[2] At that time the residence of Mr Wordsworth's family.
[3] The author's cottage on the banks of Windermere.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
Oh! Nature! whose Elysian scenes disclose
His bright perfections at whose word they rose,
Next to that Power who form'd thee and sustains,
Be thou the great inspirer of my strains.
Still, as I touch the lyre, do thou expand
Thy genuine charms, and guide an artless hand.
Cowper.
THE HERMITAGE.
Stranger! this lonely glen in ancient times
Was named the glen of blood; nor Christian feet
By night or day, from these o'er-arching cliffs
That haply now have to thy joyful shouts
Return'd a mellow music, ever brought
One trembling sound to break the depth of silence.
The village maiden, in this little stream,
Though then, as now, most clearly beautiful,
Ne'er steeped her simple garments, while she sang
Some native air of sadness or of mirth.
In these cold, shady pools, the fearless trout
Ne'er saw the shadow, but of sailing cloud,
Or kite that wheeling eyed the far-off lamb;
And on yon hazel bowers the ripen'd fruit
Hung clustering, moved but by the frequent swing
Of playful squirrel,—for no school-boy here
With crook and angle light on holiday
Came nutting, or to snare the sportive fry.
Even bolder spirits shunn'd the glen of blood!
These rocks, the abode of echo, never mock'd
In sportive din the huntsman's bugle horn;
And as the shepherd from the mountain-fold
Homewards return'd beneath the silent Moon,
A low unconscious prayer would agitate
His breathless heart, for here in unblest grave
Lay one for whom ne'er toll'd the passing-bell!