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WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT ELBINGERODE,
IN THE HARTZ FOREST
hears a rustling o'er the brook, sees far off a swinging bough! 'is He! 'Tis my betrothed Knight!
Lord Falkland, it is Thou !" e springs, she clasps him round the
neck, e sobs a thousand hopes and fears, ir kisses glowing on his cheeks She quenches with her tears.
I STOOD on Brocken's sovran height, and
My friends with rude ungentle words ley scoff and bid me fly to thee! give me shelter in thy breast !
O shield and shelter me ! My Henry, I have given thee much, gave what I can ne'er recall! gave my heart, I gave my peace,
O Heaven! I gave thee all.”
None statelier in the land.
The fairest shall be thine :
Beneath the twinkling stars !”— * The dark ? the dark ? No! not the
dark ! The twinkling stars? How, Henry ?
He pledged his sacred vow !
Strewing flowers before :
Strewing buds and flowers !
And blushing bridal maids."
Woods crowding upon woods, hills over
hills, A surging scene, and only limited By the blue distance. Heavily my way Downward I dragged through fir groves
evermore, Where bright green moss heaves in
sepulchral forms Speckled with sunshine ; and, but sel
dom heard, The sweet bird's song became an hollow
sound : And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly, Preserved its solemn murmur most dis
tinct From many a note of many a waterfall, And the brook's chatter ; 'mid whose
islet-stones The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell Leaped frolicsome, or old romantic goat Sat, his white beard slow waving. I
moved on In low and languid mood : for I had
found That outward forms, the loftiest, still
receive Their finer influence from the Life
within ;Fair cyphers else : fair, but of import
vague Or unconcerning, where the heart not
finds History or prophecy of friend, or child, Or gentle maid, our first and early love, Or father, or the venerable name Of our adored country! O thou Queen, Thou delegated Deity of Earth, O dear, dear England ! how my longing
eye Turned westward, shaping in the steady
clouds Thy sands and high white cliffs !
My native Land ! Filled with the thought of thee this
heart was proud, Yea, mine eye swam with tears : that
all the view From sovran Brocken, woods and woody
bills, Floated away, like a departing dream,
Feeble and dim! Stranger, these im
pulses Blame thou not lightly ; nor will I
profane, With hasty judgment or injurious
doubt, That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel That God is everywhere! the God who
framed Mankind to be one mighty family, Himself our Father, and the World our
ODE TO TRANQUILLITY
To thee I gave my early youth, And left the bark, and blest the stead
fast shore, Ere yet the tempest rose and scared me
with its roar.
And dire Remembrance interlope, To vex the feverish slumbers of the
mind : The bubble floats before, the spectre
clouds, Thou best the thought canst raise, the
heart attune, Light as the busy clouds, calm as the
WELL! If the Bard was weather-wise,
go hence Unroused by winds, that ply a busier
trade Than those which mould you cloud in
lazy flakes, Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans
and rakes Upon the strings of this Æolian
lute, Which better far were mute. For lo ! the New-moon winter-bright! And overspread with phantom light, (With swimming phantom light o'er
spread But rimmed and circled by a silver
thread) I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling The coming-on of rain and squally
blast, And ob ! that even now the gust were
swelling, And the slant night-shower driving
loud and fast ! Those sounds which oft have raised me.
whilst they awed, And sent my soul abroad, Might now perhaps their wonted impulse
give, Might startle this dull pain, and make it
move and live!
1 This Ode was originally written to William Wordsworth, who was addressed as “Edmund" in the poem when first printed, on the day of Wordsworth's marriage, October 4, 1802. In that copy, the name “Eamund" oceurs at every point where "Lady" is found in the later versions and also where the name “Otway" occurs, in the Seventh stanza ; there is a corresponding difference of the personal pronouns, and some other slight differences of text, the most important of which is in the conclusion, as noted below.
O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask
of me What this strong music in the soul may
be ! What, and wherein it doth exist, This light, this glory, this fair luminous
mist, This beautiful and beauty-making
power. Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er
was given, Save to the pure, and in their purest
hour, Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once
and shower, Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power, Which wedding Nature to us gives in
dower, A new Earth and new Heaven, Undreamt of by the sensual and the
proudJoy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous
We in ourselves rejoice! And thence flows all that charms or ear
or sight, All melodies the echoes of that voice, All colors a suffusion from that light.
A grief without a pang, void, dark, and
drear, A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, Which finds no natural outlet, no re
In word, or sigh, or tearO Lady! in this wan and heartless niood, To other thoughts by yonder throstle
wood, All this long eve, so balmy and serene, Have I been gazing on the western sky,
And its peculiar tint of yellow green ; And still I gaze--and with how blank
an eye ! And those thin clouds above, in flakes
and bars, That give away their motion to the stars : Those stars, that glide behind them or
between, Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but al
ways seen ;
And what can these avail
my breast ?
