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RURAL ARCHITECTURE

 
  There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore,
  Three rosy-cheek'd School-boys, 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 School-boys? – 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, light-hearted 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

 
  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

 
  I marvel how Nature could ever find space
  For the weight and the levity seen in his face:
  There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloom,
  And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.
 
 
  There's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain;
  Such strength, as if ever affliction and pain
  Could pierce through a temper that's soft to disease,
  Would be rational peace – a philosopher's ease.
 
 
  There's indifference, alike when he fails and succeeds,
  And attention full ten times as much as there needs,
  Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy;
  And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy.
 
 
  There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare
  Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there.
  There's virtue, the title it surely may claim,
  Yet wants, heaven knows what, to be worthy the name.
 
 
  What a picture! 'tis drawn without nature or art,
  – Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart,
  And I for five centuries right gladly would be
  Such an odd, such a kind happy creature as he.
 

A FRAGMENT

 
  Between two sister moorland rills
  There is a spot that seems to lie
  Sacred to flowrets of the hills,
  And sacred to the sky.
 
 
  And in this smooth and open dell
  There is a tempest-stricken tree;
  A corner stone by lightning cut,
  The last stone of a cottage hut;
  And in this dell you see
  A thing no storm can e'er destroy,
  The shadow of a Danish Boy.
 
 
  In clouds above, the lark is heard,
  He sings his blithest and his beet;
    But in this lonesome nook the bird
  Did never build his nest.
 
 
  No beast, no bird hath here his home;
  The bees borne on the breezy air
  Pass high above those fragrant bells
  To other flowers, to other dells.
  Nor ever linger there.
  The Danish Boy walks here alone:
  The lovely dell is all his own.
 
 
  A spirit of noon day is he,
  He seems a Form of flesh and blood;
  A piping Shepherd he might be,
  A Herd-boy of the wood.
 
 
  A regal vest of fur he wears,
  In colour like a raven's wing;
  It fears nor rain, nor wind, nor dew,
  But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue
  As budding pines in Spring;
  His helmet has a vernal grace,
  Fresh as the bloom upon his face.
 
 
  A harp is from his shoulder slung;
  He rests the harp upon his knee,
  And there in a forgotten tongue
  He warbles melody.
 
 
  Of flocks and herds both far and near
  He is the darling and the joy,
  And often, when no cause appears,
  The mountain ponies prick their ears,
  They hear the Danish Boy,
  While in the dell he sits alone
  Beside the tree and corner-stone.
 
 
  When near this blasted tree you pass,
  Two sods are plainly to be seen
  Close at its root, and each with grass
  Is cover'd fresh and green.
 
 
  Like turf upon a new-made grave
  These two green sods together lie,
  Nor heat, nor cold, nor rain, nor wind
  Can these two sods together bind,
  Nor sun, nor earth, nor sky,
  But side by side the two are laid,
  As if just sever'd by the spade.
 
 
  There sits he: in his face you spy
  No trace of a ferocious air,
  Nor ever was a cloudless sky
  So steady or so fair.
 
 
  The lovely Danish Boy is blest
  And happy in his flowery cove;
  From bloody deeds his thoughts are far;
  And yet he warbles songs of war;
  They seem like songs of love,
  For calm and gentle is his mien;
  Like a dead Boy he is serene.
 

POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES

ADVERTISEMENT

By Persons resident in the country and attached to rural objects, many places will be found unnamed or of unknown names, where little Incidents will have occurred, or feelings been experienced, which will have given to such places a private and peculiar interest. From a wish to give some sort of record to such Incidents or renew the gratification of such Feelings, Names have been given to Places by the Author and some of his Friends, and the following Poems written in consequence.

POEMS on the NAMING of PLACES

I

 
  It was an April Morning: fresh and clear
  The Rivulet, delighting in its strength,
  Ran with a young man's speed, and yet the voice
  Of waters which the winter had supplied
  Was soften'd down into a vernal tone.
 
 
  The spirit of enjoyment and desire,
  And hopes and wishes, from all living things
  Went circling, like a multitude of sounds.
  The budding groves appear'd as if in haste
  To spur the steps of June; as if their shades
  Of various green were hindrances that stood
  Between them and their object: yet, meanwhile,
  There was such deep contentment in the air
  That every naked ash, and tardy tree
  Yet leafless, seem'd as though the countenance
  With which it look'd on this delightful day
  Were native to the summer. – Up the brook
  I roam'd in the confusion of my heart,
  Alive to all things and forgetting all.
 
