I see her in the dewy flowers,I see her sweet and fair:I hear her in the tunefu' birds,I hear her charm the air:There 's not a bonnie flower that springsBy fountain, shaw, or green;There 's not a bonnie bird that sings,But minds me o' my Jean.
airts] points of the compass. row] roll.
Robert Burns. 1759-1796
495. Auld Lang Syne
SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot,And never brought to min'?Should auld acquaintance be forgot,And days o' lang syne?
We twa hae rin about the braes,And pu'd the gowans fine;But we've wander'd monie a weary fitSin' auld lang syne.
We twa hae paidl't i' the burn,Frae mornin' sun till dine;But seas between us braid hae roar'dSin' auld lang syne.
And here 's a hand, my trusty fiere,And gie's a hand o' thine;And we'll tak a right guid-willie waughtFor auld lang syne.
And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp,And surely I'll be mine;And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yetFor auld lang syne!
For auld lang syne, my dear,For auld lang syne,We'll tak a cup o' kindness yetFor auld lang syne.
gowans] daisies. fit] foot. dine] dinner-time. fiere] partner. guid-willie waught] friendly draught.
Robert Burns. 1759-1796
496. My Bonnie Mary
GO fetch to me a pint o' wine,An' fill it in a silver tassie,That I may drink, before I go,A service to my bonnie lassie.The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry,The ship rides by the Berwick-law,And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.
The trumpets sound, the banners fly,The glittering spears are ranked ready;The shouts o' war are heard afar,The battle closes thick and bloody;But it 's no the roar o' sea or shoreWad mak me langer wish to tarry;Nor shout o' war that 's heard afar—It 's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary!
tassie] cup.
Robert Burns. 1759-1796
497. John Anderson, my Jo
JOHN ANDERSON, my jo, John,When we were first acquent,Your locks were like the raven,Your bonnie brow was brent;But now your brow is beld, John,Your locks are like the snow;But blessings on your frosty pow,John Anderson, my jo!
John Anderson, my jo, John,We clamb the hill thegither;And monie a canty day, John,We've had wi' ane anither:Now we maun totter down, John,But hand in hand we'll go,And sleep thegither at the foot,John Anderson, my jo.
jo] sweetheart. brent] smooth, unwrinkled. beld] bald. pow] pate. canty] cheerful.
Robert Burns. 1759-1796
498. The Banks o' Doon
YE flowery banks o' bonnie Doon,How can ye blume sae fair!How can ye chant, ye little birds,And I sae fu' o' care!
Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,That sings upon the bough;Thou minds me o' the happy daysWhen my fause luve was true.
Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,That sings beside thy mate;For sae I sat, and sae I sang,And wistna o' my fate.
Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon,To see the woodbine twine;And ilka bird sang o' its luve,And sae did I o' mine.
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a roseUpon a morn in June;And sae I flourish'd on the morn,And sae was pu'd or' noon.
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a roseUpon its thorny tree;But my fause luver staw my rose,And left the thorn wi' me.
or'] ere. staw] stole.
Robert Burns. 1759-1796
499. Ae Fond Kiss
AE fond kiss, and then we sever;Ae fareweel, alas, for ever!Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!
Who shall say that Fortune grieves himWhile the star of hope she leaves him?Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me,Dark despair around benights me.
I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy;Naething could resist my Nancy;But to see her was to love her,Love but her, and love for ever.
Had we never loved sae kindly,Had we never loved sae blindly,Never met—or never parted,We had ne'er been broken-hearted.
Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest!Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest!Thine be ilka joy and treasure,Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure!
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever!Ae fareweel, alas, for ever!Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!
wage] stake, plight.
Robert Burns. 1759-1796
500. Bonnie Lesley
O SAW ye bonnie LesleyAs she gaed o'er the Border?She 's gane, like Alexander,To spread her conquests farther.
To see her is to love her,And love but her for ever;For Nature made her what she is,And ne'er made sic anither!
Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,Thy subjects we, before thee:Thou art divine, fair Lesley,The hearts o' men adore thee.
The Deil he couldna scaith thee,Or aught that wad belang thee;He'd look into thy bonnie faceAnd say, 'I canna wrang thee!'
The Powers aboon will tent thee,Misfortune sha'na steer thee:Thou'rt like themsel' sae lovely,That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.
Return again, fair Lesley,Return to Caledonie!That we may brag we hae a lassThere 's nane again sae bonnie!
scaith] harm. tent] watch. steer] molest.
