A COMPLAINT.

There is a change—and I am poor; Your Love hath been, nor long ago, A Fountain at my fond Heart's door, Whose only business was to flow; And flow it did; not taking heed Of its own bounty, or my need.

What happy moments did I count! Bless'd was I then all bliss above! Now, for this consecrated Fount Of murmuring, sparkling, living love, What have I? shall I dare to tell? A comfortless, and hidden WELL.

A Well of love—it may be deep— I trust it is, and never dry: What matter? if the Waters sleep In silence and obscurity. —Such change, and at the very door Of my fond Heart, hath made me poor.

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I am not One who much or oft delight To season my fireside with personal talk, About Friends, who live within an easy walk, Or Neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight: And, for my chance-acquaintance, Ladies bright, Sons, Mothers, Maidens withering on the stalk, These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night. Better than such discourse doth silence long, Long, barren silence, square with my desire; 10 To sit without emotion, hope, or aim, By my half-kitchen my half-parlour fire, And listen to the flapping of the flame, Or kettle, whispering its faint undersong.

"Yet life," you say, "is life; we have seen and see, And with a living pleasure we describe; And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe The languid mind into activity. Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee, Are foster'd by the comment and the gibe." 20 Even be it so: yet still among your tribe, Our daily world's true Worldlings, rank not me! Children are blest, and powerful; their world lies More justly balanced; partly at their feet, And part far from them:—sweetest melodies Are those that are by distance made more sweet; Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes He is a Slave; the meanest we can meet!

Wings have we, and as far as we can go We may find pleasure: wilderness and wood, 30 Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood Which with the lofty sanctifies the low: Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow. There do I find a never-failing store Of personal themes, and such as I love best; Matter wherein right voluble I am: Two will I mention, dearer than the rest; 40 The gentle Lady, married to the Moor; And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb.

Nor can I not believe but that hereby Great gains are mine: for thus I live remote From evil-speaking; rancour, never sought, Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie. Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought: And thus from day to day my little Boat Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably. 50 Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares, The Poets, who on earth have made us Heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays! Oh! might my name be numbered among theirs, Then gladly would I end my mortal days.

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Yes! full surely 'twas the Echo, Solitary, clear, profound, Answering to Thee, shouting Cuckoo! Giving to thee Sound for Sound.

Whence the Voice? from air or earth? This the Cuckoo cannot tell; But a startling sound had birth, As the Bird must know full well;

Like the voice through earth and sky By the restless Cuckoo sent; 10 Like her ordinary cry, Like—but oh how different!

Hears not also mortal Life? Hear not we, unthinking Creatures! Slaves of Folly, Love, or Strife, Voices of two different Natures?

Have not We too? Yes we have Answers, and we know not whence; Echoes from beyond the grave, Recogniz'd intelligence? 20

Such within ourselves we hear Oft-times, ours though sent from far; Listen, ponder, hold them dear; For of God, of God they are!

TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND, (AN AGRICULTURIST.) Composed while we were labouring together in his Pleasure-Ground.

Spade! with which Wilkinson hath till'd his Lands, And shap'd these pleasant walks by Emont's side, Thou art a tool of honour in my hands; I press thee through the yielding soil with pride.

Rare Master has it been thy lot to know; Long hast Thou serv'd a Man to reason true; Whose life combines the best of high and low, The toiling many and the resting few;

Health, quiet, meekness, ardour, hope secure, And industry of body and of mind; 10 And elegant enjoyments, that are pure As Nature is; too pure to be refined.

Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing In concord with his River murmuring by; Or in some silent field, while timid Spring Is yet uncheer'd by other minstrelsy.

Who shall inherit Thee when Death hath laid Low in the darksome Cell thine own dear Lord? That Man will have a trophy, humble, Spade! More noble than the noblest Warrior's sword. 20

If he be One that feels, with skill to part False praise from true, or greater from the less, Thee will he welcome to his hand and heart, Thou monument of peaceful happiness!

With Thee he will not dread a toilsome day, His powerful Servant, his inspiring Mate! And, when thou art past service, worn away, Thee a surviving soul shall consecrate.

His thrift thy uselessness will never scorn; An Heir-loom in his cottage wilt thou be:— 30 High will he hang thee up, and will adorn His rustic chimney with the last of Thee!

SONG, AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE, Upon the RESTORATION OF LORD CLIFFORD, the SHEPHERD, to the Estates and Honours of his Ancestors.