 
  At length I to a sudden turning came
  In this continuous glen, where down a rock
  The stream, so ardent in its course before,
  Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all
  Which I till then had heard, appear'd the voice
  Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb,
  The Shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush
  Vied with this waterfall, and made a song
  Which, while I listen'd, seem'd like the wild growth
  Or like some natural produce of the air
  That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here,
  But 'twas the foliage of the rocks, the birch,
  The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn,
  With hanging islands of resplendent furze:
  And on a summit, distant a short space,
  By any who should look beyond the dell,
  A single mountain Cottage might be seen.
  I gaz'd and gaz'd, and to myself I said,
  "Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook,
  My EMMA, I will dedicate to thee."
 
 
  – Soon did the spot become my other home,
  My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode.
  And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there,
  To whom I sometimes in our idle talk
  Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps,
  Years after we are gone and in our graves,
  When they have cause to speak of this wild place,
  May call it by the name of EMMA'S DELL.
 

II

To JOANNA

 
  Amid the smoke of cities did you pass
  Your time of early youth, and there you learn'd,
  From years of quiet industry, to love
  The living Beings by your own fire-side,
  With such a strong devotion, that your heart
  Is slow towards the sympathies of them
  Who look upon the hills with tenderness,
  And make dear friendships with the streams and groves.
  Yet we who are transgressors in this kind,
  Dwelling retired in our simplicity
  Among the woods and fields, we love you well,
  Joanna! and I guess, since you have been
  So distant from us now for two long years,
  That you will gladly listen to discourse
  However trivial, if you thence are taught
  That they, with whom you once were happy, talk
  Familiarly of you and of old times.
 
 
  While I was seated, now some ten days past,
  Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop
  Their ancient neighbour, the old Steeple tower,
  The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by
  Came forth to greet me, and when he had ask'd,
  "How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid!
  And when will she return to us?" he paus'd,
  And after short exchange of village news,
  He with grave looks demanded, for what cause,
  Reviving obsolete Idolatry,
  I like a Runic Priest, in characters
  Of formidable size, had chisel'd out
  Some uncouth name upon the native rock,
  Above the Rotha, by the forest side.
  – Now, by those dear immunities of heart
  Engender'd betwixt malice and true love,
  I was not both to be so catechiz'd,
  And this was my reply. – "As it befel,
  One summer morning we had walk'd abroad
  At break of day, Joanna and myself.
  – 'Twas that delightful season, when the broom,
  Full flower'd, and visible on every steep,
  Along the copses runs in veins of gold."
 
 
  Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks,
  And when we came in front of that tall rock
  Which looks towards the East, I there stopp'd short,
  And trac'd the lofty barrier with my eye
  From base to summit; such delight I found
  To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower,
  That intermixture of delicious hues,
  Along so vast a surface, all at once,
  In one impression, by connecting force
  Of their own beauty, imag'd in the heart.
 
 
  – When I had gaz'd perhaps two minutes' space,
  Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld
  That ravishment of mine, and laugh'd aloud.
  The rock, like something starting from a sleep,
  Took up the Lady's voice, and laugh'd again:
  That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag
  Was ready with her cavern; Hammar-Scar,
  And the tall Steep of Silver-How sent forth
  A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard,
  And Fairfield answer'd with a mountain tone:
  Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky
  Carried the Lady's voice, – old Skiddaw blew
  His speaking trumpet; – back out of the clouds
  Of Glaramara southward came the voice;
  And Kirkstone toss'd it from his misty head.
  Now whether, (said I to our cordial Friend
  Who in the hey-day of astonishment
  Smil'd in my face) this were in simple truth
  A work accomplish'd by the brotherhood
  Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touch'd
  With dreams and visionary impulses,
  Is not for me to tell; but sure I am
  That there was a loud uproar in the hills.
  And, while we both were listening, to my side
  The fair Joanna drew, is if she wish'd
  To shelter from some object of her fear.
 
 
  – And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons
  Were wasted, as I chanc'd to walk alone
  Beneath this rock, at sun-rise, on a calm
  And silent morning, I sate down, and there,
  In memory of affections old and true,
  I chissel'd out in those rude characters
  Joanna's name upon the living stone.
  And I, and all who dwell by my fire-side
  Have call'd the lovely rock, Joanna's Rock.
 

NOTE

In Cumberland and Westmoreland are several Inscriptions upon the native rock which from the wasting of Time and the rudeness of the Workmanship had been mistaken for Runic. They are without doubt Roman.

