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And rolls through all things. Therefore am |

LINES I still A lover of the meadows and the woods, LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW - TREE, WHICH And mountains; and of all that we behold STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE, ON A From this green earth; of all the mighty DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, COMMANDING world

A BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT. Of eye and ear, both what they half create, And what perceive; well pleased to recognize Nay Traveller! rest. This lonely YewIn nature and the language of the sense,

tree stands The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, Far from all human dwelling: what if here The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb? Of all my moral being. Nor perchance, What if these barren boughs the bee not If I were not thus taught, should I the more

loves? Suffer my genial spirits to decay:

Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling For thou art with me, here, upon the banks

waves, Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend, That break against the shore, shall lull thy My dear, dear Friend, and in thy voice I catch

mind The language of my former heart, and read By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. 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,

-----Who he was My dear, dear Sister ! And this prayer I make, That piled these stones, and with the mossy Knowing that Nature never did betray

sod The heart that loved her ; 'tis her privilege, First covered o'er, and taught this aged Tree Through all the years of our life, to lead With its dark arms to form a circling bower, From joy to joy : for she can so inform I well remember.-He was one who owned The mind that is within us, so impress No common soul. In youth by science nursed, With quietness and beauty, and so feed And led by nature into a wild scene With lofty thoughts, that neither evil Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth

tongues,

A favoured Being, knowing no desire Rash judgments, nor the oneers of selfish Which Genius did not hallow,-'gainst the men,

taint Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate, The dreary intercourse of daily life, And scorn,-against all enemies prepared, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb All but neglect. The world, for so it thought, Our cheerful faith that all which we behold Owed him no service : wherefore he at once Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon With indignation turned himself away Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;

And with the food of pride sustained his soul And let the misty mountain-winds be free In solitude.--Stranger! these gloomy boughs To blow against thee: and, in after-years, Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit, When these wild ecstasies shall be matured His only visitants a straggling sheep, Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind The stone-chat, or the sand - lark, restless Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,

bird, Thy memory be as a dwelling-place Piping along the margin of the lake; For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then, And on these barren rocks, with juniper, If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, And heath and thistle, thinly sprinkled o'er, Should be thy portion, with what healing Fixing his down-cast eye, he many an hour

thoughts

A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, An emblem of his own unfruitful life: And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance, And lifting up his head, he then would gaze If I should be where I no more can hear on the more distant scene,-how lovely 'tis Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes Thou seest,and he would gaze till it became

these gleams Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain of past existence, wilt thou then forget The beauty still more beauteous. Nor, that That on the banks of this delightful stream

time, We stood together; and that I, so long When Nature had subdued him to herself, A worshipper of Nature, hither came, Would he forget those beings,to whose minds, Unwearied in that service: rather say Warm from the labours of benevolence, With warmer love, oh! with far deeper zeal The world, and man himself, appeared a scene Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, Of kindred loveliness; then he would sigh That after many wanderings, many years With mournful joy, to think that others felt Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, What he must never feel: and so, lost Man! And this green pastoral landscape, were to me On visionary views would fancy feed, More dear, both for themselves and for thy Till his eye streamed with tears. In this sake,

deep vale He died,—this seat his only monument,

with him

If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms Shut close the door; press down the latch; of young imagination have kept pure, Sleep in thy intellectual crust; Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know, Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch

that pride,

| Near this unprofitable dust.
Howe'er disguised in its own majesty,
Is littleness, that he who feels contempt But who is he, with modest looks,
For any living thing, hath faculties And clad in homely russet brown?
Which he has never used; that thought He murmurs near the running brooks

A music sweeter than their own.
Is in its infancy. The man whose eye
Is ever on binself doth look on one, He is retired as noontide-dew,
The least of Nature's works, one who might Or fountain in a noonday-grove;

move

| And you must love him, ere to you The wise man to that scorn which wisdom He will seem worthy of your love.

holds Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, Thou!

| The outward shows of sky and earth, Instructed that true knowledge leads to love,

e, of hill and valley, he has viewed ; True dignity abides with him alone Who in the silent hour of inward thought, I Have come to him in solitude.

| And impulses of deeper birth
Can still suspect, and still revere himself,
In lowliness of heart.

In common things that round us lie
Some random truths he can impart,
The harvest of a quiet eye

That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
A POET'S EPITAPH.

But he is weak, both Man and Boy,

Hath been an idler in the land; Art thou a Statesman, in the van

Contented if he might enjoy Of public business trained and bred ?

The things which others understand. -First learn to love one living man; Then mayst thou think upon the dead.

Come hither in thy hour of strength;

Come, weak as is a breaking wave! A Lawyer art thou?-draw not nigh;

Here stretch thy body at full length; Go, carry to some other place

Or build thy house upon this grave.
The hardness of thy coward eye,
The falsehood of thy sallow face.