Robert Burns. 1759-1796
501. Highland Mary
YE banks and braes and streams aroundThe castle o' Montgomery,Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,Your waters never drumlie!There simmer first unfauld her robes,And there the langest tarry;For there I took the last fareweelO' my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,How rich the hawthorn's blossom,As underneath their fragrant shadeI clasp'd her to my bosom!The golden hours on angel wingsFlew o'er me and my dearie;For dear to me as light and lifeWas my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi' monie a vow and lock'd embraceOur parting was fu' tender;And, pledging aft to meet again,We tore oursels asunder;But oh! fell Death's untimely frost,That nipt my flower sae early!Now green 's the sod, and cauld 's the clay,That wraps my Highland Mary!
O pale, pale now, those rosy lipsI aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!And closed for aye the sparkling glanceThat dwelt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dustThat heart that lo'ed me dearly!But still within my bosom's coreShall live my Highland Mary.
drumlie] miry.
Robert Burns. 1759-1796
502. O were my Love yon Lilac fair
O WERE my Love yon lilac fair,Wi' purple blossoms to the spring,And I a bird to shelter there,When wearied on my little wing;How I wad mourn when it was tornBy autumn wild and winter rude!But I wad sing on wanton wingWhen youthfu' May its bloom renew'd.
O gin my Love were yon red roseThat grows upon the castle wa',And I mysel a drap o' dew,Into her bonnie breast to fa';O there, beyond expression blest,I'd feast on beauty a' the night;Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest,Till fley'd awa' by Phoebus' light.
Robert Burns. 1759-1796
503. A Red, Red Rose
O MY Luve 's like a red, red roseThat 's newly sprung in June:O my Luve 's like the melodieThat's sweetly play'd in tune!
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,So deep in luve am I:And I will luve thee still, my dear,Till a' the seas gang dry:
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,And the rocks melt wi' the sun;I will luve thee still, my dear,While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only Luve,And fare thee weel a while!And I will come again, my Luve,Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
Robert Burns. 1759-1796
504. Lament for Culloden
THE lovely lass o' Inverness,Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;For e'en and morn she cries, 'Alas!'And aye the saut tear blin's her e'e:'Drumossie moor, Drumossie day,A waefu' day it was to me!For there I lost my father dear,My father dear and brethren three.
'Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay,Their graves are growing green to see;And by them lies the dearest ladThat ever blest a woman's e'e!Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,A bluidy man I trow thou be;For monie a heart thou hast made sair,That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee.'
Robert Burns. 1759-1796
505. The Farewell
IT was a' for our rightfu' KingWe left fair Scotland's strand;It was a' for our rightfu' KingWe e'er saw Irish land,My dear—We e'er saw Irish land.
Now a' is done that men can do,And a' is done in vain;My love and native land, farewell,For I maun cross the main,My dear—For I maun cross the main.
He turn'd him right and round aboutUpon the Irish shore;And gae his bridle-reins a shake,With, Adieu for evermore,My dear—With, Adieu for evermore!
The sodger frae the wars returns,The sailor frae the main;But I hae parted frae my love,Never to meet again,My dear—Never to meet again.
When day is gane, and night is come,And a' folk bound to sleep,I think on him that 's far awa',The lee-lang night, and weep,My dear—The lee-lang night, and weep.
lee-lang] livelong.
Robert Burns. 1759-1796
506. Hark! the Mavis
CA' the yowes to the knowes,Ca' them where the heather grows,Ca' them where the burnie rows,My bonnie dearie.
Hark! the mavis' evening sangSounding Clouden's woods amang,Then a-faulding let us gang,My bonnie dearie.
We'll gae down by Clouden side,Through the hazels spreading wide,O'er the waves that sweetly glideTo the moon sae clearly.
Yonder Clouden's silent towers,Where at moonshine midnight hoursO'er the dewy bending flowersFairies dance sae cheery.
Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear;Thou'rt to Love and Heaven sae dear,Nocht of ill may come thee near,My bonnie dearie.
Fair and lovely as thou art,Thou hast stown my very heart;I can die—but canna part,My bonnie dearie.
While waters wimple to the sea;While day blinks in the lift sae hie;Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e'e,Ye shall be my dearie.
Ca' the yowes to the knowes…
lift] sky.