High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate. And Emont's murmur mingled with the Song.— The words of ancient time I thus translate, A festal Strain that hath been silent long.

From Town to Town, from Tower to Tower, The Red Rose is a gladsome Flower. Her thirty years of Winter past; The Red Rose is revived at last;

She lifts her head for endless spring, For everlasting blossoming! 10 Both Roses flourish, Red and White. In love and sisterly delight The two that were at strife are blended, And all old sorrows now are ended.— Joy! joy to both! but most to her Who is the Flower of Lancaster! Behold her how She smiles to day On this great throng, this bright array! Fair greeting doth she send to all From every corner of the Hall; 20 But, chiefly, from above the Board Where sits in state our rightful Lord, A Clifford to his own restored.

They came with banner, spear, and shield; And it was proved in Bosworth-field. Not long the Avenger was withstood, Earth help'd him with the cry of blood: St. George was for us, and the might Of blessed Angels crown'd the right. Loud voice the Land hath utter'd forth, 30 We loudest in the faithful North: Our Fields rejoice, our Mountains ring, Our Streams proclaim a welcoming; Our Strong-abodes and Castles see The glory of their loyalty. How glad is Skipton at this hour Though she is but a lonely Tower! Silent, deserted of her best, Without an Inmate or a Guest, Knight, Squire, or Yeoman, Page, or Groom; 40 We have them at the Feast of Brough'm. How glad Pendragon though the sleep Of years be on her!—She shall reap A taste of this great pleasure, viewing As in a dream her own renewing. Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem Beside her little humble Stream; And she that keepeth watch and ward Her statelier Eden's course to guard; They both are happy at this hour, 50 Though each is but a lonely Tower:— But here is perfect joy and pride For one fair House by Emont's side, This day distinguished without peer To see her Master and to cheer; Him, and his Lady Mother dear.

Oh! it was a time forlorn When the Fatherless was born— Give her wings that she may fly, Or she sees her Infant die! 60 Swords that are with slaughter wild Hunt the Mother and the Child. Who will take them from the light? —Yonder is a Man in sight— Yonder is a House—but where? No, they must not enter there. To the Caves, and to the Brooks, To the Clouds of Heaven she looks; She is speechless, but her eyes Pray in ghostly agonies. 70 Blissful Mary, Mother mild, Maid and Mother undefiled, Save a Mother and her Child!

Now Who is he that bounds with joy On Carrock's side, a Shepherd Boy? No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass Light as the wind along the grass. Can this be He who hither came In secret, like a smothered flame? O'er whom such thankful tears were shed 80 For shelter, and a poor Man's bread? God loves the Child; and God hath will'd That those dear words should be fulfill'd, The Lady's words, when forc'd away, The last she to her Babe did say, "My own, my own, thy Fellow-guest I may not be; but rest thee, rest, For lowly Shepherd's life is best!"

Alas! when evil men are strong No life is good, no pleasure long. 90 The Boy must part from Mosedale's Groves, And leave Blencathara's rugged Coves, And quit the Flowers that Summer brings To Glenderamakin's lofty springs; Must vanish, and his careless cheer Be turned to heaviness and fear. —Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise! Hear it, good Man, old in days! Thou Tree of covert and of rest For this young Bird that is distrest, 100 Among thy branches safe he lay, And he was free to sport and play, When Falcons were abroad for prey.

A recreant Harp, that sings of fear And heaviness in Clifford's ear! I said, when evil Men are strong, No life is good, no pleasure long, A weak and cowardly untruth! Our Clifford was a happy Youth, And thankful through a weary time, 110 That brought him up to manhood's prime. —Again he wanders forth at will, And tends a Flock from hill to hill: His garb is humble; ne'er was seen Such garb with such a noble mien; Among the Shepherd-grooms no Mate Hath he, a Child of strength and state! Yet lacks not friends for solemn glee, And a chearful company, That learn'd of him submissive ways; 120 And comforted his private days. To his side the Fallow-deer Came, and rested without fear; The Eagle, Lord of land and sea, Stoop'd down to pay him fealty; And both the undying Fish that swim Through Bowscale-Tarn did wait on him, The pair were Servants of his eye In their immortality, They moved about in open sight, 130 To and fro, for his delight. He knew the Rocks which Angels haunt On the Mountains visitant; He hath kenn'd them taking wing: And the Caves where Faeries sing He hath entered; and been told By Voices how Men liv'd of old. Among the Heavens his eye can see Face of thing that is to be; And, if Men report him right, 140 He can whisper words of might. —Now another day is come, Fitter hope, and nobler doom: He hath thrown aside his Crook, And hath buried deep his Book; Armour rusting in his Halls On the blood of Clifford calls;—