The Roths, mentioned in this poem, is the River which flowing through the Lakes of Grasmere and Rydole fells into Wyndermere. On Helm-Crag, that impressive single Mountain at the head of the Vale of Grasmere, is a Rock which from most points of view bears a striking resemblance to an Old Woman cowering. Close by this rock is one of those Fissures or Caverns, which in the language of the Country are called Dungeons. The other Mountains either immediately surround the Vale of Grasmere, or belong to the same Cluster.

III

 
  There is an Eminence, – of these our hills
  The last that parleys with the setting sun.
  We can behold it from our Orchard seat.
  And, when at evening we pursue our walk
  Along the public way, this Cliff, so high
  Above us, and so distant in its height,
  Is visible, and often seems to send
  Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts.
  The meteors make of it a favorite haunt:
  The star of Jove, so beautiful and large
  In the mid heav'ns, is never half so fair
  As when he shines above it. 'Tis in truth
  The loneliest place we have among the clouds.
 
 
  And She who dwells with me, whom I have lov'd
  With such communion, that no place on earth
  Can ever be a solitude to me,
  Hath said, this lonesome Peak shall bear my Name.
 

IV

 
  A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags,
  A rude and natural causeway, interpos'd
  Between the water and a winding slope
  Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore
  Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy.
  And there, myself and two beloved Friends,
  One calm September morning, ere the mist
  Had altogether yielded to the sun,
  Saunter'd on this retir'd and difficult way.
  – Ill suits the road with one in haste, but we
  Play'd with our time; and, as we stroll'd along,
 
 
  It was our occupation to observe
  Such objects as the waves had toss'd ashore,
  Feather, or leaf, or weed, or wither'd bough,
  Each on the other heap'd along the line
  Of the dry wreck. And in our vacant mood,
  Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft
  Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard,
  Which, seeming lifeless half, and half impell'd
  By some internal feeling, skimm'd along
  Close to the surface of the lake that lay
  Asleep in a dead calm, ran closely on
  Along the dead calm lake, now here, now there,
  In all its sportive wanderings all the while
  Making report of an invisible breeze
  That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse,
  Its very playmate, and its moving soul.
 
 
  – And often, trifling with a privilege
  Alike indulg'd to all, we paus'd, one now,
  And now the other, to point out, perchance
  To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fair
  Either to be divided from the place
  On which it grew, or to be left alone
  To its own beauty. Many such there are,
  Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall plant
  So stately, of the Queen Osmunda nam'd,
  Plant lovelier in its own retir'd abode
  On Grasmere's beach, than Naid by the side
  Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere
  Sole-sitting by the shores of old Romance.
  – So fared we that sweet morning: from the fields
  Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth
  Of Reapers, Men and Women, Boys and Girls.
 
 
  Delighted much to listen to those sounds,
  And in the fashion which I have describ'd,
  Feeding unthinking fancies, we advanc'd
  Along the indented shore; when suddenly,
  Through a thin veil of glittering haze, we saw
  Before us on a point of jutting land
  The tall and upright figure of a Man
  Attir'd in peasant's garb, who stood alone
  Angling beside the margin of the lake.
  That way we turn'd our steps: nor was it long,
  Ere making ready comments on the sight
  Which then we saw, with one and the same voice
  We all cried out, that he must be indeed
  An idle man, who thus could lose a day
  Of the mid harvest, when the labourer's hire
  Is ample, and some little might be stor'd
  Wherewith to chear him in the winter time.
 
 
  Thus talking of that Peasant we approach'd
  Close to the spot where with his rod and line
  He stood alone; whereat he turn'd his head
  To greet us – and we saw a man worn down
  By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks
  And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean
  That for my single self I look'd at them,
  Forgetful of the body they sustain'd. —
  Too weak to labour in the harvest field,
  The man was using his best skill to gain
  A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake
  That knew not of his wants. I will not say
  What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how
  The happy idleness of that sweet morn,
  With all its lovely images, was chang'd
  To serious musing and to self-reproach.
 
 
  Nor did we fail to see within ourselves
  What need there is to be reserv'd in speech,
  And temper all our thoughts with charity.
  – Therefore, unwilling to forget that day,
  My Friend, Myself, and She who then receiv'd
  The same admonishment, have call'd the plate
  By a memorial name, uncouth indeed
  As e'er by Mariner was giv'n to Bay
  Or Foreland on a new-discover'd coast,
  And, POINT RASH-JUDGMENT is the Name it bears.