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The Being, that is in the clouds and air,
The pleasure-house is dust :-behind, before, This is no common waste, no common gloom; But Nature, in due course of time, once more Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom.
She leaves these objects to a slow decay,
One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,
They came with banner, spear, and shield; And it was proved in Bosworth-field. Not long the Avenger was withstoodEarth helped him with the cry of blood : St. George was for us, and the might Of blessed Angels crowned the right. Loud voice the Land has uttered forth, We loudest in the faithful north: Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring, Our streams proclaim a welcoming ; Our strong-abodes and castles see The glory of their loyalty.
How glad is Skipton at this hourThough lonely, a deserted Tower ; Knight, squire, and yeoman, page and groom : We have them at the feast of Brough'm. How glad Pendragon—though the sleep Of years be on her She shall reap A taste of this great pleasure, viewing As in a dream her own renewing. Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem Beside her little humble stream; And she that keepeth watch and ward Her statelier Eden's course to guard ; They both are happy at this hour, Though each is but a lonely Tower :But here is perfect joy and pride For one fair House by Emont's side, This day, distinguished without peer To see her Master and to cheerHim, and his Lady-mother dear!
“From town to town, from tower to tower,
Oh! it was a time forlorn When the fatherless was bornGive her wings that she may fly, Or she sees her infant die! Swords that are with slaughter wild Hunt the Mother and the Child. Who will take them from the light ! -Yonder is a man in sightYonder is a house-but where? No, they must not enter there. To the caves, and to the brooks, To the clouds of heaven she looks; She is speechless, but her eyes Pray in ghostly agonies. Blissful Mary, Mother mild, Maid and Mother undefiled, Save a Mother and her Child !
Now Who is he that bounds with joy On Carrock's side, a Shepherd-boy! No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass Light as the wind along the grass.
Can this be He who hither came
Alas! when evil men are strong
-Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise !
He knew the rocks which Angels haunt
Quell the Scot,' exclaims the Lance-
Alas ! the impassioned minstrel did not know
Love had he found in huts where poor men lie;
A recreant harp, that sings of fear And heaviness in Clifford's ear! I said, when evil men are strong, No life is good, no pleasure long, A weak and cowardly untruth! Our Clifford was a happy Youth, And thankful through a weary time, That brought him up to manhood's prime. -Again he wanders forth at will, And tends a flock from hill to hill: His garb is humble; ne'er was seen Such garb with such a noble mien; Among the shepherd grooms no mate Hath he, a Child of strength and state! Yet lacks not friends for simple glee, Nor yet for higher sympathy. To his side the fallow-deer Came, and rested without fear ; The eagle, lord of land and sea, Stooped down to pay him fealty ; And both the undying fish that swim Through Bowscale-tarn did wait on him ; The pair were servants of his eye In their immortality ; And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright, Moved to and fro, for his delight.
In him the savage virtue of the Race,
Glad were the vales, and every cottage-hearth;
In which the affections gently lead us on,-
JULY 18, 1798. Windows have past; five summers, with the length Watu long winters ! and again I hear
l'hou wa Haters, rolling from their mountain-springs Wich i soft inland murmur -Once again Du behold these steep and lofty cliffs, That on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Hore, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild : these pastoral farms, Green to the very door ; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees ! With some uncertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire The Hermit sits alone.
These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration :—feelings too Of unremembered pleasure : such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered, acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, Is lightened :--that serene and blessed mood,
And now, with gleams of half-extinguished
thought, With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity, The picture of the mind revives again : While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when
first I came among these hills; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wherever nature led: more like a man Flying from something that he dreads, than one Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, And their glad animal movements all gone by) To me was all in all.-I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appetite; a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past, And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts Have followed; for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompence. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity,
* The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above Tintern.
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then, If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchanceIf I should be where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence-wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came Unwearied in that service: rather say With warmer love-oh! with far deeper zeal Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
For thou art with me here upon the banks
My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch
It is no Spirit who from heaven hath flown,
above, My Soul, an Apparition in the place, Tread there with steps that no one shall reprove !
AS IT APPEARED TO ENTHUSIASTS AT ITS COMMENCEMENT.
REPRINTED FROM “THE FRIEND."
OH! pleasant exercise of hope and joy!
* This line has a close resemblance to an admirable line of Young's the exact expression of which I do not recollect.
* This and the Extract, page 62, and the first Piece of this Class are from the unpublished Poem of which some account is given in the Preface to the EXCURSION.