Though I should gaze for ever
west ; I may not hope from outward forms to
win The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.
IV O Lady! we receive but what we give, And in our life alone does Nature live ; Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her
shroud ! And would we aught behold, of higher
worth, Than that inanimate cold world allowed To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd, Ah ! from the soul itself must issue
forth A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
Enveloping the EarthAnd from the soul itself must there be'
sent A sweet and potent voice, of its own
birth, Of all sweet sounds the life and element !
There was a time when, though my path
was rough, This joy within me dallied with dis
tress, And all misfortunes were but as the stuff Whence Fancy made me dreams of
happiness : For hope grew round me, like the twin
ing vine, And fruits, and foliage, not my own,
seemed mine. But now afflictions bow me down to
earth: Nor care I that they rob me of my
But oh! each visitation Suspends what nature gave me at my
birth, My shaping spirit of Imagination. For not to think of what I needs must
feel, But to be still and patient, all I can; And haply by abstruse research to steal
From my own nature all the natural
'Tis of a little child
Upon a lonesome wild, Not far from home, but she hath lost it
way ; And now moans low in bitter grief an
fear, And now SC ms loud, and hopes
make her mother hear.
VII Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around
Reality's dark dream ! I turn from you, and listen to the wind, Which long has raved unnoticed.
What a scream Of agony by torture lengthened out That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that
rav'st without, Bare
crag, or mountain-tairn,
blasted tree, Or pine-grove whither woodman never
clomb, Or lonely house, long held the witches'
home, Methinks were fitter instruments for
thee, Mad Lutanist! who in this month of
showers, Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping
flowers, Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than
wintry song, The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves
among. Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic
sounds! Thou mighty Poet, even to frenzy bold !
What tellist thou now about?
'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout, With groans of trampled men, with
smarting woundsAt once they groan with pain, and
shudder with the cold ! But hush! there is a pause of deepest
silence ! And all that noise, as of a rushing
crowd, With groans, and tremulous shudderings
-all is overIt tells another tale, with sounds less
deep and loud! A tale of less affright,
And tempered with delight, As Otway's 1 self had framed the tender
'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have
I of sleep: Full seldom may my friend such vigile
keep! Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings
healing, And may this storm be but a moun
tain-birth, May all the stars hang bright above her
dwelling, Silent as though they watched the
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
voice; To her may all things live, from pole to
pole, Their life the eddying of her living soul!
O simple spirit, guided from above, Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my
choice, Thus mayest thou ever, evermore re
HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE
VALE OF CHAMOUNI
Besides the Rivers Arve and Arveiron, which have their sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down its sides; and within a few paces of the glaciers the Gentiata Major grows in immense numbers, with its * flowers of loveliest lue." (Coleridge.) Hast thou a charm to stay the morning
star In his steep course? So long he seems
1 In the first printed copy, “ Edmund's,” referring to Wordsworth. The following lines are evidently an allusion to Wordsworth's Lucy Gray. The conclusion is as follows in the first printed copy :
With light heart may he rise,
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, And sing his lofty song, and teach me to rejoice!
O EDMUND, friend of my devoutest choice,
Who fill'd thy countenance with rosy
light? Who made thee parent of perpetual
And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely
glad! Who called you forth from night and
utter death, From dark and icy caverns called you
forth, Down those precipitous, black, jagged
rocks, For ever shattered and the same for
ever ? Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury,
and your joy, Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? And who commanded (and the silence
came), Here let the billows stiffen, and have
On thy bald awful head, O sovran
BLANC! The Arve and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful
Form! Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently! Around thee and above Deep is the air and dark, substantial,
black, An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest
it, As with a wedge! But when I look
again, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal
shrine, Thy habitation from eternity! o dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon
thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily Didst vanish from my thought :
tranced in prayer I worshipped the Invisible alone.
Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet, we know not we are listening
to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending
with my Thought, Yea, with my Life and Life's own secret
joy: Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty vision passing--there As in her natural form, swelled vast to
Heaven! Awake. my soul ! not only passive
praise Thou owest! not alone these swelling
tears, Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart,
awake! Green rales and icy cliffs, all join my
Hymn. Thon first and chief, sole sovereign of
the Vale! O struggling with the darkness all the
night, And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky or when
they sink: Companion of the morning-star at dawn, Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the
dawn Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter
praise ! Who sank. thy sunless pillars deep in
Ye Ice-falls! ye that from the moun
tain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amainTorrents, methinks, that heard a mighty
voice, And stopped at once amid their maddest
plunge! Motionless torrents! silent cataracts ! Who made you glorious as the Gates of
Heaven Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade
the sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with
living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at
your feet? GOD! let the torrents, like a shout of
nations, Answer! and let the ice-plains echo,
GOD! GOD ! sing ye meadow-streams with
gladsome voice! Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul
like sounds! And they too have a voice, yon piles of
snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder,
Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal
frost ! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's
nest! Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain