L.

A TRADITION OF OKEN HILL IN DARLEY DALE, DERBYSHIRE.

"TIS said that to the brow of yon fair hill

Two Brothers clomb, and, turning face from face,

Nor one look more exchanging, grief to still

Or feed, each planted on that lofty place

A chosen Tree; then, eager to fulfil

Their courses, like two new-born rivers, they

In opposite directions urged their way

Down from the far-seen mount. No blast might kill
Or blight that fond memorial ;—the trees grew,
And now entwine their arms; but ne'er again
Embraced those Brothers upon earth's wide plain;
Nor aught of mutual joy or sorrow knew
Until their spirits mingled in the sea

That to itself takes all, Eternity.

LI.

FILIAL PIETY.

(CN THE WAY-SIDE BETWEEN PRESTON AND LIVERPOOL.)

UNTOUCHED through all severity of cold;
Inviolate, whate'er the cottage hearth
Might need for comfort, or for festal mirth;
That Pile of Turf is half a century old:
Yes, Traveller! fifty winters have been told
Since suddenly the dart of death went forth

ECA

ILLUMEA

'Gainst him who raised it,-his last work on earth : Thence has it, with the Son, so strong a hold

Upon his Father's memory, that his hands,

Through reverence, touch it only to repair

Its waste. Though crumbling with each breath of air,

In annual renovation thus it stands

Rude Mausoleum! but wrens nestle there,

And red-breasts warble when sweet sounds are rare.

LII.

TO THE AUTHOR'S PORTRAIT.

[Painted at Rydal Mount, by W. Pickersgill, Esq., for St. John's
College, Cambridge.]

Go, faithful Portrait! and where long hath knelt
Margaret, the saintly Foundress, take thy place;
And, if Time spare the colours for the grace
Which to the work surpassing skill hath dealt,
Thou, on thy rock reclined, though kingdoms melt
And states be torn up by the roots, wilt seem
To breathe in rural peace, to hear the stream,
And think and feel as once the Poet felt.

Whate'er thy fate, those features have not grown
Unrecognised through many a household tear
More prompt, more glad, to fall than drops of dew
By morning shed around a flower half-blown ;
Tears of delight, that testified how true

To life thou art, and, in thy truth, how dear!

LIII.

WHY art thou silent! Is thy love a plant
Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air
Of absence withers what was once so fair?
Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant ?
Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant
(As would my deeds have been) with hourly care,
The mind's least generous wish a mendicant
For nought but what thy happiness could spare.
Speak-though this soft warm heart, once free to hold
A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,

Be left more desolate, more dreary cold
Than a forsaken bird's-nest filled with snow

'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine

Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!

LIV.

TO B. R. HAYDON, ON SEEING HIS PICTURE OF NAPOLEON
BUONAPARTE ON THE ISLAND OF ST. HELENA.

HAYDON! let worthier judges praise the skill
Here by thy pencil shown in truth of lines
And charm of colours; I applaud those signs
Of thought, that give the true poetic thrill;
That unencumbered whole of blank and still,
Sky without cloud-ocean without a wave;
And the one Man that laboured to enslave
The World, sole-standing high on the bare hill-
Back turned, arms folded, the unapparent face
Tinged, we may fancy, in this dreary place
With light reflected from the invisible sun
Set, like his fortunes; but not set for aye
Like them. The unguilty Power pursues
And before him doth dawn perpetual run.

his

way,