I was not; now I am--a few days hence
I shall not be; I fain would look before
And after, but can neither do; some Power
Or lack of power says "no" to all I would.
I stand upon a wide and sunless plain,
Nor chart nor steel to guide my steps aright.
Whene'er, o'ercoming fear, I dare to move,
I grope without direction and by chance.
Some feign to hear a voice and feel a hand
That draws them ever upward thro' the gloom.
But I--I hear no voice and touch no hand,
Tho' oft thro' silence infinite I list,
And strain my hearing to supernal sounds;
Tho' oft thro' fateful darkness do I reach,
And stretch my hand to find that other hand.
I question of th' eternal bending skies
That seem to neighbor with the novice earth;
But they roll on, and daily shut their eyes

Miss Thompson at Home.            

In her lone cottage on the downs,
With winds and blizzards and great crowns
Of shining cloud, with wheeling plover
And short grass sweet with the small white clover,
Miss Thompson lived, correct and meek,
A lonely spinster, and every week
On market-day she used to go
Into the little town below,
Tucked in the great downs' hollow bowl
Like pebbles gathered in a shoal.


She goes a-Marketing.
                
So, having washed her plates and cup
And banked the kitchen-fire up,
Miss Thompson slipped upstairs and dressed,
Put on her black (her second best),
The bonnet trimmed with rusty plush,
Peeped in the glass with simpering blush,
From camphor-smelling cupboard took
Her thicker jacket off th...

Shoo wor a bonny, bonny lass,
Her e'en as black as sloas;
Her hair a flyin thunner claad,
Her cheeks a blowin rooas.
Her smile coom like a sunny gleam
Her cherry lips to curl;
Her voice wor like a murm'ring stream
'At flowed throo banks o' pearl.

Aw long'd to claim her for mi own,
But nah mi love is crost;
An aw mun wander on alooan,
An mourn for her aw've lost.

Aw could'nt ax her to be mine,
Wi' poverty at th' door:
Aw nivver thowt breet e'en could shine
Wi' love for one so poor;
*/ 92 */
But nah ther's summat i' mi breast,
Tells me aw miss'd mi way:
An lost that lass I loved the best
Throo fear shoo'd say me nay.

Aw long'd to claim her for, &c.

Aw saunter'd raand her cot at morn,
An oft i'th' dar...

(FROM IN GOD'S WAY)
(See Note 77)

When comes the real morning?
When golden, the sun's rays hover
Over the earth's snow-cover,
And where the shadows nestle,
Wrestle,
Lifting lightward the root enringèd
Till it shall seem an angel wingèd,
Then it is morning,
Real, real morning.
    But if the weather is bad
    And my spirit sad,
    Never morning I know.
    No.

Truly, it's real morning,
When blossom the buds winter-beaten,
The birds having drunk and eaten
Are glad as they sing, divining
Shining
Great new crowns to the tree-tops given,
Cheering the brooks to the broad ocean riven.
Then it is morning,
Real, real morning.
    But if the weather is bad
    And my spirit sad,
    Never morning I k...

While beams of orient light shoot wide and high,
Deep in the vale a little rural Town
Breathes forth a cloud-like creature of its own,
That mounts not toward the radiant morning sky,
But, with a less ambitious sympathy,
Hangs o'er its Parent waking to the cares
Troubles and toils that every day prepares.
So Fancy, to the musing Poet's eye,
Endears that Lingerer. And how blest her sway
(Like influence never may my soul reject)
If the calm Heaven, now to its zenith decked
With glorious forms in numberless array,
To the lone shepherd on the hills disclose
Gleams from a world in which the saints repose.

Nature, to him no message dost thou bear
Who in thy beauty findeth not the power
To gird himself more strongly for the hour
Of night and darkness. Oh, what colours rare
The woods, the valleys, and the mountains wear
To him who knows thy secret, and, in shower,
And fog, and ice-cloud, hath a secret bower
Where he may rest until the heavens are fair!
Not with the rest of slumber, but the trance
Of onward movement steady and serene,
Where oft, in struggle and in contest keen,
His eyes will opened be, and all the dance
Of life break on him, and a wide expanse
Roll upward through the void, sunny and green.

