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Beat his grey locks against his wither’d face.

       Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness

       Gives the last human interest to his heart.

       May never House, misnamed of industry,

       Make him a captive; for that pent-up din,

       Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air,

       Be his the natural silence of old age.

      Let him be free of mountain solitudes,

       And have around him, whether heard or nor,

       The pleasant melody of woodland birds.

       Few are his pleasures; if his eyes, which now

       Have been so long familiar with the earth,

       No more behold the horizontal sun

       Rising or setting, let the light at least

       Find a free entrance to their languid orbs.

      And let him, where and when he will, sit down

       Beneath the trees, or by the grassy bank

       Of highway side, and with the little birds

       Share his chance-gather’d meal, and, finally,

       As in the eye of Nature he has liv’d,

       So in the eye of Nature let him die.

RURAL ARCHITECTURE.

       Table of Contents

      There’s George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore,

       Three rosy-cheek’d Schoolboys, the highest not more

       Than the height of a Counsellor’s bag;

       To the top of Great How did it please them to climb,

       and there they built up without mortar or lime

       A Man on the peak of the crag.

      They built him of stones gather’d up as they lay,

       They built him and christen’d him all in one day,

       An Urchin both vigorous and hale;

       And so without scruple they call’d him Ralph Jones.

       Now Ralph is renown’d for the length of his bones;

       The Magog of Legberthwaite dale.

      Just half a week after the Wind sallied forth,

       And, in anger or merriment, out of the North

       Coming on with a terrible pother,

       From the peak of the crag blew the Giant away.

       And what did these Schoolboys? — The very next day

       They went and they built up another.

      — Some little I’ve seen of blind boisterous works

       In Paris and London, ‘mong Christians or Turks,

       Spirits busy to do and undo:

       At remembrance whereof my blood sometimes will flag.

       — Then, lighthearted Boys, to the top of the Crag!

       And I’ll build up a Giant with you.

      Great How is a single and conspicuous hill, which rises towards the foot of Thirl-mere, on the western side of the beautiful dale of Legberthwaite, along the ‘high road between Keswick’ and Ambleside.

A POET’S EPITAPH.

       Table of Contents

      Art thou a Statesman, in the van

       Of public business train’d and bred,

       — First learn to love one living man;

       Then may’st thou think upon the dead.

      A Lawyer art thou? — draw not nigh;

       Go, carry to some other place

       The hardness of thy coward eye,

       The falshood of thy sallow face.

      Art thou a man of purple cheer?

       A rosy man, right plump to see?

       Approach; yet Doctor, not too near:

       This grave no cushion is for thee.

      Art thou a man of gallant pride,

       A Soldier, and no mail of chaff?

       Welcome! — but lay thy sword aside,

       And lean upon a Peasant’s staff.

      Physician art thou? One, all eyes,

       Philosopher! a fingering slave,

       One that would peep and botanize

       Upon his mother’s grave?

      Wrapp’d closely in thy sensual fleece

       O turn aside, and take, I pray,

       That he below may rest in peace,

       Thy pin-point of a soul away!

      — A Moralist perchance appears;

       Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod:

       And He has neither eyes nor ears;

       Himself his world, and his own God;

      One to whose smooth-rubb’d soul can cling

       Nor form nor feeling great nor small,

       A reasoning, self-sufficing thing,

       An intellectual All in All!

      Shut close the door! press down the latch:

       Sleep in thy intellectual crust,

       Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch,

       Near this unprofitable dust.

      But who is He with modest looks,

       And clad in homely russet brown?

       He murmurs near the running brooks

       A music sweeter than their own.

      He is retired as noontide dew,

       Or fountain in a noonday grove;

       And you must love him, ere to you

       He will seem worthy of your love.

      The outward shews of sky and earth.

       Of hill and valley he has view’d;

       And impulses of deeper birth

       Have come to him in solitude.

      In common things that round us lie

       Some random truths he can impart

       The harvest of a quiet eye

       That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

      But he is weak, both man and boy,

       Hath been an idler in the land;

       Contented if he might enjoy

       The things which others understand.

      — Come hither in thy hour of strength,

       Come, weak as is a breaking wave!

       Here stretch thy body at full length

       Or build thy house upon this grave. —

A CHARACTER IN THE ANTITHETICAL MANNER.

       Table of Contents

      I marvel how Nature could ever find space

      

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