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OD E.

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY

CHILDHOOD.

The Child is Father of the Man; And I could wish my days to be. Bound each to each by natural piety.

OD'E.

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight,

To me did seem

Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it has been of yore;

Turn wheresoe'er I may,

By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

The Rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the Rose,

The Moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare;

Waters on a starry night

Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;

But yet I know, where'er I go,
That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.

Now, while the Birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young Lambs bound

As to the tabor's sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,

And I again am strong..
The Cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong:
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,
The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,

And all the earth is gay;

Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,

And with the heart of May
Doth every Beast keep holiday ;- .

Thou Child of Joy
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy

Shepherd Boy!

Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call

Ye to each other make; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
My heart is at your festival,

My head hath its coronal,
The fuluess of your bliss, I feel I feel it all.

Oh evil day! if I were sullen .'
While the Earth herself is adorning,

This sweet May-morning ;
And the Children are pulling,

On every side,
In a thousand vallies far and wide,

Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, And the Babe leaps up on his mother's arm :

I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!

But there's a Tree, of many one,
A single Field which I have looked upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone :

The Pansy at my feet .

Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting :
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,

Hath had elsewhere its setting,

And cometh from afar?
Not in entire forgetfulness,
. And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come

From God, who is our home:

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