Henry Rowe. 1750-1819
507. Sun
ANGEL, king of streaming morn;Cherub, call'd by Heav'n to shine;T' orient tread the waste forlorn;Guide aetherial, pow'r divine;Thou, Lord of all within!
Golden spirit, lamp of day,Host, that dips in blood the plain,Bids the crimson'd mead be gay,Bids the green blood burst the vein;Thou, Lord of all within!
Soul, that wraps the globe in light;Spirit, beckoning to arise;Drives the frowning brow of night,Glory bursting o'er the skies;Thou, Lord of all within!
Henry Rowe. 1750-1819
508. Moon
THEE too, modest tressed maid,When thy fallen stars appear;When in lawn of fire array'dSov'reign of yon powder'd sphere;To thee I chant at close of day,Beneath, O maiden Moon! thy ray.
Throned in sapphired ring supreme,Pregnant with celestial juice,On silver wing thy diamond streamGives what summer hours produce;While view'd impearl'd earth's rich inlay,Beneath, O maiden Moon! thy ray.
Glad, pale Cynthian wine I sip,Breathed the flow'ry leaves among;Draughts delicious wet my lip;Drown'd in nectar drunk my song;While tuned to Philomel the lay,Beneath, O maiden Moon! thy ray.
Dew, that od'rous ointment yields,Sweets, that western winds disclose,Bathing spring's more purpled fields,Soft 's the band that winds the rose;While o'er thy myrtled lawns I strayBeneath, O maiden Moon! thy ray.
William Lisle Bowles. 1762-1850
509. Time and Grief
O TIME! who know'st a lenient hand to laySoftest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)The faint pang stealest unperceived away;On thee I rest my only hope at last,And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tearThat flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,I may look back on every sorrow past,And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile:As some lone bird, at day's departing hour,Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient showerForgetful, though its wings are wet the while:—Yet ah! how much must this poor heart endure,Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!
Joanna Baillie. 1762-1851
510. The Outlaw's Song
THE chough and crow to roost are gone,The owl sits on the tree,The hush'd wind wails with feeble moan,Like infant charity.The wild-fire dances on the fen,The red star sheds its ray;Uprouse ye then, my merry men!It is our op'ning day.
Both child and nurse are fast asleep,And closed is every flower,And winking tapers faintly peepHigh from my lady's bower;Bewilder'd hinds with shorten'd kenShrink on their murky way;Uprouse ye then, my merry men!It is our op'ning day.
Nor board nor garner own we now,Nor roof nor latched door,Nor kind mate, bound by holy vowTo bless a good man's store;Noon lulls us in a gloomy den,And night is grown our day;Uprouse ye then, my merry men!And use it as ye may.
Mary Lamb. 1765-1847
511. A Child
A CHILD 's a plaything for an hour;Its pretty tricks we tryFor that or for a longer space—Then tire, and lay it by.
But I knew one that to itselfAll seasons could control;That would have mock'd the sense of painOut of a grieved soul.
Thou straggler into loving arms,Young climber-up of knees,When I forget thy thousand waysThen life and all shall cease.
Carolina, Lady Nairne. 1766-1845
512. The Land o' the Leal
I'M wearin' awa', JohnLike snaw-wreaths in thaw, John,I'm wearin' awa'To the land o' the leal.There 's nae sorrow there, John,There 's neither cauld nor care, John,The day is aye fairIn the land o' the leal.
Our bonnie bairn 's there, John,She was baith gude and fair, John;And O! we grudged her sairTo the land o' the leal.But sorrow's sel' wears past, John,And joy 's a-coming fast, John,The joy that 's aye to lastIn the land o' the leal.
Sae dear 's the joy was bought, John,Sae free the battle fought, John,That sinfu' man e'er broughtTo the land o' the leal.O, dry your glistening e'e, John!My saul langs to be free, John,And angels beckon meTo the land o' the leal.
O, haud ye leal and true, John!Your day it 's wearin' through, John,And I'll welcome youTo the land o' the leal.Now fare-ye-weel, my ain John,This warld's cares are vain, John,We'll meet, and we'll be fain,In the land o' the leal.
James Hogg. 1770-1835
513. A Boy's Song
WHERE the pools are bright and deep,Where the grey trout lies asleep,Up the river and over the lea,That 's the way for Billy and me.
Where the blackbird sings the latest,Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,Where the nestlings chirp and flee,That 's the way for Billy and me.
Where the mowers mow the cleanest,Where the hay lies thick and greenest,There to track the homeward bee,That 's the way for Billy and me.