June

No hope, no change! The clouds have shut us in,
And through the cloud the sullen Sun strikes down
Full on the bosom of the tortured Town,
Till Night falls heavy as remembered sin
That will not suffer sleep or thought of ease,
And, hour on hour, the dry-eyed Moon in spite
Glares through the haze and mocks with watery light
The torment of the uncomplaining trees.
Far off, the Thunder bellows her despair
To echoing Earth, thrice parched. The lightnings fly
In vain. No help the heaped-up clouds afford,
But wearier weight of burdened, burning air.
What truce with Dawn? Look, from the aching sky,
Day stalks, a tyrant with a flaming sword!

September

At dawn there was a murmur in the trees,
A ripple on the tank, and in the air
Presage ...

I


So we had come at last, my soul and I,
Into that land of shadowy plain and peak,
On which the dawn seemed ever about to break
On which the day seemed ever about to die.


II


Long had we sought fulfillment of our dreams,
The everlasting wells of Joy and Youth;
Long had we sought the snow-white flow'r of Truth,
That blooms eternal by eternal streams.


III


And, fonder still, we hoped to find the sweet
Immortal presence, Love; the bird Delight
Beside her; and, eyed with sidereal night,
Faith, like a lion, fawning at her feet.


IV


But, scorched and barren, in its arid well,
We found our dreams' forgotten fountain-head;
And by black, bitter waters, crushed and dead,
Amon...

Clear the way, my lords and lackeys! you have had your day.
Here you have your answer—England’s yea against your nay:
Long enough your house has held you: up, and clear the way!
Lust and falsehood, craft and traffic, precedent and gold,
Tongue of courtier, kiss of harlot, promise bought and sold,
Gave you heritage of empire over thralls of old.
Now that all these things are rotten, all their gold is rust,
Quenched the pride they lived by, dead the faith and cold the lust,
Shall their heritage not also turn again to dust?
By the grace of these they reigned, who left their sons their sway:
By the grace of these, what England says her lords unsay:
Till at last her cry go forth against them—Clear the way!
By the grace of trust in treason knaves have lived and lied:
By the force ...

Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale!
Say that we come, and come by this day's light;
Fly upon swiftest wing round field and height,
But chiefly let one Cottage hear the tale;
There let a mystery of joy prevail,
The kitten frolic, like a gamesome sprite,
And Rover whine, as at a second sight
Of near-approaching good that shall not fail:
And from that Infant's face let joy appear;
Yea, let our Mary's one companion child
That hath her six weeks' solitude beguiled
With intimations manifold and dear,
While we have wandered over wood and wild
Smile on his Mother now with bolder cheer.

[1]

Four voyagers to parts unknown,
On shore, not far from naked, thrown
By furious waves, - a merchant, now undone,
A noble, shepherd, and a monarch's son, -
Brought to the lot of Belisarius,[2]
Their wants supplied on alms precarious.
To tell what fates, and winds, and weather,
Had brought these mortals all together,
Though from far distant points abscinded,
Would make my tale long-winded.
Suffice to say, that, by a fountain met,
In council grave these outcasts held debate.
The prince enlarged, in an oration set,
Upon the mis'ries that befall the great.
The shepherd deem'd it best to cast
Off thought of all misfortune past,
And each to do the best he could,
In efforts for the common weal.
'Did ever a repining mood,'...

Delos' stately ruler, and Maia's son, the adroit one,

Warmly were striving, for both sought the great prize to obtain.
Hermes the lyre demanded, the lyre was claim'd by Apollo,

Yet were the hearts of the foes fruitlessly nourish'd by hope.
For on a sudden Ares burst in, with fury decisive,

Dashing in twain the gold toy, brandishing wildly his sword.
Hermes, malicious one, laughed beyond measure; yet deep-seated sorrow

Seized upon Phoebus's heart, seized on the heart of each Muse.

