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.