The Emigrant Mechanic and Other Tales In Verse | Page 5

child, he did their goodness share.?Dear, aged friends! grim Death has laid you low,?And you no more to him can kindness show!
Often thy scenery, fair Underbarrow,?Has cheered his spirit and dispelled his sorrow!?Thy hazel copses, and thy rugged Scaur,?With yellow-blooming whins have banished far?All thoughts of his poor, weak and sickly frame,?And raised his love of Nature to a flame!?Yes, often now, though living o'er the sea,?And many years have fled since he saw thee,?Dear Memory brings thy early charms to view,?And all their pleasures to his mind seem new!?Again, fresh scenes would his attention crave,?Ev'n noble Windermere with rippling wave;?And frequently he crossed o'er its short ferry,?In huge flat-boats, or pleasant sailing wherry,?And viewed, well pleased, its many lovely isles,?Clothed with rich verdure and sweet Summer's smiles;?Or watched the fishes, darting to and fro,?As o'er its crystal waves the boat would go;?And still remembers those rich wooded hills,?While deep emotion all his spirit thrills.?Sometimes tired Nature would assert her sway,?Then gloomy thoughts rose up in dark array;?He thus would wander, weary and alone,?Listening the breezes in their fitful moan,?As in their anger they swept through the woods,?While thunder-clouds sent down their copious floods,?And ask himself, in bitterness of soul,?Why he his destiny could not control??Why some were wealthy, and could take their ease,?And ride about wherever they should please??While he, poor lad, on foot his weary way?Kept plodding still, till nearly close of day!
At other times a pleasant lodge was seen,?Where life seemed spent in happiness serene;?Its graceful lawn, its gardens and its fields,?Spoke loudly of the comfort money yields;?And oft he vainly dreamed that he possessed?Just such a home, and with such comforts blest.?Sweet day-dreams these, quite frequently indulged;?Too oft, alas! were all his thoughts divulged.
Before him soon more charming views arise,?Enchanting scenes meet everywhere his eyes.?See Low Wood Inn, a sweet, secluded spot,?Most lovely sight, not soon to be forgot!?It stands upon the margin of the lake--?And of it all things round conspire to make?A mansion such as poets well might choose--?Fit habitation for the heaven-born Muse!?Well might he linger with entranced delight,?Though Sol gave warning of approaching night.?Aroused by this, ere long he forward hied?To that small village still called Ambleside.?We now again will cross with him the lake,?And thence the road that leads to Hawkshead take;?There Esthwaite water on a smaller scale?Unfolds her beauties, to adorn my tale.?She, like a mirror, on her silvery face?Reflects the mansions that her margins grace.?Those mansions fair are seen on every hand,?(What may not wealth, in such a place, command?)?And mark their owners men of wealth and taste;?Not miserly, nor yet inclined to waste.
Near this small lake does a rude hamlet stand,?In which there dwelt a poor, hard-working band.?The parents, both, were well advanced in age,?And yet, from kindness, they at once engage?To give this youth a welcome to their board,?And all the comforts that their means afford.?To see him happy was their chief desire,?Which did his soul with gratitude inspire.?They now are dead! Oh, may their ashes rest?In peace, and still their memories be bless'd!?WILLIAM oft thinks of all the pleasant scenes?He there enjoyed before he reached his teens;?And well remembers how he loved to stray?By that pure lake, soon after break of day.?'Twas at such time, that once he chanced to spy?A splendid pike upon the beach quite dry?He viewed the prize; it had not long been dead,?As he well knew by looking at its head.?Surprised, he gazed about, on every hand,?But saw no soul upon the lake or land;?Then thought, since no one came the fish to claim,?Take it he might, and yet incur no blame.?This settled in his mind, without delay?He seized the fish, and carried it away.?When he reached home, friends thought it would be best?'Gainst noon-tide hour to have it nicely dressed.?But candor now obliges me to say,?That the right owner soon appeared next day;?Who said he lately caught a noble pike,?And laid it carefully beside a dyke;?But, while he went still farther up the lake,?To draw some lines, and other fishes take,?A dog, or person, had purloined that one:?A cousin told him WILL the deed had done!?Told how he brought to them, with boyish glee,?As fine a pike as ever one could see!?This heard, the loser took it in good part,?Enjoyed the joke, and showed a kindly heart.
Hail, human kindness! Often have I been?Indebted to thee for same pleasing scene;?Although our race have sadly fallen low,?Thou still appearest like the heavenly bow,?Amidst the storms of human passion now;?And where, dear Angel, thou art to be found,?Sweet peace and comfort flow to all around!
An incident I now would introduce?Which may, perchance, be now and then of use?In leading youths to greater carefulness,?When to sweet pleasure they themselves address.?Near Esthwaite's foot exists a lonely spot,?Named by the country people "The Priest's Pot";?A strange, deep