Where the hazel bank is steepest,Where the shadow falls the deepest,Where the clustering nuts fall free,That 's the way for Billy and me.
Why the boys should drive awayLittle sweet maidens from the play,Or love to banter and fight so well,That 's the thing I never could tell.
But this I know, I love to playThrough the meadow, among the hay;Up the water and over the lea,That 's the way for Billy and me.
James Hogg. 1770-1835
514. Kilmeny
BONNIE Kilmeny gaed up the glen;But it wasna to meet Duneira's men,Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see,For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.It was only to hear the yorlin sing,And pu' the cress-flower round the spring;The scarlet hypp and the hindberrye,And the nut that hung frae the hazel tree;For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.But lang may her minny look o'er the wa',But lang may she seek i' the green-wood shaw;Lang the laird o' Duneira blame,And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come hame!
When many a day had come and fled,When grief grew calm, and hope was dead,When mess for Kilmeny's soul had been sung,When the bedesman had pray'd and the dead bell rung,Late, late in gloamin' when all was still,When the fringe was red on the westlin hill,The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane,The reek o' the cot hung over the plain,Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane;When the ingle low'd wi' an eiry leme,Late, late in the gloamin' Kilmeny came hame!
'Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?Lang hae we sought baith holt and den;By linn, by ford, and green-wood tree,Yet you are halesome and fair to see.Where gat you that joup o' the lily scheen?That bonnie snood of the birk sae green?And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen?Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?'
Kilmeny look'd up with a lovely grace,But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face;As still was her look, and as still was her e'e,As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea,Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea.For Kilmeny had been, she knew not where,And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare;Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew,Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew.But it seem'd as the harp of the sky had rung,And the airs of heaven play'd round her tongue,When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen,And a land where sin had never been;A land of love and a land of light,Withouten sun, or moon, or night;Where the river swa'd a living stream,And the light a pure celestial beam;The land of vision, it would seem,A still, an everlasting dream.
In yon green-wood there is a waik,And in that waik there is a wene,And in that wene there is a maike,That neither has flesh, blood, nor bane;And down in yon green-wood he walks his lane.
In that green wene Kilmeny lay,Her bosom happ'd wi' flowerets gay;But the air was soft and the silence deep,And bonnie Kilmeny fell sound asleep.She kenn'd nae mair, nor open'd her e'e,Till waked by the hymns of a far countrye.
She 'waken'd on a couch of the silk sae slim,All striped wi' the bars of the rainbow's rim;And lovely beings round were rife,Who erst had travell'd mortal life;And aye they smiled and 'gan to speer,'What spirit has brought this mortal here?'—
'Lang have I journey'd, the world wide,'A meek and reverend fere replied;'Baith night and day I have watch'd the fair,Eident a thousand years and mair.Yes, I have watch'd o'er ilk degree,Wherever blooms femenitye;But sinless virgin, free of stainIn mind and body, fand I nane.Never, since the banquet of time,Found I a virgin in her prime,Till late this bonnie maiden I sawAs spotless as the morning snaw:Full twenty years she has lived as freeAs the spirits that sojourn in this countrye:I have brought her away frae the snares of men,That sin or death she never may ken.'—
They clasp'd her waist and her hands sae fair,They kiss'd her cheek and they kemed her hair,And round came many a blooming fere,Saying, 'Bonnie Kilmeny, ye're welcome here!Women are freed of the littand scorn:O blest be the day Kilmeny was born!Now shall the land of the spirits see,Now shall it ken what a woman may be!Many a lang year, in sorrow and pain,Many a lang year through the world we've gane,Commission'd to watch fair womankind,For it 's they who nurice the immortal mind.We have watch'd their steps as the dawning shone,And deep in the green-wood walks alone;By lily bower and silken bed,The viewless tears have o'er them shed;Have soothed their ardent minds to sleep,Or left the couch of love to weep.We have seen! we have seen! but the time must come,And the angels will weep at the day of doom!
'O would the fairest of mortal kindAye keep the holy truths in mind,That kindred spirits their motions see,Who watch their ways with anxious e'e,And grieve for the guilt of humanitye!O, sweet to Heaven the maiden's prayer,And the sigh that heaves a bosom sae fair!And dear to Heaven the words of truth,And the praise of virtue frae beauty's mouth!And dear to the viewless forms of air,The minds that kyth as the body fair!
