To whom I fometimes in our idle talk
Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps,
Years after we are gone and in our graves,

When they have cause to speak of this wild place,
May call it by the name of EMMA'S DELL.

WORDSWORTH'S HILL.

There is an eminence,-of these our hills
The last that parleys with the setting sun ;
We can behold it from our orchard-seat ;
And, when at evening we pursue our walk
Along the public way, this cliff, so high
Above us, and fo diftant in its height,
Is vifible; and often feems to fend
Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts.
The meteors make of it a favourite haunt :
The ftar of Jove, fo beautiful and large

In the mid heavens, is never half so fair

As when he shines above it. 'Tis in truth

The loneliest place we have among the clouds. And she who dwells with me, whom I have loved With fuch communion, that no place on earth Can ever be a folitude to me,

Hath to this lonely fummit given my Name.

MARY WORDSWORTH'S NOOK.

TO M. H.

Our walk was far among the ancient trees;
There was no road, nor any woodman's path;
But the thick umbrage,-checking the wild growth
Of weed and fapling, on the foft green turf
Beneath the branches,—of itself had made
A track, which brought us to a slip of lawn,
And a small bed of water in the woods.

All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink
On its firm margin, even as from a well,

Or fome stone bafin which the herdfman's hand

Had fhaped for their refreshment; nor did fun,
Or wind from any quarter, ever come,
But as a bleffing, to this calm recess,
This glade of water, and this one green field.
The fpot was made by Nature for herself.
The travellers know it not, and 'twill remain
Unknown to them: but it is beautiful;
And if a man fhould plant his cottage near,
Should fleep beneath the fhelter of its trees,
And blend its waters with his daily meal,

He would fo love it, that in his death-hour
Its image would survive among his thoughts:
And therefore, my sweet MARY, this still nook,
With all its beeches, we have named from

you.

WRITTEN WITH A SLATE-PENCIL

Upon a Stone, the largest of a Heap lying near a Dejerted Quarry, upon one of the Islands at Rydale.

Stranger! this hillock of misfhapen stones
Is not a Ruin of the ancient time,

Nor, as perchance thou rafhly deem'ft, the Cairn

Of fome old British chief: 'tis nothing more

Than the rude embryo of a little dome
Or pleasure-house, once destined to be built
Among the birch-trees of this rocky ifle.
But, as it chanced, Sir William having learned
That from the shore a full-grown man might wade,
And make himself a freeman of this spot
At any hour he chofe, the knight forthwith
Defifted, and the quarry and the mound
Are monuments of his unfinished task.-