And orange gale that o'er Lugano blows;
Still have I found, where Tyranny prevails,
That virtue languishes and pleasure fails,
While the remotest hamlets blessings share
In thy loved presence known, and only there; 600
Heart-blessings-outward treasures too which

the eye

Of the sun peeping through the clouds can spy, And every passing breeze will testify.

There, to the porch, belike with jasmine bound Or woodbine wreaths, a smoother path is

wound;

605 The housewife there a brighter garden sees, Where hum on busier wing her happy bees; On infant cheeks there fresher roses blow; And grey-haired men look up with livelier brow,

610

To greet the traveller needing food and rest; Housed for the night, or but a half-hour's guest.

And oh, fair France! though now the traveller

sees

Thy three-striped banner fluctuate on the breeze;

Though martial songs have banished songs of

love,

615

And nightingales desert the village grove, Scared by the fife and rumbling drum's alarms, And the short thunder, and the flash of arms That cease not till night falls, when far and

Sole sound, the Sourd' prolongs his mournful

cry;

620

-Yet hast thou found that Freedom spreads

her power

Beyond the cottage hearth, the cottage-door:
All nature smiles, and owns beneath her eyes
Her fields peculiar, and peculiar skies.
Yes, as I roamed where Loiret's waters glide 625
Through rustling aspens heard from side to side,
When from October clouds a milder light
Fell where the blue flood rippled into white;
Methought from every cot the watchful bird
Crowed with ear-piercing power till then un-

heard;

630

Each clacking mill, that broke the murmuring streams,

Rocked the charmed thought in more delightful dreams;

2

635

Chasing those pleasant dreams, the falling leaf
Awoke a fainter sense of moral grief;
The measured echo of the distant flail
Wound in more welcome cadence down the vale;
With more majestic course the water rolled,
And ripening foliage shone with richer gold.
-But foes are gathering-Liberty must raise
Red on the hills her beacon's far-seen blaze; 640
Must bid the tocsin ring from tower to tower!
Nearer and nearer comes the trying hour!
Rejoice, brave Land, though pride's perverted

ire

1 An insect so called, which emits a short, melancholy cry, heard at the close of the summer evenings, on the banks of the Loire.

2 The duties upon many parts of the French rivers were so exorbitant, that the poorer people, deprived of the benefit of water carriage, were obliged to transport their goods by land.

Rouse hell's own aid, and wrap thy fields in fire : Lo, from the flames a great and glorious birth ; As if a new-made heaven were hailing a new earth!

646

-All cannot be: the promise is too fair For creatures doomed to breathe terrestrial air: Yet not for this will sober reason frown Upon that promise, nor the hope disown; 650 She knows that only from high aims ensue Rich guerdons, and to them alone are due.

Great God! by whom the strifes of men are weighed

In an impartial balance, give thine aid
To the just cause; and, oh! do thou preside 655
Over the mighty stream now spreading wide:
So shall its waters, from the heavens supplied
In copious showers, from earth by wholesome
springs,

Brood o'er the long-parched lands with Nilelike wings!

And grant that every sceptred child of clay 660 Who cries presumptuous, "Here the flood shall stay,"

May in its progress see thy guiding hand, And cease the acknowledged purpose to withstand;

Or, swept in anger from the insulted shore, Sink with his servile bands, to rise no more! 665

To-night, my Friend, within this humble cot Be scorn and fear and hope alike forgot In timely sleep; and when, at break of day, On the tall peaks the glistening sunbeams play, With a light heart our course we may renew, 670 The first whose footsteps print the mountain dew. 1791 & 1792.

VII.

LINES

Left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, which stands near the lake of Esthwaite, on a desolate part of the shore, commanding a beautiful prospect.

NAY, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yewtree stands

Far from all human dwelling: what if here
No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb?
What if the bee love not these barren boughs?
Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves, 5
That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind
By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.
Who he was

That piled these stones and with the mossy sod

15

First covered, and here taught this aged Tree 10
With its dark arms to form a circling bower,
I well remember.-He was one who owned
No common soul. In youth by science nursed,
And led by nature into a wild scene
Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth
A favoured Being, knowing no desire
Which genius did not hallow; 'gainst the taint
Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate,
And scorn, against all enemies prepared,
All but neglect. The world, for so it thought,
Owed him no service; wherefore he at once
With indignation turned himself away,
And with the food of pride sustained his soul
In solitude. Stranger! these gloomy boughs
Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit,
His only visitants a straggling sheep,

19

26

30

The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper:
And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath,
And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er,
Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour
A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here
An emblem of his own unfruitful life:
And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze
On the more distant scene,-how lovely 'tis
Thou seest,—and he would gaze till it became 35
Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain
The beauty, still more beauteous! Nor, that

time,

40

When nature had subdued him to herself,
Would he forget those Beings to whose minds
Warm from the labours of benevolence
The world, and human life, appeared a scene
Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh,
Inly disturbed, to think that others felt
What he must never feel: and so, lost Man!
On visionary views would fancy feed,
Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep

vale

He died,—this seat his only monument.

45

If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms Of young imagination have kept pure, Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride,

Howe'er disguised in its own majesty,

Is littleness; that he who feels contempt
For any living thing, hath faculties.

50

Which he has never used; that thought with him

Is in its infancy.

The man whose eye

55

Is ever on himself doth look on one,

The least of Nature's works, one who might

move