'O bonnie Kilmeny! free frae stain,If ever you seek the world again,That world of sin, of sorrow and fear,O tell of the joys that are waiting here;And tell of the signs you shall shortly see;Of the times that are now, and the times that shall be.'—They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away,And she walk'd in the light of a sunless day;The sky was a dome of crystal bright,The fountain of vision, and fountain of light:The emerald fields were of dazzling glow,And the flowers of everlasting blow.Then deep in the stream her body they laid,That her youth and beauty never might fade;And they smiled on heaven, when they saw her lieIn the stream of life that wander'd bye.And she heard a song, she heard it sung,She kenn'd not where; but sae sweetly it rung,It fell on the ear like a dream of the morn:'O, blest be the day Kilmeny was born!Now shall the land of the spirits see,Now shall it ken what a woman may be!The sun that shines on the world sae bright,A borrow'd gleid frae the fountain of light;And the moon that sleeks the sky sae dun,Like a gouden bow, or a beamless sun,Shall wear away, and be seen nae mair,And the angels shall miss them travelling the air.But lang, lang after baith night and day,When the sun and the world have elyed away;When the sinner has gane to his waesome doom,Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom!'—
They bore her away, she wist not how,For she felt not arm nor rest below;But so swift they wain'd her through the light,'Twas like the motion of sound or sight;They seem'd to split the gales of air,And yet nor gale nor breeze was there.Unnumber'd groves below them grew,They came, they pass'd, and backward flew,Like floods of blossoms gliding on,In moment seen, in moment gone.O, never vales to mortal viewAppear'd like those o'er which they flew!That land to human spirits given,The lowermost vales of the storied heaven;From thence they can view the world below,And heaven's blue gates with sapphires glow,More glory yet unmeet to know.
They bore her far to a mountain green,To see what mortal never had seen;And they seated her high on a purple sward,And bade her heed what she saw and heard,And note the changes the spirits wrought,For now she lived in the land of thought.She look'd, and she saw nor sun nor skies,But a crystal dome of a thousand dyes:She look'd, and she saw nae land aright,But an endless whirl of glory and light:And radiant beings went and came,Far swifter than wind, or the linked flame.She hid her e'en frae the dazzling view;She look'd again, and the scene was new.
She saw a sun on a summer sky,And clouds of amber sailing bye;A lovely land beneath her lay,And that land had glens and mountains gray;And that land had valleys and hoary piles,And marled seas, and a thousand isles.Its fields were speckled, its forests green,And its lakes were all of the dazzling sheen,Like magic mirrors, where slumbering layThe sun and the sky and the cloudlet gray;Which heaved and trembled, and gently swung,On every shore they seem'd to be hung;For there they were seen on their downward plainA thousand times and a thousand again;In winding lake and placid firth,Little peaceful heavens in the bosom of earth.
Kilmeny sigh'd and seem'd to grieve,For she found her heart to that land did cleave;She saw the corn wave on the vale,She saw the deer run down the dale;She saw the plaid and the broad claymore,And the brows that the badge of freedom bore;And she thought she had seen the land before.
She saw a lady sit on a throne,The fairest that ever the sun shone on!A lion lick'd her hand of milk,And she held him in a leish of silk;And a leifu' maiden stood at her knee,With a silver wand and melting e'e;Her sovereign shield till love stole in,And poison'd all the fount within.
Then a gruff untoward bedesman came,And hundit the lion on his dame;And the guardian maid wi' the dauntless e'e,She dropp'd a tear, and left her knee;And she saw till the queen frae the lion fled,Till the bonniest flower of the world lay dead;A coffin was set on a distant plain,And she saw the red blood fall like rain;Then bonnie Kilmeny's heart grew sair,And she turn'd away, and could look nae mair.
Then the gruff grim carle girn'd amain,And they trampled him down, but he rose again;And he baited the lion to deeds of weir,Till he lapp'd the blood to the kingdom dear;And weening his head was danger-preef,When crown'd with the rose and clover leaf,He gowl'd at the carle, and chased him awayTo feed wi' the deer on the mountain gray.He gowl'd at the carle, and geck'd at Heaven,But his mark was set, and his arles given.Kilmeny a while her e'en withdrew;She look'd again, and the scene was new.
