A very Harp in all but size! Needles for strings in apt gradation! Even her own Needle that subdued Arachne's rival spirit, Though wrought in Vulcan's happiest mood, Like station could not merit. And this, too, from the Laureate's child, How will her Sire be reconciled I spake, when whispered a low voice, "Spirits of all degrees rejoice "The Minstrels of Pygmean bands, Some, still more delicate of ear, "Have lutes (believe my words) "Whose framework is of gossamer, "While sunbeams are the chords. "Gay Sylphs this Miniature will court, "Made vocal by their brushing wings, "And sullen Gromes will learn to sport "Around its polished strings: "Whence strains to love-sick Maiden dear, "While in her lonely bower she tries "To cheat the thought she cannot cheer, "By fanciful embroideries. "Trust, angry Bard! a knowing Sprite, "Nor think the Harp her lot deplores; "Though 'mid the stars the Lyre shine bright, "Love stoops as fondly as he soars." THE POET AND THE CAGED TURTLEDOV As often as I murmur here My half-formed melodies, Straight from her osier mansion near, The captive promptly coos; I rather think, the gentle Dove If such thy meaning, O forbear, Sweet Bird! to do me wrong; Love, blessed Love, is everywhere The spirit of my song: 'Mid grove, and by the calm fireside, Love animates my lyre; That coo again! - 't is not to chide, I feel, but to inspire. A WREN'S NEST. AMONG the dwellings framed by birds In field or forest with nice care, Is none that with the little Wren's In snugness may compare. No door the tenement requires, So warm, so beautiful withal, And when for their abodes they seek The Hermit has no finer eye These find, 'mid ivied Abbey walls, A canopy in some still nook; Others are pent-housed by a brae That overhangs a brook. There to the brooding Bird her Mate Or in sequestered lanes they build, But still, where general choice is good, This, one of those small builders prove For She who planned the mossy Lodge, Had to a Primrose looked for aid High on the trunk's projecting brow, The budding flowers, peeped forth the nest The treasure proudly did I show To some whose minds without disdain Can turn to little things, but once Looked up for it in vain: Ts gune-a ruthless Spoiler's prey, Who heeds not beauty, love, or song, Tis gone! (so seemed it) and we grieved Indignant at the wrong. Just three days after, passing by In clearer light the moss-built cell I saw, espied its shaded mouth, And felt that all was well. The Primrose for a veil had spread The largest of her upright leaves; And thus, for purposes benign, A simple Flower deceives. Concealed from friends who might disturb Rest, mother bird! and when thy young Take flight, and thou art free to roam, When withered is the guardian flower, And empty thy late home, Think how ye prospered, thou and thine, LOVE LIES BLEEDING. -so you may, You call it, "Love lies bleeding,”. So drooped Adonis bathed in sanguine dew bower Did press this semblance of unpitied smart Into the service of his constant heart, His own dejection, downcast flower! could share With thine, and gave the mournful name which thou wilt ever bear. COMPANION TO THE FOREGOING. NEVER enlivened with the liveliest ray The old mythologists, more impress'd than we Of this late day by character in tree Or herb, that claimed peculiar sympathy, Or by the silent lapse of fountain clear, Or with the language of the viewless air By bird or beast made vocal, sought a cause To solve the mystery, not in nature's laws But in man's fortunes. Hence a thousand tales Sung to the plaintive lyre in Grecian vales. Nor doubt that something of their spirit swayed The fancy-stricken youth or heart-sick maid, Who, while each stood companionless and eyed This undeparting flower in crimson dyed, Thought of a wound which death is slow to cure, A fate that has endured and will endure, And, patience coveting yet passion feeding Called the dejected Lingerer, Love lies bleeding. Not such the world's illusive shows; Her wingless flutterings, Her blossoms which, though shed, outbrave For the undeceived, smile as they may, But gentle nature plays her part With ever-varying wiles, And transient feignings with plain truth That those fond idlers most are pleased ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER, DORA ON BEING REMINDED THAT SHE WAS A MONTH OLD ON THAT DAY (SEPTEMBER 16TH.) HAST thou then survived Mild offspring of infirm humanity, the coldness of the night, Though strong, is, in the main, a joyless tie And to enliven in the mind's regard Thy passive beauty-parallels have risen, Remblances, or contrasts, that connect, Lacness bears to hers, through gathered clouds, And beering ofttimes their reluctant gloom. thon, how leisurely thou fill'st thy horn arged countenance, like an object sullied o'er -That smile forbids the thought; for on thy face THE WAGGONER.* In Cairo's crowded streets The patent Merchant wondering waits in vain, And Metra saldens at the long delay. TO CHARLES LAMB, Esq. MY DEAR FRIEND, THOMSON. added?"