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 burden of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight

Of all this unintelligible world

Is lightened; that serene and blessed mood,

In which the affections gently lead

us on,

Until, the breath of this corporeal frame,

And even the motion of our human blood,

Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power

Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,

We see into the life of things.

I have learned To look on Nature, not as in the hour

Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes

The still, sad music of humanity, Not harsh nor grating, though of ample power

To chasten and subdue. And I have felt

A presence that disturbs me with the joy

Of elevated thoughts: a sense sublime

Of something far more deeply interfused,

Whose dwelling is the light of setting

suns,

And the round ocean and the living air,

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:

A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought,

And rolls through all things.

Tintern Abbey.]

APOSTROPHE TO THE POET'S SISTER.

THOU art with me, here, upon the banks

Of this fair river; thou, my dearest friend,

My dear, dear friend, and in thy voice I catch

The language of my former heart, and read

My former pleasures in the shooting lights

Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while

May I behold in thee what I was once,

My dear, dear sister! And this prayer I make,

Knowing that Nature never did betray

The heart that loved her: 'tis her privilege,

Through all the years of this our life, to lead

From joy to joy: for she can so inform

The mind that is within us, so impress

With quietness and beauty, and so feed

With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,

Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,

Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all

The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb

Our cheerful faith that all which we behold Is full of blessings. the moon

Therefore let

Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty mountain winds be free

To blow against thee: and, in after years,

When these wild ecstasies shall be matured

Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind

forms, Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 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

And go to the grave unthought of. Strongest minds

Are often those of whom the noisy world hears least.

[From The Excursion.]

THE DEAF DALESMAN.

ALMOST at the root Of that tall pine, the shadow of whose bare

And slender stem, while here I sit at

eve,

Oft stretches towards me, like a long straight path

Traced faintly in the greensward; there beneath

A plain blue stone, a gentle dalesman lies,

From whom, in early childhood, was withdrawn

The precious gift of hearing. He grew up

From year to year in loneliness of soul;

And this deep mountain valley was to him

Soundless, with all its streams. The bird of dawn

Did never rouse this cottager from sleep

With startling summons; nor for his delight

The vernal cuckoo shouted; not for him

Murmured the laboring bee. When stormy winds

Were working the broad bosom of the lake

Into a thousand thousand sparkling

waves,

Rocking the trees, or driving cloud on cloud

Along the sharp edge of yon lofty

crags,

The agitated scene before his eye Was silent as a picture: evermore Were all things silent, wheresoe'er he moved;

Yet, by the solace of his own pure thoughts

Upheld, he duteously pursued the round

Of rural labors; the steep mountain

side

Ascended, with his staff and faithful dog;

The plough he guided, and the scythe he swayed;

And the ripe corn before his sickle fell

Among the jocund reapers. For himself,

All watchful and industrious as he

was,

He wrought not; neither flock nor field he owned;

No wish for wealth had place within his mind;

Nor husband's love, nor father's hope

or care.

Though born a younger brother, need

was none

That from the floor of his paternal home

He should depart to plant himself anew ;

And when, mature in manhood, he beheld

His parents laid in earth, no loss ensued

Of rights to him; but he remained well pleased,

By

the pure bond of independent
love,

An inmate of a second family,
The fellow-laborer and friend of him
To whom the small inheritance had
fallen.

Nor deem that his mild presence was a weight

That pressed upon his brother's house, for books Were ready comrades whom he could not tire,

Of whose society the blameless man Was never satiate. Their familiar voice. Even to old age, with unabated charm

Beguiled his leisure hours, refreshed his thoughts;

Beyond its natural elevation, raised His introverted spirit, and bestowed Upon his life an outward dignity Which all acknowledged. The dark winter night,

prized

And, at the touch of every wander ing breeze,

Murmurs, not idly, o'er his peaceful grave.

FROM "INTIMATIONS OF IMMOR

TALITY."

OUR birth is but a sleep and a forget. ting:

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,

smiles,