Art thou a man of purple cheer?
A rosy man, right plump to see?
Approach !-yet, Doctor, not too near :

CHARACTER
This grave no cushion is for thee.

OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR.
Art thou a man of gallant pride,
A Soldier, and no man of chaff ;

Who is the happy Warrior ? Who is he Welcome!-- But lay thy sword aside, Whom every Man in arms should wish to be! And lean upon a Peabant's staff.

--It is the generous Spirit, who, when

brought Physician art thou? One, all eyes,

Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought Philosopher! a fingering slave,

Upon the plan that pleased his childish One that would peep and botanize .

thought; Upon his mother's grave?

Whose high endeavours are an inward light

That make the path before him always Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece:

bright; O turn aside, and take, I pray,

Who, with a natural instinct to discern That he below may rest in peace,

What knowledge can perform, is diligent to That abject thing, thy soul, away.

learn;

Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, A Moralist perchance appears;

But makes his moral being his prime care; Led, Heaven knows how to this poor sod: Who, doom'd to go in company with Pain, And he has neither eyes nor ears;

And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train! Himself his world and his own God; Turns his necessity to glorious gain ;

In face of these doth exercise a power One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling Which is our human nature's highest dower; Nor form, nor feeling, great nor small; Controls them and subdues, transmutes, A reasoning, self-sufficing thing,

bereaves An intellectual All in All!

of their bad influence,and their good receives; By objects, which might force the soul to , Who, whether praise of bim must walk the abate

carth Her feeling, render'd more compassionate ; For ever, and to noble decds give birth, Is placable--because occasions rise

Or He must go to dust without his fame, So often that demand such sacrifice; And leave a dead unprofitable name, More skilful in self-knowledge, even more Finds comfort in hiinself and in his cause;

piire,

And, while the mortal mist is gathering, As tempted more; more able to endure,

draws As more exposed to suffering and distress; His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause; Thence, also, more alive to tenderness ;- This is the happy Warrior; this is He 'Tis he whose law is reason; who depends Whom every Man in arms should wish to be. Upon that law as on the best of friends; Whence, in a state where men are tempted The above Verses were written soon after tidings

had been received of the death of Lord Nelson, still

which event directed the Author's thoughts to To evil for a guard against worse ill,

the subject. His respect for the memory of his And what in quality or act is best

great fellow-countryman induces him to mention Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, This; though he is well aware that the Verses

miet suffer from any connection in the Reader's He fixes good on good alone, and owes

mind with a Name so illustrious. To virtue every triumph that he knows;-Who, if he rise to station of command, Rises by open means; and there will stand On honourable terms, or else retire, And in himself possess his own desire; Who comprehends his trust, and to the same EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY. Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait “Why, William, on that old gray stone, For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state; Thus for the length of half a day, Whom they must follow; on whose head Why, William, sit you thus alone,

must fall,

And dream your time away ? Like showers of manna, if they come at all : Whose powers shed round him in the Where are your books? - that light becommon strife, .

queathed Or mild concerns of ordinary life,

| To beings clse forlorn and blind! A constant influence, a peculiar grace; Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed But who, if he be called upon to face From dead men to their kind. Some awful moment to which Heaven has

join'd

You look round on your mother earth, Great issues, good or bad for human-kind, As if she for no purpose bore you; Is happy as a Lover; and attired

As if you were her first-born birth, With sudden brightness like a Man inspired ; | And none had lived before you !” And through the heat of conflict keeps the law In calntness made, and sees what he foresaw; One morning thus, by Esthwaite-lake, Or if an unexpected call succeed,

When life was sweet, I knew not why, Come when it will, is equal to the need ; To me my good friend Matthew spake, He who, though thus endued as with a sense And thus I made reply : And faculty for storm and turbulence, Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans “The eye-it cannot choose but see; To home-felt pleasures and to gentle scenes ; We cannot bid the car be still; Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be, Our bodies feel, where'er they be, Are at his heart; and such fidelity

Against, or with our will. It is his darling passion to approve; More brave for this, that he hath much to Nor less I decm that there are Powers

love;

| Which of themselves our minds impress; "Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high, That we can feed this mind of ours Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye, In a wise passiveness. Or left unthought-of in obscurity, Who, with a toward or untoward lot, Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not, of things for ever speaking, Plays, in the many games of life, that one That nothing of itself will come,. Where what he most doth value must be won; But we must still be seeking ? Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray; - Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, Who, not content that former worth stand Conversing as I may,

fast,

I sit upon this old gray stone, Looks forward, persevering to the last. And dream my time away." From well to better, daily self-surpast;

THE TABLES TURNED. | Whose life combines the best of high and

low, AN EVENING-SCENE, ON THE SAME SUBJECT. The toiling many and the resting few;

Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble ?

Health, qniet, meekness, ardour, hope secure,
Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books, And industry of body and of mind;
Or surely you'll grow double.