She saw before her fair unfurl'dOne half of all the glowing world,Where oceans roll'd, and rivers ran,To bound the aims of sinful man.She saw a people, fierce and fell,Burst frae their bounds like fiends of hell;Their lilies grew, and the eagle flew;And she herked on her ravening crew,Till the cities and towers were wrapp'd in a blaze,And the thunder it roar'd o'er the lands and the seas.The widows they wail'd, and the red blood ran,And she threaten'd an end to the race of man;She never lened, nor stood in awe,Till caught by the lion's deadly paw.O, then the eagle swink'd for life,And brainyell'd up a mortal strife;But flew she north, or flew she south,She met wi' the gowl o' the lion's mouth.
With a mooted wing and waefu' maen,The eagle sought her eiry again;But lang may she cower in her bloody nest,And lang, lang sleek her wounded breast,Before she sey another flight,To play wi' the norland lion's might.
But to sing the sights Kilmeny saw,So far surpassing nature's law,The singer's voice wad sink away,And the string of his harp wad cease to play.But she saw till the sorrows of man were bye,And all was love and harmony;Till the stars of heaven fell calmly away,Like flakes of snaw on a winter day.
Then Kilmeny begg'd again to seeThe friends she had left in her own countrye;To tell of the place where she had been,And the glories that lay in the land unseen;To warn the living maidens fair,The loved of Heaven, the spirits' care,That all whose minds unmeled remainShall bloom in beauty when time is gane.
With distant music, soft and deep,They lull'd Kilmeny sound asleep;And when she awaken'd, she lay her lane,All happ'd with flowers, in the green-wood wene.When seven lang years had come and fled,When grief was calm, and hope was dead;When scarce was remember'd Kilmeny's name,Late, late in a gloamin' Kilmeny came hame!And O, her beauty was fair to see,But still and steadfast was her e'e!Such beauty bard may never declare,For there was no pride nor passion there;And the soft desire of maiden's e'enIn that mild face could never be seen.Her seymar was the lily flower,And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower;And her voice like the distant melodye,That floats along the twilight sea.But she loved to raike the lanely glen,And keeped afar frae the haunts of men;Her holy hymns unheard to sing,To suck the flowers, and drink the spring.But wherever her peaceful form appear'd,The wild beasts of the hill were cheer'd;The wolf play'd blythly round the field,The lordly byson low'd and kneel'd;The dun deer woo'd with manner bland,And cower'd aneath her lily hand.And when at even the woodlands rung,When hymns of other worlds she sungIn ecstasy of sweet devotion,O, then the glen was all in motion!The wild beasts of the forest came,Broke from their bughts and faulds the tame,And goved around, charm'd and amazed;Even the dull cattle croon'd and gazed,And murmur'd and look'd with anxious painFor something the mystery to explain.The buzzard came with the throstle-cock;The corby left her houf in the rock;The blackbird alang wi' the eagle flew;The hind came tripping o'er the dew;The wolf and the kid their raike began,And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran;The hawk and the hern attour them hung,And the merle and the mavis forhooy'd their young;And all in a peaceful ring were hurl'd;It was like an eve in a sinless world!
When a month and a day had come and gane.Kilmeny sought the green-wood wene;There laid her down on the leaves sae green,And Kilmeny on earth was never mair seen.But O, the words that fell from her mouthWere words of wonder, and words of truth!But all the land were in fear and dread,For they kendna whether she was living or dead.It wasna her hame, and she couldna remain;She left this world of sorrow and pain,And return'd to the land of thought again.
yorlin] the yellow-hammer. hindberrye] bramble. minny] mother. greet] mourn. westlin] western. its lane] alone, by itself. low'd] flamed. eiry leme] eery gleam. linn] waterfall. joup] mantle. swa'd] swelled. waik] a row of deep damp grass. wene] ?whin, a furze-bush. maike] a mate, match, equal. his lane] alone, by himself. happ'd] covered. speer] inquire. fere] fellow. eident] unintermittently. kemed] combed. kyth] show, appear. gleid] spark, glow. elyed] vanished. marled] variegated, parti-coloured. leifu'] lone, wistful. girn'd] snarled. weir] war. gowl'd] howled. geck'd] mocked. arles] money paid on striking a bargain; fig. a beating. lened] crouched. swink'd] laboured. brainyell'd] stirred, beat. mooted] moulted. sey] essay. unmeled] unblemished. her lane] alone, by herself. seymar]=cymar, a slight covering. raike] range, wander. bughts] milking-pens. goved] stared, gazed. corby] raven. houf] haunt. raike] ramble. tod] fox. attour] out over. forhooy'd] neglected.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
515. Lucy i
STRANGE fits of passion have I known:And I will dare to tell,But in the lover's ear alone,What once to me befell.
