ON VISITING WORDSWORTH'S HOUSE,

RYDAL MOUNT, AFTER MRS. W.'S

DEATH, MAY, 1859.

The spell is broken distance lent
Unto the Poet's shrine,
Although with it he was content

I would not call it mine.

Though fair without as fair can be
'Tis very foul within,

Scarce is there light enough to see
To read, or sow, or spin.

The chamber where the Bard did sit
And weave his stately verse,

Scarce for a kitchen is it fit

Than many a kitchen worse.

But stand upon this grassy mound
Where oft the Poet stood,

And look upon the landscape round
On mountain lake and flood.

Then blame him not if he preferred

A home however mean,

Where nestled like a mountain bird

He gazed on such a scene.

May, 1859.

THE ITALIAN TO HIS COUNTRY.

Hark again the cry of freedom, freedom from a foreign yoke,

Galling as the yoke of Edom, once which Israel's spirit broke;

Well is it that thou hast nursed, Italy thine ancient

will,

Though with foreign rulers cursed, to thy children faithful still;

To thy destiny adhering, with an energy of will, From thy purpose never veering, like the compass steadfast still;

Suffering on through many ages, never hope away hast cast,

Through oppression's various stages, to the latest and the last;

Still thy noble, still thy peasant, hath endured with sullen brow,

And with patience to the present, but he will not suffer now.

Many a beacon fire is burning, underneath thy starlit skies,

Many a hoof the sod is spurning, " Italia viva" loud the cries;

O no longer shalt thou languish, like a plant deprived of light,

We will fight and we will vanquish, O may God defend the right!

May 30, 1859.

GOD THE RULER.

'Tis God's right hand the thunderbolt which aims, The lightnings flash, the ancient oak which maims Or blights its branches with its kindling stroke And chars to charcoal the immortal oak.

Nature's great forces He directs and rules
And governs earth by wise men and by fools,
All are His instruments for His own ends,

The weak He strengthens and the stubborn bends.

The battle's issue in His scales He holds,
And human wills into His purpose moulds,
Ambition's purpose helps for wise designs,
And aims the best intended countermines.

His rod, the tyrants, throughout every age
Whether they persecute, or battles wage,

His will they work, thinking they do their own,
One He sets up, another doth dethrone.

Cæsar, and Nero, and Napoleon too,

All work His counsel, all His purpose do,

And when they've done what His decree did say,
Breaks them in pieces like the potter's clay.
May, 1859.

Jesus, to thy cross I cling

There my sins and sorrows bring,

Fling beneath that fatal tree

Fling them there and leave with thee.

Thou hast wept and thou hast bled

Jesus in the sinner's stead,

Jesus wept and bled for me,

Chief of sinners though I be.

Lord, the benefit I claim

Of Thy sufferings and Thy shame;
Come with boldness to the throne
And all other aid disown.

Gladly I the world forsake,
As I am O Saviour take,
As I am with all my sins,

Thine own blood my pardon wins.

June 13, 1859.

THE POET.

He loved to trace the meaning of each look,
And read each face as he would read a book,
Marked every wave of fluctuating thought
The gay, the grave, and each expression caught.

Amidst the throng, all vacant though he stood,
With silent tongue, and in abstracted mood,
Yet was his eye upon each one around,
As he did try their inmost thoughts to sound.

If e'er an eye caught his when on it turned
Unconsciously, the face with blushes burned,