Lines COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR. FIVE years have passed; five summers, with the length Of five long winters; and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, Thoughts of more deep seclusion, and connect While, with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft, O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the woods, And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, The picture of the mind revives again : Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts, 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 Wherever nature led,-more like a man Flying from something that he dreads, than one 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, or any interest Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power |