VIII.

IN these fair vales hath many a Tree
At Wordsworth's suit been spared;
And from the builder's hand this Stone,
For some rude beauty of its own,
Was rescued by the Bard:

So let it rest; and time will come
When here the tender-hearted
May heave a gentle sigh for him,
As one of the departed.

1830.

IX.

THE massy Ways, carried across these heights
By Roman perseverance, are destroyed,
Or hidden under ground, like sleeping worms.
How venture then to hope that Time will spare
This humble Walk? Yet on the mountain's side
A POET'S hand first shaped it; and the steps
Of that same Bard repeated to and fro
At morn, at noon, and under moonlight skies
Through the vicissitudes of many a year
Forbade the weeds to creep o'er its gray line.
No longer, scattering to the heedless winds
The vocal raptures of fresh poesy,

Shall he frequent these precincts; locked no more

In earnest converse with beloved Friends,
Here will he gather stores of ready bliss,
As from the beds and borders of a garden

Choice flowers are gathered! But, if Power may

spring

Out of a farewell yearning,

favored more

Than kindred wishes mated suitably

With vain regrets, the Exile would consign
This Walk, his loved possession, to the care
Of those pure Minds that reverence the Muse.

1826.

X.

INSCRIPTIONS SUPPOSED TO BE FOUND IN AND NEAR A HERMIT'S CELL.

1818.

I.

HOPES, what are they? Beads of morning

Strung on slender blades of grass;

Or a spider's web adorning

In a strait and treacherous pass.

What are fears but voices airy,
Whispering harm where harm is not,
And deluding the unwary

Till the fatal bolt is shot?

What is glory? - in the socket

See how dying tapers fare!

What is pride? - a whizzing rocket

That would emulate a star.

What is friendship?

do not trust her,

Nor the vows which she has made;
Diamonds dart their brightest lustre
From a palsy-shaken head.

What is truth? a staff rejected; — an unwelcome clog;

Duty?

Joy?

a moon by fits reflected In a swamp or watery bog;

Bright, as if through ether steering,
To the Traveller's eye it shone:
He hath hailed it reappearing,-
And as quickly it is gone;

Such is Joy, as quickly hidden,
Or misshapen to the sight,

And by sullen weeds forbidden

To resume its native light.

What is youth? - a dancing billow,
(Winds behind, and rocks before!)
Age?a drooping, tottering willow
On a flat and lazy shore.

What is peace?

when pain is over

And love ceases to rebel,

Let the last faint sight discover
That precedes the passing-knell!

XI.

INSCRIBED UPON A ROCK.

II.

PAUSE, Traveller! whosoe'er thou be
Whom chance may lead to this retreat,
Where silence yields reluctantly
Even to the fleecy straggler's bleat;

Give voice to what my hand shall trace,
And fear not lest an idle sound
Of words unsuited to the place
Disturb its solitude profound.

I saw this Rock, while vernal air
Blew softly o'er the russet heath,
Uphold a Monument as fair
As church or abbey furnisheth.

Unsullied did it meet the day,
Like marble, white, like ether, pure;
As if, beneath, some hero lay,
Honored with costliest sepulture.

My fancy kindled as I gazed;
And, ever as the sun shone forth,
The flattered structure glistened, blazed,
And seemed the proudest thing on earth.

But frost had reared the gorgeous Pile,
Unsound as those which Fortune builds,
To undermine with secret guile,
Sapped by the very beam that gilds.

And, while I gazed, with sudden shock
Fell the whole Fabric to the ground;
And naked left this dripping Rock,
With shapeless ruin spread around!

HAST thou seen, with flash incessant,

Bubbles gliding under ice,

Bodied forth and evanescent,

No one knows by what device?

Such are thoughts!

A wind-swept meadow

Mimicking a troubled sea,

Such is life; and death a shadow

From the rock eternity!