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And rolls through nil tilings. Therefore am
I still A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of all tlmt we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty
world Of eye and ear, both what they half create, And what perceive ; well pleased to recognize In nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart,and soul Of all my moral being. Nor perchance, If 1 were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay: For 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 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 th<-8cwild 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 Forall 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 t rather say With warmer love, oh! with far deeper zeal Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy
LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW - TREE, WHICH
STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OP E8THWAITE, ON A
DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, COMMANDING
A BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT.
Nay Traveller! rest. This lonely Yewtree stands
Far from all human dwelling: what if here
No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb?
What if these barren boughs the bee not loves?
Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves,
That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind
By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.
Who he was
That piled these stones, and with the mossy
sod First covered o'er, and taught this aged Tree With its dark arms to form a circling bower, I well remember.—He was one who owned No common soul. In youth by science nursed, And led by nature into a wild scene Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth A favoured Being, knowing no desire Which Genius did not hallow,—'gainst the
taint Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate, And scorn,—-against all enemies prepared. All but neglect. The world, for so it thought, Owed him no service: wherefore he at once With indignation turned himself away, And with the food of pride sustained his soul In solitude.—Stranger! these gloomy boughs Had charms for him ; and here he loved to sit, His only visitants a straggling sheep, The stone-chat, or the sand - lark, restless
bird, Piping along the mnrgin of the lake; And on these barren rocks, with juniper, And heath and thistle, thinly sprinkled o'er, Fixing his down-cast eye, he many an hour A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here An emblem of his own unfruitful life: And lifting up his head, he then would gaze On the more distant scene,—how lovely 'tis Thou scest,—nnd he would gaze till it became Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain The beauty still more beauteous. Nor, that
time, When Nature had subdued him to herself, Would he forget those beings, to whose minds, Warm from the labours of benevolence, The world.und man himself, appeared a scene Of kindred loveliness; then he would sigh With mournful joy, to think that others fell What he must never feel: and so, lost Man! On visionary views would fancy feed, Till his eye streamed with tears. In this
deep vale He died,—this seat his only monument. If Thou be one whose heart the holy forma Of young imagination have kept pure, Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know.
that pride, Ilowe'er disguised in its own majesty, Is littleness; that he who feels contempt For nny living thing, hath faculties Which he has never used; that thought
with him Is in its infnnry. The man whose eye Is ever on himself doth look on one, The least of Nature's works, one who might
move The wise man to that scorn which wisdom
holds Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, Thou! Instructed that true knowledge leads to love, True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inwnrd thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart.
A POET'S EPITAPH.
Am thou a Statesman, in the van
A Lawyer art thou?—draw not nigh;
Art thou a man of purple cheer?
Art thou a man of gallant pride,
Physician art thou? One, all eyes,
Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece:
A Moralist perchance appears;
One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling
Shut close the door; press down the latrh;
But who is he, with modest looks.
He is retired as noontide-dew,
The outward shows of sky and earth,
In common things that round us lie
But he is weak, both Man and Boy,
Come hither in thy hour of strength;
OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR.
Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he Whom every Man in arms should wish to be? It is the generous Spirit, who, when
brought Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought Upon the plan that plensed his childish
thought; Whose high endeavours arc an inward light That make the path before him always
bright; Who, with a natural instinct to discern What knowledge can perform, is diligent to
learn; Abides by this resolve, and stops not there. But makes his moral being his prime care; Who, doom'd to go in company with Pain, And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train! Turns his necessity to glorious gain; In fare of these doth exercise a power Which is our human nature's highest dower; Controls them and subdues, transmutes,
bereaves Of their bad influence,and their good receives; By objects, wli!cl> might force the soul to
abate Her feeling-, render'd more compassionate; Is placable—because occasions rise So often that demand such sacrifice; More skilful in self-knowledge, even more
pure. As tempted more; more able to endure. As more exposed to suffering and distress; Thence, also, more alive to tenderness ;— Tis he whose law is reason; who depends Upon that law as on the best of friends; Whence, in a state where men arc tempted
still To evil for a guard against worse ill, And what in quality or act is best Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, He fixes good on good alone, and owes' 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 Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state; Whom they must follow; on whose head
must fall, l.ile showers of manna, if they rome at all: Whose powers shed round him in the
common strife, Or mild concerns of ordinary life, A constant influence, a peculiar grace; But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has
join'd Great issues, good or had for human-kind, 1» happy as a Lover; and attired With sudden brightness like a Man inspired; And through the hent of conflict keeps the law In calmness made, nnd sees what he foresaw; Or if an unexpected cull succeed. Come when it will, is equal to the need ;— He who, though thus endued as with a sense And faculty for storm and turhulence, '« yet a Soul whose master-bias leans To home-felt pleasures and to gentle scenes; Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he he, Are at his heart; and such fidelity It is his darling passion to approve; More brave for this, that he hath much to
'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high,
fast, hooks forward, persevering to the last, from well to better, daily sclf-surpast;—
Who, whether praise of him must walk the
earth For ever, and to noble deeds give birth, Or He must go to dust without his fame, And leave a dead unprofitable name, Finds comfort in himself and in his cause; And, while the mortal mist is gathering,
draws His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause; This is the happy Warrior; this is He Whom every Man in arms should wish to be.