And elegant enjoyments, that are pure

As Nature is ;-too pure to be refined. The Sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening lastre mellow Through all the long green fields has spread! Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing His first sweet evening-yellow.

In concord with his River murmuring by;

Or in some silent field, while timid Spring Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Is yet uncheer'd by other minstrelsy. Come, hear the woodland Linnet, How sweet his music! on my life There's more of wisdom in it.

Who shall inherit Thee when Death hath

laid

And hark! how blithe the Throstle sings! Low in the darksome Cell thine own dear He, too, is no mean preacher: '

Lord ? Come forth into the light of things,

That Man will have a trophy, humble Spade! Let Nature be your teacher.

A trophy nobler than a Conqueror's sword.

He has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless-

If he be One that feels, with skill to part Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, False praise from true, or greater from the Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

less,

Thee will he welcome to his hand and heart, One impulse from a vernal wood

Thou monument of peaceful happiness! May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.

With Thee he will not dread a toilsome day,

His powerful Servant, his inspiring Mate! Sweet is the love which Nature brings; And, when thou art past service, worn Our meddling intellect

away, Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things; Thee a burviving soul shall consecrate. -We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up these barren leaves ;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.

His thrift thy usefulness will never scorn; | An Heir-loom in his cottage wilt thou be:High will he hang thee up, and will adorn His rustic chimney with the last of Thee!

WRITTEN IN GERMANY, TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND

ON ONE OF THE COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY. (AN AGRICULTURIST)

I must apprise the Reader that the stoves in NorthComposed while we were labouring together in

Germany generally have the impression of a galhis pleasure-ground.

loping horse upon them, this being part of the

Brunswick Arms. Spade! with which Wilkinson hath tilled

his Lands,

A Fig for your languages, German and Norse! And shaped these pleasant walks by Emont's Let me have the song of the Kettle;

side,

And the tongs and the poker, instead of that Thou art a tool of honour in my hande ;

Horse I press thee through the yielding soil with That gallops away with such fury and force

pride.

On this dreary dull plate of black metal.

Rare Master has it been thy lot to know; Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff; Long hast Thon served a Man to reason But her pulses beat slower and slower:

true;

| The weather in Forty was cutting and rough,

And then, as Heaven knows, the Glass stood

LINES low enough; And now it is four degrees lower. | WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE,

AND SENT BY MY LITTLE BOY TO THE PERSON

TO WHOM THEY ARE ADDRESSED. Here's a Fly, a disconsolate creature,-per

haps

It is the first mild day of March : A child of the field, or the grove!

Each minute sweeter than before, And, sorrow for him! this dull treacherous

The Red-breast sings from the tall Larch heat

That stands beside our door. Has seduced the poor fool from his winter

retreat,

There is a blessing in the air,
And he creeps to the edge of my stove.

Which seems a sense of joy to yield
To the bare trees, and mountains bare,

And grass in the green field.
Alas! How he fumbles about the domains

My Sister! ('tis a wish of mine) Which this comfortless oven environ !

Now that our morning-meal is done, He cannot find out in what track he must make he

Make haste, your morning-task resign; crawl,

Come forth and feel the sun. Now back to the tiles, and now back to the

wall,

Edward will come with you; and pray And now on the brink of the iron.

Put on with speed your woodland-dress;
And bring no book, for this one day

We'll give to idleness.
Stock-still there he stands like a traveller

bemazed;

No joyless forms shall regulate The best of his skill he has tried;

| Our living Calendar: His feelers methinks I can see him put We from to-day, my Friend, will date

forth

| The opening of the year. To the East and the West, and the South

and the North; Love, now an universal birth, But he finds neither Guide-post nor Guide. From heart to heart is stealing,

From earth to man, from man to earth :

-It is the hour of feeling. See! his spindles sink under him, foot, leg

and thigh;

One moment now may give us more
His eye-sight and hearing are lost;

Than fifty years of reason:
Between life and death his blood freezes and Our minds shall drink at every pore

thaw;

The spirit of the season. And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky

gauze

Some silent laws our hearts may make, Are glued to his sides by the frost. Which they shall long obey :

We for the year to come inay take

Our temper from to-day. No Brother, no Friend has he near him

while I

And from the blessed power that rolls Can draw warmth from the cheek of my About, below, above,

Love;

We'll frame the measure of our souls : As blest and as glad in this desolate gloom, They shall be tuned to love. As if green summer-grass were the floor of

my room,

Then come, my sister, come, I pray, And woodbines 'were hanging above. With speed put on your woodland - dress;

And bring no book: for this one day

We'll give to idleness.
Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless

Thing!
Thy life I would gladly sustain
Till summer comes up from the South, and
with crowds

THE GLOW-WORM. of they brethren a march thou shouldst sound

through the clouds. | AMONG all lovely things my Love had been; And back to the forests again.

Had noted well the stars, all flowers that grew
About her home; but she had never seen
A Glow-worm, never one, and this I knew.

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