philosophical

Verse

But for those obstinate questionings X

Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings;
Blank misgivings of a Creature
Moving about in worlds not realised,

High instincts before which our mortal Nature
Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised:

But for those first affections,
Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may,

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Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,

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To perish never;

Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,

Nor Man nor Boy,

Nor all that is at enmity with joy,

Can utterly abolish or destroy!

Hence in a season of calm weather

Though inland far we be, x

Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither,

Can in a moment travel thither,

And see the Children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

T. W.

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optical,

X.

Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young Lambs bound

As to the tabor's sound!

We in thought will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play,

Ye that through your hearts to-day

Feel the gladness of the May!

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What though the radiance which was once so bright 175
Be now for ever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy

Which having been must ever be;

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In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;

In the faith that looks through death,

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In years that bring the philosophic mind.

XI.

And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;

I only have relinquished one delight

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To live beneath your more habitual sway.

X

I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,

Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day

Is lovely yet;

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is mere

nature. The

the

The Clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
experienced in Mumen
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; troubles so he is with
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.,
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

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THOUGHT OF A BRITON

ON THE SUBJUGATION OF SWITZERLAND.

Two Voices are there; one is of the sea,
One of the mountains; each a mighty Voice:
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,
They were thy chosen music, Liberty!
There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee

Thou fought'st against him, but hast vainly striven:
Thou from thy Alpine holds af length art driven,
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.
Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft :
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left;
For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be
That Mountain floods should thunder as before,
And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
And neither awful voice be heard by thee!

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ΙΟ

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,

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The two that were at strife are blended,
And all old troubles 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;

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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 helped him with the cry of blood:
St George was for us, and the might
Of blessed Angels crowned the right.
Loud voice the Land has uttered forth,
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 lonely, a deserted Tower;

Knight, squire, and yeoman, page and groom;

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;

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