VI IN SIGHT OF THE TOWN OF COCKERMOUTH

(Where the Author was born, and his Father's remains are laid.)

A point of life between my Parents' dust,
And yours, my buried Little-ones! am I;
And to those graves looking habitually
In kindred quiet I repose my trust.
Death to the innocent is more than just,
And, to the sinner, mercifully bent;
So may I hope, if truly I repent
And meekly bear the ills which bear I must:
And You, my Offspring! that do still remain,
Yet may outstrip me in the appointed race,

V.

A Ballad .
Dido was the Carthage Queene
And lov'd the Trojan Knight,
That wandring many coasts had seene
And many a dreadfull fight:
As they on hunting road, a shower
Drave them, in a loving hower,
Downe to a darksome cave:
Where Aeneas with his charmes
Lockt Queene Dido in his armes
And had what hee could have.

Dido Hymens Rites forgot,
Her love was wing'd with haste:
Her honour shee considered not,

1
O Joyes exceeding!
From love, from power of your wisht sight proceeding!
As a faire morne shines divinely,
Such is your view, appearing more divinely.
2

Your steppes ascending,
Raise high our thoughts for your content contending;
All our hearts of this grace vaunting,
Now leape as they were moved by inchaunting.

Dance now and sing the joy and love we owe:
Let chearfull voices and glad gestures showe,
The Queene of grace is shee whom we receive;
Honour and State are her guides,
Her presence they can never leave.
Then in a stately Silvan forme salute
Her ever flowing grace.
Fill all the Woods with Ecchoed welcomes,
And strew with flowers this place:
Let ev'ry bow and plant fresh blossomes yeeld,

Come to my longing Arms, my lovely care,
And take the Presents which the Nymphs prepare.
White Lillies in full Canisters they bring,
With all the Glories of the Purple Spring:
The Daughters of the Flood have search'd the Mead
For Violets pale, and cropt the Poppy's Head;
The short Narcissus and fair Daffodil,
Pancies to please the Sight, and Cassia sweet to smell:
And set soft Hyacinths with Iron blue,
To shade marsh Marigolds of shining Hue,
Some bound in Order, others loosely strow'd,
To dress thy Bow'r, and trim thy new Abode.

Ah, lute, how well I know each tone of thee,
From shrillest treble unto solemn bass,
The power of every fret, the time and place
Where falls each finger tipped with melody!
Full well I know the sounds that come and flee,
The chords that swell, and part, and interlace,
Lending the whole one long united grace —
That regnant rhythm of thorough harmony.
Shell of my fancy, in my arms awake!
Exchange thy torpor for the vivid smart
Of sentient life! With joy and sorrow shake!
Throb with a soul which of herself is part!

My darling's features, painted by the light;
As in the convex of a mirror, see
Her face diminished so fantastically
It scarcely hints her lovely self aright.
Away, poor mockery! My outraged sight
Turns from the fraud you perpetrate on me;
This is no transcript, but a forgery,
As far from semblance as is black from white.
Breathe, smile, blush, kiss me! Murmur in my ear
The things we know — we only! and give heed
To this deep sigh and this descending tear,
Ere from my senses you can win the meed
Of faith, to make your doubtful title clear,

As stands a statue on its pedestal,
Amidst the storms of civil mutiny,
With an unchanged and high serenity,
Though Caesar's self be toppled to his fall;
So stands my faith in thee amidst the brawl
Within my heart — the woeful tragedy
Of passions that conspire for mastery
Above the power that holds their rage in thrall.
Image of comfort! Lustrous as the star
That crests the morning, and as virgin pure,
All is not lost if thou wilt but endure!
If through the dust and turmoil of this war,
I may behold thee, stately and secure,

If she should give me all I ask of her,
The virgin treasures of her modest love;
If lip to lip in eager frenzy clove,
And limb with limb should palpitate and stir
In that wild struggle whose delights confer
A rapture which the jealous gods above
Envy and long for as they coldly move
Through votive fumes of spice and burning myrrh;
Yea, were her beauty thus securely mine,
Forever waiting at my beck and call,
I lord and master of her all in all;
Yet at that weakness I would fret and pine
Which makes exhausted nature trip and fall

The leaden eyelids of wan twilight close
Upon the sun; and now the misty dew
Trails its wet skirts across the glades, and through
The tangled grasses of the meadow goes,
Shaking a drop in every open rose,
In every lily's cup; Yon dreary yew
Alone looks darker for the tears that strew
Its dusky leaves, and deeper shadow throws,
And closer gathers; as if it would sit
As one who, mourning, wraps his mantle tight,
And huddles nearer to the dismal sight
Of some lost love; so yonder tree seems knit
Fast to the grave beneath; my heart takes flight,