ron 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