are now thriving, and are already an ornament to a place which, during late years, has lost much of its rustic simplicity by the introduction of iron palisades to fence off family burying-grounds, and by numerous monuments, some of them in very bad taste; from which this place of burial was in my memory quite free. See the lines in the sixth book of _The Excursion_ beginning--"Green is the church-yard, beautiful and green." The _Epistle_ to which these notes refer, though written so far back as 1804,[C] was carefully revised so late as 1842, previous to its publication. I am loth to add, that it was never seen by the person to whom it is addressed. So sensible am I of the deficiencies in all that I write, and so far does everything I attempt fall short of what I wish it to be, that even private publication, if such a term may be allowed, requires more resolution than I can command. I have written to give vent to my own mind, and not without hope that, some time or other, kindred minds might benefit by my labours: but I am inclined to believe I should never have ventured to send forth any verses of mine to the world if it had not been done on the pressure of personal occasions. Had I been a rich man, my productions, like this _Epistle_, the tragedy of _The Borderers_, etc., would most likely have been confined to manuscript.--I. F.] Included among the "Miscellaneous Poems."--ED. Far from our home by Grasmere's quiet Lake, From the Vale's peace which all her fields partake, Here on the bleakest point of Cumbria's shore We sojourn stunned by Ocean's ceaseless roar; While, day by day, grim neighbour! huge Black Comb Frowns deepening visibly his native gloom, 6 Unless, perchance rejecting in despite What on the Plain _we_ have of warmth and light, In his own storms he hides himself from sight. Rough is the time; and thoughts, that would be free 10 From heaviness, oft fly, dear Friend, to thee; Turn from a spot where neither sheltered road Nor hedge-row screen invites my steps abroad; Where one poor Plane-tree, having as it might Attained a stature twice a tall man's height, 15 Hopeless of further growth, and brown and sere Through half the summer, stands with top cut sheer, Like an unshifting weathercock which proves How cold the quarter that the wind best loves, Or like a Centinel[1] that, evermore 20 Darkening the window, ill defends the door Of this unfinished house--a Fortress bare, Where strength has been the Builder's only care; Whose rugged walls may still for years demand The final polish of the Plasterer's hand. 25 --This Dwelling's Inmate more than three weeks' space And oft a Prisoner in the cheerless place, I--of whose touch the fiddle would complain, Whose breath would labour at the flute in vain,