Great poetry of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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To the lady Fliming by William Wordsworth

On Seeing The Foundation Preparing For The Erection Of Rydal Chapel, Westmoreland.

Blest is this Isle, our native Land;

Where battlement and moated gate

Are objects only for the hand

Of hoary Time to decorate;

Where shady hamlet, town that breathes

Its busy smoke in social wreaths,

No rampart’s stern defense require,

Nought but the heaven-directed spire,

And steeple tower (with pealing bells

Far-heard) our only citadels.
O Lady! from a noble line

Of chieftains sprung, who stoutly bore

The spear, yet gave to works divine

A bounteous help in days of yore,

(As records mouldering in the Dell

Of Nightshade haply yet may tell;)

Thee kindred aspirations moved

To build, within a vale beloved,

For Him upon whose high behests

All peace depends, all safety rests.
How fondly will the woods embrace

This daughter of thy pious care,

Lifting her front with modest grace

To make a fair recess more fair;

And to exalt the passing hour;

Or soothe it with a healing power

Drawn from the Sacrifice fulfilled,

Before this rugged soil was tilled,

Or human habitation rose

To interrupt the deep repose!
Well may the villagers rejoice!

Nor heat, nor cold, nor weary ways,

Will be a hindrance to the voice

That would unite in prayer and praise;

More duly shall wild wandering Youth

Receive the curb of sacred truth,

Shall tottering Age, bent earthward, hear

The Promise, with uplifted ear;

And all shall welcome the new ray

Imparted to their sabbath-day.
Nor deem the Poet’s hope misplaced,

His fancy cheated, that can see

A shade upon the future cast,

Of time’s pathetic sanctity;

Can hear the monitory clock

Sound o’er the lake with gentle shock

At evening, when the ground beneath

Is ruffled o’er with cells of death;

Where happy generations lie,

Here tutored for eternity.
Lives there a man whose sole delights

Are trivial pomp and city noise,

Hardening a heart that loathes or slights

What every natural heart enjoys?

Who never caught a noon-tide dream

From murmur of a running stream;

Could strip, for aught the prospect yields

To him, their verdure from the fields;

And take the radiance from the clouds

In which the sun his setting shrouds.
A soul so pitiably forlorn,

If such do on this earth abide,

May season apathy with scorn,

May turn indifference to pride;

And still be not unblest compared

With him who grovels, self-debarred

From all that lies within the scope

Of holy faith and Christian hope;

Or, shipwrecked, kindles on the coast

False fires, that others may be lost.
Alas! that such perverted zeal

Should spread on Britain’s favoured ground!

That public order, private weal,

Should e’er have felt or feared a wound

From champions of the desperate law

Which from their own blind hearts they draw;

Who tempt their reason to deny

God, whom their passions dare defy,

And boast that they alone are free

Who reach this dire extremity!
But turn we from these “bold bad” men;

The way, mild Lady! that hath led

Down to their dark opprobrious den,”

Is all too rough for Thee to tread.

Softly as morning vapours glide

Down Rydal-cove from Fairfield’s side,

Should move the tenor of ‘his’ song

Who means to charity no wrong;

Whose offering gladly would accord

With this day’s work, in thought and word.
Heaven prosper it! may peace, and love,

And hope, and consolation, fall,

Through its meek influence, from above,

And penetrate the hearts of all;

All who, around the hallowed Fane,

Shall sojourn in this fair domain;

Grateful to Thee, while service pure,

And ancient ordinance, shall endure,

For opportunity bestowed

To kneel together, and adore their God!

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