Cowering befide her rifted cell,

As if intent on magic spell ;—

Dread pair, that spite of wind and weather,

Still fit upon Helm Crag together!

From "The Waggoner," Canto I.

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL

Upon a Stone in the Wall of the House (an Out-House) on the
Ifland at Grafmere.

Rude is this edifice, and thou haft feen
Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintained
Proportions more harmonious, and approached
To fomewhat of a clofer fellowship
With the ideal grace. Yet, as it is,
Do take it in good part:—alas, the poor
Vitruvius of our village had no help
From the great city; never, on the leaves
Of red morocco folio, faw difplayed
The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts
Of beauties yet unborn,-the ruftic box,
Snug cot, with coach-house, shed, and hermitage.
Thou feest a homely pile, yet to these walls
The heifer comes in the snow-ftorm, and here

The new-dropped lamb finds fhelter from the wind.
And hither does one Poet fometimes row

His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled
With plenteous ftore of heath and withered fern
(A lading which he with his fickle cuts
Among the mountains), and beneath this roof

He makes his Summer couch, and here at noon
Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unfhorn, the sheep,
Panting beneath the burden of their wool,

Lie round him, even as if they were a part

Of his own household; nor, while from his bed,
He through that door-place looks towards the lake
And to the stirring breezes, does he want
Creations lovely as the work of flcep,
Fair fights and vifions of romantic joy!

MICHAEL.

A PASTORAL POEM.

If from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll,
You will fuppofe that with an upright path
Your feet must struggle; in fuch bold ascent
The paftoral mountains front you, face to face.
But, courage! for around that boisterous brook

The mountains have all opened out themselves,
And made a hidden valley of their own.

No habitation there is feen; but fuch

As journey thither find themselves alone

With a few sheep, with rocks and ftones, and kites That overhead are failing in the sky.

It is, in truth, an utter folitude;

Nor fhould I have made mention of this dell,
But for one object which you might pass by,
Might fee and notice not. Befide the brook
There is a ftraggling heap of unhewn stones;
And to that place a story appertains,
Which, though it be ungarnished with events,
Is not unfit, I deem, for the fire-fide,
Or for the Summer fhade. It was the first,
The earliest of those tales that spake to me
Offhepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men
Whom I already loved ;-not verily

For their own fakes, but for the fields and hills
Where was their occupation and abode.
And hence this tale,-while I was yet a boy
Careless of books, yet having felt the power
Of Nature,-by the gentle agency

Of natural objects, led me on to feel

For paffions that were not my own, and think (At random, and imperfectly indeed)

On man, the heart of man, and human life.

K