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Cibig He the SED TE And cc For or Dome To che
Painte Better Log Toet In the And
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
Of eye and ear, both what they half create,
And what perceive; well pleased to recognize
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.
Nor perchance, In darkness, and amid the many shapes
If I were not thus taught, should I the more Of joyless day-light; when the fretful stir
Suffer my genial spirits to decay: Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
For thou art with me, here, upon the banks Have hung upon the beatings of my heart,
Of this fair river; thou, my dearest friend, How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
My dear, dear friend, and in thy voice I catch Osylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the woods, The language of my former heart, and read How often has my spirit turned to thee! [thought, My former pleasures in the shooting lights
And now, with gleams of half-extinguished of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while With many recognitions dim and faint,
May I behold in thee what I was once, And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
My dear, dear sister! And this prayer I make, The picture of the mind revives again:
Knowing that Nature never did betray While here I stand, not only with the sense
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts Through all the years of this our life, to lead That in this moment there is life and food
From joy to joy: for she can so inform For future years. And so I dare to hope, [first The mind that is within us, so impress Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when With quietness and beauty, and so feed I came among these hills; when like a roe
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all Wherever Nature led: more like a man
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
And let the misty mountain winds be free
To blow against thee: and, in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! theu, By thought supplied, or any interest
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake.
For he hath waking empire, wide as dreams;
And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
Though narrow be that Old Man's cares, and deer,
greater than he seems:
The poor Old Man
An ample sovereignty of eye and ear.
From evil speaking; rancour, never sought,
Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I
Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous
And thus from day to day my little boat (thought:
Oh! might my name be numbered among theirs,
I am not one who much or oft delight
COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE,
Sept. 3, 1803.
THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US,
“Yet life," you say,“ is life; we have seen and see,
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGATION OF
Wings have we,-and as far as we can go
Two voices are there; one is of the sea,
WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER, 1802.
As if you were her first-born birth, O Friend! I know not which way I must look
And none had lived before you!” For comfort, being as I am opprest,
One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, To think that now our life is only drest
When life was sweet, I knew not why, For shew; mean handiwork of craftsman, cook,
To me my good friend Matthew spake, Or groom !-We must run glittering like a brook
And thus I made reply:
“ The eyeit tannot choose but see; No grandeur now in Nature or in book
We cannot bid the ear be still; Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
Our bodies feet, where'er they be,
Against, or with our will.
Nor less I deem that there are powers
Which of themselves our minds impress; And pure religion breathing household laws.
That we can feed this mind of ours
In a wise passiveness.
Think you, mid all this mighty sum
Of things for ever speaking, England hath need of thee: she is a fen
That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking?
--Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, Of inward happiness. We are selfish men.
Conversing as I may,
I sit upon this old gray stone,
THE TABLES TURNED;
AN EVENING SCENE, ON THE SAME SUBJECT.
Up! up! my friend, and quit your books;
Why all this toil and trouble ?
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields bas spread, These moralists could act and comprehend:
His first sweet evening yellow.
Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
How sweet his music! on my life
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! No single volume paramount, no code,
He, too, is no mean preacher: No master spirit, no determined road;
Come forth into the light of things, But equally a want of books and men !
Let Nature be your teacher.
She has a world of ready wealth, EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY.
Our minds and hearts to bless“ Why, William, on that old gray stone,
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Thus for the length of half a day,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.
One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Than all the sages can.
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect You look round on your mother earth,
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: As if she for no purpose bore you;
-We murder to dissect.
GREAT MEN HAVE BEEN AMONG U8.
Enough of science and of art;
Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, Close up these barren leaves;
Is littleness; that he who feels contempt Come forth, and bring with you a heart
For any living thing, hath faculties
Which he has never used; that thought with him
Is ever on himself doth look on one,
The least of Nature's works, one who might move
The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds Lest upon a seat in a Yew-tree, which stands near the Lake of Esthwaite, on a desolate Part of the
Unlawful ever. O be wiser, thou! Shore, commanding a beautiful Prospect.