You never can tell when you send a word,
    Like an arrow shot from a bow
By an archer blind, be it cruel or kind,
    Just where it may chance to go.
It may pierce the breast of your dearest friend.
    Tipped with its poison or balm,
To a stranger's heart in life's great mart,
    It may carry its pain or its calm.

You never can tell when you do an act
    Just what the result will be;
But with every deed you are sowing a seed,
    Though the harvest you may not see.
Each kindly act is an acorn dropped
    In God's productive soil
You may not know, but the tree shall grow,
    With shelter for those who toil.

You never can tell what your thoughts will do,
    In bringing you hate or love;
For thoughts are things, and their airy wings

(A Prefatory Sonnet for SANTA LUCIA, the Misses Hodgkin's Magazine for the Blind)

We, deeming day-light fair, and loving well
Its forms and dyes, and all the motley play
Of lives that win their colour from the day,
Are fain some wonder of it all to tell
To you that in that elder kingdom dwell
Of Ancient Night, and thus we make assay
Day to translate to Darkness, so to say,
To talk Cimmerian for a little spell.

Yet, as we write, may we not doubt lest ye
Should smile on us, as once our fathers smiled,
When we made vaunt of joys they knew no more;
Knowing great dreams young eyes can never see,
Dwelling in peace unguessed of any child -
Will ye smile thus upon our daylight lore?

Of many gifts bestowed on earth
    To cheer a lonely hour,
Oh is there one of equal worth
    With music's magic power?
'Twill charm each angry thought to rest,
    'Twill gloomy care dispel,
And ever we its power can test, -
    All nature breathes its spell.

There's music in the sighing tone
    Of the soft, southern breeze
That whispers thro' the flowers lone,
    And bends the stately trees,
And - in the mighty ocean's chime,
    The crested breakers roar,
The wild waves, ceaseless surge sublime,
    Breaking upon the shore.

There's music in the bulbul's note,
    Warbling its vesper lay
In some fair spot, from man remote,
    Where wind and flowers play;
But, oh! beyond the sweetest strain
    Of bird, or wave, or gro...

Green growths of mosses drop and bead
Around the granite brink;
And 'twixt the isles of water-weed
The wood-birds dip and drink.

Slow efts about the edges sleep;
Swift-darting water-flies
Shoot on the surface; down the deep
Fast-following bubbles rise.

Look down. What groves that scarcely sway!
What "wood obscure," profound!
What jungle!--where some beast of prey
Might choose his vantage-ground!

* * * * *

Who knows what lurks beneath the tide?--
Who knows what tale? Belike,
Those "antres vast" and shadows hide
Some patriarchal Pike;--

Some tough old tyrant, wrinkle-jawed,
To whom the sky, the earth,
Have but for aim to look on awed
And see him wax in girth;--

Hard ruler there by right of might;
...

Why value ye the diamond, and
The pearl from Ceylon's balmy shore,
When stones unnumber'd strew the land,
And in the sea are millions more?
Why treasure ye each silver bar,
And watch, with Argus eye, your gold,
When lead and iron, near and far,
Are strewn beneath the rocks and mould.

Ye prize those shining gems, because
Their sparkling beauty cheers the eye,
And, by the force of nature's laws,
They never in profusion lie.
Could we, Aladdin like, descend
Into a place where diamonds grow,
Our minds would then most surely tend
To value diamonds very low.

The emerald's or diamond's shine,
Is valued not for that alone,
But for its absence in the mine,
Where thousands lie, of common stone.
And thus, within the world of thought,
T...

For some the river of life would seem
    Free from the shallow, the reef, or bar,
As they gently glide down the silvery stream
    With scarcely a ripple, a lurch, or jar;
But under the surface, calm and fair,
    Lurk the hidden snags, and the secret care;
The waters are deepest where still, and clear,
And the sternest anguish forbids a tear.

For others, the pathway of life is strewn
    With many a thorn, for each rose or bud;
And their journey o'er mountain, o'er moor, and dune,
    Can be plainly tracked by footprints of blood;
But deeper still lies the hidden smart
    Of some secret sorrow, which gnaws the heart,
And rankles under a surface clear;
For the sternest anguish forbids a tear.

But, when the journey's end we see,
    At the ba...