"Quell the Scot," exclaims the Lance, "Bear me to the heart of France, Is the longing of the Shield— 150 Tell thy name, thou trembling Field; Field of death, where'er thou be, Groan thou with our victory! Happy day, and mighty hour, When our Shepherd, in his power, Mail'd and hors'd, with lance and sword, To his Ancestors restored, Like a reappearing Star, Like a glory from afar, First shall head the Flock of War!" 160

Alas! the fervent Harper did not know That for a tranquil Soul the Lay was framed, Who, long compell'd in humble walks to go, Was softened into feeling, sooth'd, and tamed. Love had he found in huts where poor Men lie, His daily Teachers had been Woods and Rills, The silence that is in the starry sky, The sleep that is among the lonely hills.

In him the savage Virtue of the Race, Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead: 170 Nor did he change; but kept in lofty place The wisdom which adversity had bred.

Glad were the Vales, and every cottage hearth; The Shepherd Lord was honour'd more and more: And, ages after he was laid in earth, "The Good Lord Clifford" was the name he bore.

LINES, Composed at GRASMERE, during a walk, one Evening, after a stormy day, the Author having just read in a Newspaper that the dissolution of MR. FOX was hourly expected.

Loud is the Vale! the Voice is up With which she speaks when storms are gone, A mighty Unison of streams! Of all her Voices, One!

Loud is the Vale;—this inland Depth In peace is roaring like the Sea; Yon Star upon the mountain-top Is listening quietly.

Sad was I, ev'n to pain depress'd, Importunate and heavy load! 10 The Comforter hath found me here, Upon this lonely road;

And many thousands now are sad, Wait the fulfilment of their fear; For He must die who is their Stay, Their Glory disappear.

A Power is passing from the earth To breathless Nature's dark abyss; But when the Mighty pass away What is it more than this, 20

That Man, who is from God sent forth, Doth yet again to God return?— Such ebb and flow must ever be, Then wherefore should we mourn?

ELEGIAC STANZAS, Suggested by a Picture of PEELE CASTLE, in a Storm, painted BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT.

I was thy Neighbour once, thou rugged Pile! Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee: I saw thee every day; and all the while Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea.

So pure the sky, so quiet was the air! So like, so very like, was day to day! Whene'er I look'd, thy Image still was there; It trembled, but it never pass'd away.

How perfect was the calm! it seem'd no sleep; No mood, which season takes away, or brings: 10 I could have fancied that the mighty Deep Was even the gentlest of all gentle Things.

Ah! THEN, if mine had been the Painter's hand, To express what then I saw; and add the gleam, The light that never was, on sea or land, The consecration, and the Poet's dream;

I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile! Amid a world how different from this! Beside a sea that could not cease to smile; On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss: 20

Thou shouldst have seem'd a treasure-house, a mine Of peaceful years; a chronicle of heaven:— Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine The very sweetest had to thee been given.

A Picture had it been of lasting ease, Elysian quiet, without toil or strife; No motion but the moving tide, a breeze, Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.

Such, in the fond delusion of my heart, Such Picture would I at that time have made: 30 And seen the soul of truth in every part; A faith, a trust, that could not be betray'd.

So once it would have been,—'tis so no more; I have submitted to a new controul: A power is gone, which nothing can restore; A deep distress hath humaniz'd my Soul.

Not for a moment could I now behold A smiling sea and be what I have been: The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old; This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. 40

Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the Friend, If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore, This Work of thine I blame not, but commend; This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.

Oh 'tis a passionate Work!—yet wise and well; Well chosen is the spirit that is here; That Hulk which labours in the deadly swell, This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!

And this huge Castle, standing here sublime, I love to see the look with which it braves, 50 Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time, The light'ning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.

Farewell, farewell the Heart that lives alone, Hous'd in a dream, at distance from the Kind! Such happiness, wherever it be known, Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind.

But welcome fortitude, and patient chear, And frequent sights of what is to be born! Such sights, or worse, as are before me here.— Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 60