-To say the truth,-from the higher tone of imagination, and the deeper touches of passion aimed at in the former, I apprehend, this little Piece could not accompany it without disadvantage. In the year The fact of my discarded hero's getting the horses out of a great difficulty with a word, as related in the poem, was told me by an eye-witness. ["Due honour is done to Peter Bell, at this time, by students of poetry in general; but some, even of Mr. Wordsworth's greatest admirers, do not quite satisfy me in their admiration of The Waggoner, a poem which my dear uncle, Mr. Southey, preferred even to the former. Ich will meine Denkungsart hierin niemanden aufdringen, as Lessing says; I will force my way of thinking on nobody, but take the liberty, for my own gratification, to express it. The sketches of hill and valley in this poem have a lightness and spirit, an allegro touch, -distinguishing them from the grave and elevated splendour which characterizes Mr. Wordsworth's representations of nature in general, and from the pensive tenderness of those in The White Doe, while it harmonizes well with the human interest of the piece; indeed, it is the harmonious sweetness of the composition which is most dwelt upon by its special admirers. In its course it describes, with bold brief touches, the striking mountain tract from Grasmere to Keswick; it commences with an evening storm among the mountains, presents a lively interior of a country inn during midnight, and concludes after bringing us in sight of St. John's Vale and the Vale of Keswick seen by day break. Skiddaw touched with rosy light,' and the pros pect from Nathdale Fell, 'hoar with the frost-like dews of dawn' thus giving a beautiful and well contrasteo panorama, produced by the most delicate and masterly strokes of the pencil. Well may Mr. Ruskin, a fine observer and eloquent describer of various classes of natural appearances, speak of Mr. Wordsworth as the great poetic landscape painter of the age. But Mr. Ruskin has found how seldom the great landscape painters are powerful in expressing human passions and affections on canvass, or even successful in the introduction of human figures into their foregrounds; whereas in the poetic paintings of Mr. Wordsworth, the landscape is always subordinate to a higher interest; certainly, in The Waggoner, the little sketch of human nature which occupies, as it were, the front of that encircling background, the picture of Benjamin and his temptations, his humble friends and the mute companions of his way, has a character of its own, combining with sportiveness, a homely pathos, which must ever be delightful to some of those who are thoroughly conversant with the spirit of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry. It may be compared with the ale-house scene in Tam O'Shanter, parts of Voss's Luise, or Ovid's Baucis and Wars I sent you, a few weeks ago, the Tale of Philemon; though it differs from each of them as much as Bell, you asked why THE WAGGONER was not Several years after the event that forms the subject of pon, in company with my friend, the late Mr. ColeI happened to fall in with the person to whom the * of Berjamin is given. Upon our expressing regret had not, for a long time, seen upon the road either his wagon, he said: "They could not do me; and as to the man who was put in my place, * could come out of him; he was a man of no U they differ from each other. The Epilogue carries on the feeling of the piece very beautifully.”—S. C. This fine criticism-worthy of the Sire-is from the pen of the daughter of Coleridge, the widow of Henry Nelson Coleridge; it is part of a note in Coleridge's Biographia Literaria.' Edition of 1847. Vol. II. p. 183. See also a letter from Coleridge to Southey, April 13, 1801, in which an account is given of the "master" in this poem. His name was Jackson. Southey's Life and Correspondence, Vol. II. p. 148, Chap. viii., where in a note it is added that the circumstances of the poem. are accurately correct.-H. R.] 1806, if I am not mistaken, THE WAGGONER was read to you in manuscript; and, as you have remembered it for so long a time, I am the more encouraged to hope, that, since the localities on which it partly depends did not prevent its being interesting to you, it may prove acceptable to others. Being therefore in some measure the cause of its present appearance, you must allow me the gratification of inscribing it to you: in acknowledgment of the pleasure I have derived from your Writings, and of the high esteem with which I am Very truly yours, WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. RYDAL MOUNT, May 20, 1819. CANTO FIRST. Tis spent this burning day of June! Round the dim crags on heavy pinions wheeling, Confiding Glow-worms! 'tis a night Is close and hot; -and now and then Comes a tired and sultry breeze With a haunting and a panting, The mountains rise to wondrous height, And the silence makes it sweet. Hush, there is some one on the stir! 'Tis Benjamin the Waggoner; Who long hath trod this toilsome way, Companion of the night and day. That far-off tinkling's drowsy cheer, Mixed with a faint yet grating sound In a moment lost and found, The Wain announces by whose side, Along the banks of Rydal Mere, He paces on, a trusty Guide, — Listen! you can scarcely hear! Hither he his course is bending; Now he leaves the lower ground, And up the craggy hill ascending Many a stop and stay he makes, Many a breathing-fit he takes;Steep the way and wearisome, Yet all the while his whip is dumb! The Horses have worked with right good-wili, For at the bottom of the Brow, To all who entered Grasmere Vale; He shrugs his shoulders - shakes his head- It is a doubt with Benjamin Here is no danger, none at all! Beyond his wish is he secure; But pass a mile- and then for trial,- If he resist that tempting door, |