VI.

WRITTEN WITH A SLATE-PENCIL ON A STONE, ON THE SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN OF BLACK COMB.

STAY, bold Adventurer; rest awhile thy limbs
On this commodious Seat! for much remains
Of hard ascent before thou reach the top
Of this huge Eminence, - from blackness named,
And, to far-travelled storms of sea and land,
A favourite spot of tournament and war!
But thee may no such boisterous visitants
Molest; may gentle breezes fan thy brow;
And neither cloud conceal, nor misty air
Bedim, the grand terraqueous spectacle,
From centre to circumference, unveiled!
Know, if thou grudge not to prolong thy rest,
That on the summit whither thou art bound,
A geographic Labourer pitched his tent,
With books supplied and instruments of art,
To measure height and distance; lonely task,

Week after week pursued!

To him was given

Full many a glimpse (but sparingly bestowed

On timid man) of Nature's processes

Upon the exalted hills. He made report

That once, while there he plied his studious work
Within that canvass Dwelling, suddenly

The many-coloured map before his eyes
Became invisible: for all around

Had darkness fallen-unthreatened, unproclaimed-
As if the golden day itself had been
Extinguished in a moment; total gloom,

In which he sate alone, with unclosed eyes,
Upon the blinded mountain's silent top!

See Vol. II. p. 56.

VII.

WRITTEN WITH A SLATE-PENCIL UPON A STONE, THE LARGEST OF

A HEAP LYING NEAR A DESERTED QUARRY, UPON ONE OF THE ISLANDS AT RYDALE.

STRANGER! this hillock of mis-shapen stones
Is not a Ruin of the ancient time,

Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the Cairn
Of some 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 isle.

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 chose, the Knight forthwith
Desisted, and the quarry and the mound

Are monuments of his unfinished task.

The block on which these lines are traced, perhaps,

Was once selected as the corner-stone

Of the intended Pile, which would have been
Some quaint odd plaything of elaborate skill,
So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush,
And other little builders who dwell here,
Had wondered at the work. But blame him not,
For old Sir William was a gentle Knight
Bred in this vale, to which he appertained
With all his ancestry. Then peace to him,
And for the outrage which he had devised
Entire forgiveness!
But if thou art one

On fire with thy impatience to become

An inmate of these mountains, if, disturbed

By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn
Out of the quiet rock the elements

Of thy trim mansion destined soon to blaze
In snow-white splendour,

By old Sir William and his

think again, and, taught

quarry, leave

Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose;
There let the vernal Slow-worm sun himself,

And let the Redbreast hop from stone to stone.

VIII.

INSCRIPTIONS SUPPOSED TO BE FOUND IN AND NEAR A HERMIT'S CELL.

1.

HOPES what are they? - Beads of morning

Strung on slender blades of

Or a spider's web adorning

grass;

In a strait and treacherous pass.

What are fears but voices airy?
Whispering harm where harm is not;
And deluding the unwary

Till the fatal bolt is shot!

See how dying tapers fare!

What is pride? - a whizzing rocket

That would emulate a star.

What is friendship? do not trust her,

Nor the vows which she has made;

Diamonds dart their brightest lustre
From a palsy-shaken head.