To her fair works did Nature link
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 green bower,

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure :—
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

One moment now may give us more
Than years of toiling reason:
Our minds shall drink at every pore
The spirit of the season.

Some silent laws our hearts will make,
Which they shall long obey:
We for the year to come may take
Our temper from to-day.

And from the blessed power that rolls About, below, above,

We'll frame the measure of our souls: They shall be tuned to love.

Then come, my Sister! come. I pray, With speed put on your woodland dress; And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness. 1798. 1798.

A WHIRL-BLAST FROM BEHIND THE HILL

A WHIRL-BLAST from behind the hill Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound;

Then-all at once the air was still.

And showers of hailstones pattered round.

Where leafless oaks towered high above,
I sat within an undergrove

Of tallest hollies, tail and green;
A fairer bower was never seeli.
From year to year the spacious floor
With withered leaves is covered o'er,
And all the year the bower is green.
But see! where'er the hailstores drop
The withered leaves all skip and hop:
There's not a breeze-breath of air-
Yet here, and there, and everywhere
Along the floor, beneath the Shale
By the embowering bfest ba
The leaves in myriads jus palu s trg.
As if with pipes and must) nie
Some Robin Good-fel or were i
trose CA:

Were Lancing tota

FXPOSTULATION AND REPLY

WHY, W

It as the bour of fecking

No poem of mine was composed under circumstances more pleasant for me to remember than this. I began it upon leaving Tintern, after crossing the Wye, and concluded it just as I was entering Bristol in the evening, after a ramble of four or five days, with my sister. Not a line of it was altered, and not any part of it written down till I reached Bristol. It was published almost immediately after in the little volume of which so much has been said in these Notes. (Wordsworth. The volume referred to is The Lyrical Ballads, as first published at Bristol by Cottle.)

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. Therefore let the

moon

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
Shall be a mansion for all lovely 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 me, And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance

If I should be where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams

Of past existence-wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream

We stood together; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came Unwearied in that service: rather say With warmer love-oh! with far deeper zeal

Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then for

get,

And by the waters, all the summer long. And in the frosty season, when the sun Was set, and, visible for many a mile. The cottage-windows through the twilight blazed,

I heeded not the summons: happy time It was indeed for all of us; for me

It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud The village-clock tolled six-I wheeled about,

Proud and exulting like an untired horse That cares not for his home.-All shod with steel

We hissed along the polished ice, in games

Confederate, imitative of the chase And woodland pleasures,-the resounding horn,

The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted hare.

So through the darkness and the cold

we flew,

And not a voice was idle: with the din
Smitten, the precipices rang aloud :
The leafless trees and every icy crag
Tinkled like iron; while far-distant hills
Into the tumult sent an alien sound
Of melancholy, not unnoticed while the
stars,