruvius of our village had no help
From the great City; never, upon leaves Of red Morocco folio saw displayed, In long succession, pre-existing ghosts
Of Beauties yet unborn, the rustic Lodge Antique, and Cottage with verandah graced, Nor lacking, for fit company, alcove,
Green-house, shell-grot, and moss-lined hermitage. Thou seest a homely Pile, yet to these walls The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here The new-dropped 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 withered 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 burden of their wool, Lie round him, even as if they were a part
Of his own Household: nor, while from his bed He looks, through the open door-place, 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!
WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL ON A STONE, ON THE SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN OF BLACK COMB.
STAY, bold Adventurer; rest awhile thy limbs On this commodious Seat! for much remains Of hard ascent before thou reach the top Of this huge Eminence, from blackness named And to far-travelled storms of sea and land A favorite spot of tournament and war! But thee may no such boisterous visitants Molest; may gentle breezes fan thy brow; And neither cloud conceal, nor misty air Bedim, the grand terraqueous spectacle, From centre to circumference unveiled! Know, if thou grudge not to prolong thy rest, That on the summit whither thou art bound A geographic Laborer pitched his tent, With books supplied and instruments of art, To measure height and distance; lonely task, Week after week pursued!— To him was given
Full many a glimpse (but sparingly bestowed On timid man) of Nature's processes
Upon the exalted hills. He made report
That once, while there he plied his studious work Within that canvas Dwelling, colors, lines,
And the whole surface of the out-spread map, Became invisible for all around
Had darkness fallen,
As if the golden day itself had been Extinguished in a moment; total gloom, In which he sat alone, with unclosed eyes, Upon the blinded mountain's silent top!
WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL UPON A STONE, THE LARGEST OF A HEAP LYING NEAR A DESERTED QUARRY, UPON ONE OF THE ISLANDS AT RYDAL.
STRANGER! this hillock of misshapen stones Is not a Ruin spared or made by time, Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the Cairn Of some old British Chief: 't is nothing more Than the rude embryo of a little Dome Or Pleasure-house, once destined to be built Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle.
But, as it chanced, Sir William having learned
That from the shore a full-grown man might wade, And make himself a freeman of this spot At any hour he chose, the prudent Knight Desisted, and the quarry and the mound
Are monuments of his unfinished task.
The block on which these lines are traced, perhaps, Was once selected as the corner-stone
Of that intended Pile, which would have been Some quaint odd plaything of elaborate skill, So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush, And other little builders who dwell here, Had wondered at the work. But blame him not, For old Sir William was a gentle Knight, Bred in this vale, to which he appertained With all his ancestry. Then peace to him, And for the outrage which he had devised, Entire forgiveness! But if thou art one
On fire with thy impatience to become An inmate of these mountains,
By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn Out of the quiet rock the elements
Of thy trim Mansion destined soon to blaze In snow-white splendor, think again; and, taught By old Sir William and his quarry, leave Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose; There let the vernal slow-worm sun himself, And let the redbreast hop from stone to stone.
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