Imágenes de páginas


The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The Winds that will be howling at all hours
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.—Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus coming from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.



Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.

The Kine are couched upon the dewy grass;

The Horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,

Is up, and cropping yet his later meal:

Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal

O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky.

Now, in this blank of things, a harmony,

Home-felt, and home-created, seems to heal

That grief for which the senses still supply

Fresh food; for only then, when memory

Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends, restrain

Those busy cares that would allay my pain:

Oh! leave me to myself; nor let me feel

The officious touch that makes me droop again.



Sept. 3, 1803.

Earth lias not any thing to shew more fair: Dull would he be of soul who coula^pass by A sight so touching in its majesty^/ This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendor valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!



Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side,

Together in immortal books enrolled:

His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold;

And that inspiring Hill, which " did divide

Into two ample horns his forehead wide,"

Shines with poetic radiance as of old;

While not an English Mountain we behold

By the celestial Muses glorified.

Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in crowds:

What was the great Parnassus' self to Thee,

Mount Skiddawr In his natural sovereignty

Our British Hill is fairer far: He shrouds

His double-fronted head in higher clouds,

And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly. XXVIII.

Brook, whose society the Poet seeks
Intent his wasted spirits to renew;
And whom the curious Painter doth pursue
Through rocky passes, among flowery creeks,
And tracks thee dancing down thy water-breaks;
If I some type of thee did wish to view,
Thee,—and not thee thyself, I would not do
Like Grecian Artists, give thee human cheeks,
Channels for tears; no Naiad should'st thou be,
Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints, nor hairs
It seems the Eternal Soul is clothed in thee
With purer robes than those of flesh and blood,
And hath bestowed on thee a better good;
Unwearied joy, and life without its cares.

« AnteriorContinuar »