Instructed that true knowledge leads to love,
True dignity abides with him alone Nay, traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands
Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Far from all human dwelling: what if here
Can still suspect, and still revere himself,
In lowliness of heart.
WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclin'd, First covered o'er, and taught this aged tree
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts With its dark arms to form a circling bower,
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, And scorn,—against all enemies prepared,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; All but neglect. The world, for so it thought,
And 'tis my faith that every flower Owed him no service: wherefore he at once
Enjoys the air it breathes. With indignation turned himself away,
The birds around me hopped and play'd; And with the food of pride sustained his soul
Their thoughts I cannot measure: In solitude.-Stranger! these gloomy boughs
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from Heaven is sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan, On the more distant scene,-how lovely 'tis
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
scribed, in gilt letters, the Names of the several Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh
Persons who have been Schoolmasters there since With mournful joy, to think that others felt
the Foundation of the School, with the Time at What he must never feel: and so, lost man!
which they entered upon and quitted their Office. On visionary views would fancy feed,
Opposite one of those Names the Author wrote Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale He died, this seat his only monument.
the following Lines.
If Nature, for a favourite child, If thou be one whose heart the holy forms
In thee hath tempered so her clay, Of young imagination have kept pure,
[pride, That every hour thy heart runs wild, Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know, that Yet never once doth go astray,
Read o'er these lines; and then review
And just above yon slope of coru This tablet, that thus humbly rears
Such colours, and no other, In such diversity of hue
Were in the sky, that April morn, Its history of two hundred years.
Of this the very brother. -When through this little wreck of fame,
With rod and line I sued the sport Cypher and syllable! thine eye
Which that sweet season gave, Has travelled down to Matthew's name,
And, coming to the church, stopped short Pause with no common sympathy.
Beside my daughter's grave. And, if a sleeping tear should wake,
Nine summers had she scarcely seen, Then be it neither checked nor stay'd:
The pride of all the vale; For Matthew a request I make
And then she sang; she would have been Which for himself he had not made.
A very nightingale. Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er,
Six feet in earth my Emma lay; Is silent as a standing pool ;
And yet I loved her more, Far from the chimney's merry roar,
For so it seemed, than till that day And murmur of the village school.
I e'er had loved before. The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs And, turning from her grave, I met, Of one tired out with fun and madness;
Beside the church-yard yew, The tears which came to Matthew's eyes
A blooming girl, whose hair was met Were tears of light, the dew of gladness.
With points of morning dew. Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup
A basket on her head she bare; Of still and serious thought went round,
Her brow was smooth and white: It seemed as if he drank it up,
To see a child so very fair, He felt with spirit so profound.
It was a pure delight! -Thou soul of God's best earthly mould !
No fountain from its rocky care Thou happy soul! and can it be
E'er tripped with foot so free; That these two words of glittering gold
She seemed as happy as a wave Are all that must remain of thee?
That dances on the sea.
There came from me a sigh of pain THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS.
Which I could ill confine; We walked along, while bright and red
I looked at her, and looked again: Uprose the morning sun;
-And did not wish her mine." And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said,
Matthew is in his grave, yet now, “ The will of God be done!"
Methinks, I see him stand, A village schoolmaster was he,
As at that moment, with a bough
Of wilding in his hand.
We talked with open heart, and tongue A day among the hills.
Affectionate and true,
A pair of friends, though I was young, “ Our work," said I, " was well begun;
And Matthew seventy-two.
We lay beneath a spreading oak,
Beside a mossy seat;
And from the turf a fountain broke,
And gurgled at our feet.
“ Now, Matthew!" said I, “ let us match To me he made reply:
This water's pleasant tune
With some old border-song, or catch, “ Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
That suits a summer's noon.
Or of the church-clock and the chimes Full thirty years behind.
Sing here beneath the shade,