The above Verses were written soon after tidings hail been received of the death of Lord Nelson, which event directed the Author's thoughts to the subject. His respect for the memory of his great fellow-countryman induces him to mention this; though he is well awaro that the Verses most suffer from any connection in the Reader's mind with a .Name so illustrious.
EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY.
"why, William, on that old gray atone,
Where are your books?—that light be-
You look round on your mother earth,
One morning thus, by Esthwaite-lnke,
'■The eye—it cannot choose but sec;
Nor less I deem that there are Powers
Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum
—Then ask not wherefore, here, alone.
Conversing as I may,
I sit upon this old gray stone.
And tin am my time away.''
THE TABLES TURNED.
AN EYKMNG-SCKNK, ON THE SAME SUBJECT.
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
The Sun. above the mountain's head,
Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
And hark! how blithe the Throstle sings!
He has a world of ready wealth,
One impulse from a vernal wood
Sweet is the love which Nature brings;
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things; —We murder to dissect.
Enough of Science nnd of Art;
Close up these barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.
TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND
(»N KJIIICI'I.TI KIM )
Composed while we were labouring together in hit) pleasore-gronnd.
Si'mi! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his Lands,
And shaped these pleasant walks by Erannt's side,
Thou art a tool of honour in my hands;
I press thee through the yielding soil with pride.
Itnre Master has it been thy lot to know; Long hast Thou served a Man to reason true;
Whose life combines the best of high and
low, The toiling many and the resting few;
Health, quiet, meekness, ardour, hope secure.
Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing In concord with his River murmuring by; Or in some silent field, while timid Spring Is yet uncbeer'd by other minstrelsy.
Who shall inherit Thee when Death hath
laid Low in the darksome Cell thine own dear
Lord'( That Man will have a tropin .humble Spade! A trophy nobler than a Conqueror's sword.
If he be One that feels, with skill to part False praise from true, or greater from the
less, Thee will he welcome to his hand and heart, Thou monument of peaceful happiness!
With Thee he will not dread a toilsome day. His powerful Servant, his inspiring Mate! And, when thou art past service, worn
away, Thee a surviving soul shall consecrate.
His thrift thy usefulness will never scorn; An Heir-loom in his cottage wilt thon be:— High will he hang thee up, and will adorn His rustic chimney with the last of Thee!
WRITTEN IN GERMANY,
ON ONE OP THE COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTCaY.
I mnsl apprise the Reader that the stoves in NorthGermany generally have the impression of a galloping horse npon them, this being part of the Brunswick Arms.
A Pic for your languages, German and Norse!
Let me have the song of the Kettle;
And the tongs and the poker, instead of that
Horse That gallops away with snch fury and force On this dreary dull plate of black metal.
Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff*; But her pulses beat slower and slower: The weather in Forty was cutting and rough.
And then, as Heaven known, the Glass stood
low enough; And now it is four degrees lower.
Here's a Fly, a disconsolate creature,—per haps
A child of the field, or the grove!
And, sorrow for him! this dull treacherous heat
Has seduced the poor fool from his winterretreat,
And he creeps to the edge of my stove.
Alas! How he fumbles about the domains
crawl. Now hack to the tiles, and now back to the
wall, And now on the brink of the iron.
Stock-still there he stands like a traveller beraazed;
The best of his skill he has tried;
His feelers mcthinks I can see him put forth
To the East and the West, and the South and the North;
Bnt he finds neither Guide-post nor Guide.
See! his spindles sink under him, foot, leg and thigh;
His eye-sight and hearing are lost;
Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws;
And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze
Are glued to his sides by the frost.
No Brother, no Friend has he near him
while I Can draw warmth from the cheek of my
Love; As blest and as glad in this desolate gloom, As if green summer-grass were the floor of
my room, And woodbines'were hanging above.
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 Of they brethren a march thou shouldst sound
through the clouds, And back to the forests again.
WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE PROM MY HOUSE,
AND SENT BY MY LITTLE BOY TO THE PERSON
TO WHOM THEY ARE ADDRESSED.
It is the first mild day of March:
There is a blessing in the air,
My Sister! ('tis a wish of mine)
Edward will come with you; and pray
No joyless forms shall regulate
Love, now an universal birth,
One moment now may give us more v
Than fifty years of reason:
Some silent laws our hearts may make,
And from the blessed power that rolls
Then come, my sister, come, I pray,
Among all lovely things my Love had been;