When she I loved look'd every dayFresh as a rose in June,I to her cottage bent my way,Beneath an evening moon.
Upon the moon I fix'd my eye,All over the wide lea;With quickening pace my horse drew nighThose paths so dear to me.
And now we reach'd the orchard-plot;And, as we climb'd the hill,The sinking moon to Lucy's cotCame near and nearer still.
In one of those sweet dreams I slept,Kind Nature's gentlest boon!And all the while my eyes I keptOn the descending moon.
My horse moved on; hoof after hoofHe raised, and never stopp'd:When down behind the cottage roof,At once, the bright moon dropp'd.
What fond and wayward thoughts will slideInto a lover's head!'O mercy!' to myself I cried,'If Lucy should be dead!'
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
516. Lucy ii
SHE dwelt among the untrodden waysBeside the springs of Dove,A Maid whom there were none to praiseAnd very few to love:
A violet by a mossy stoneHalf hidden from the eye!Fair as a star, when only oneIs shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could knowWhen Lucy ceased to be;But she is in her grave, and oh,The difference to me!
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
517. Lucy iii
I TRAVELL'D among unknown men,In lands beyond the sea;Nor, England! did I know till thenWhat love I bore to thee.
'Tis past, that melancholy dream!Nor will I quit thy shoreA second time; for still I seemTo love thee more and more.
Among thy mountains did I feelThe joy of my desire;And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheelBeside an English fire.
Thy mornings showed, thy nights conceal'd,The bowers where Lucy played;And thine too is the last green fieldThat Lucy's eyes survey'd.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
518. Lucy iv
THREE years she grew in sun and shower;Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flowerOn earth was never sown;This child I to myself will take;She shall be mine, and I will makeA lady of my own.
"Myself will to my darling beBoth law and impulse: and with meThe girl, in rock and plain,In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,Shall feel an overseeing powerTo kindle or restrain.
'She shall be sportive as the fawnThat wild with glee across the lawnOr up the mountain springs;And hers shall be the breathing balm,And hers the silence and the calmOf mute insensate things.
'The floating clouds their state shall lendTo her; for her the willow bend;Nor shall she fail to seeEven in the motions of the stormGrace that shall mould the maiden's formBy silent sympathy.
'The stars of midnight shall be dearTo her; and she shall lean her earIn many a secret placeWhere rivulets dance their wayward round,And beauty born of murmuring soundShall pass into her face.
'And vital feelings of delightShall rear her form to stately height,Her virgin bosom swell;Such thoughts to Lucy I will giveWhile she and I together liveHere in this happy dell.'
Thus Nature spake—The work was done—How soon my Lucy's race was run!She died, and left to meThis heath, this calm, and quiet scene;The memory of what has been,And never more will be.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
519. Lucy v
A SLUMBER did my spirit seal;I had no human fears:She seem'd a thing that could not feelThe touch of earthly years.
No motion has she now, no force;She neither hears nor sees;Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course,With rocks, and stones, and trees.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
520. Upon Westminster Bridge
EARTH has not anything to show more fair:Dull would he be of soul who could pass byA sight so touching in its majesty:This City now doth like a garment wearThe beauty of the morning; silent, bare,Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lieOpen unto the fields, and to the sky;All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.Never did sun more beautifully steepIn his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!The river glideth at his own sweet will:Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;And all that mighty heart is lying still!
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
521. Evening on Calais Beach
IT is a beauteous evening, calm and free,The holy time is quiet as a NunBreathless with adoration; the broad sunIs sinking down in its tranquillity;The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea:Listen! the mighty Being is awake,And doth with his eternal motion makeA sound like thunder—everlastingly.Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought,Thy nature is not therefore less divine:Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year;And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine,God being with thee when we know it not.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
522. On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic, 1802
ONCE did she hold the gorgeous East in fee;And was the safeguard of the West: the worthOf Venice did not fall below her birth,Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty.She was a maiden City, bright and free;No guile seduced, no force could violate;And, when she took unto herself a mate,She must espouse the everlasting Sea.And what if she had seen those glories fade,Those titles vanish, and that strength decay;Yet shall some tribute of regret be paidWhen her long life hath reach'd its final day:Men are we, and must grieve when even the ShadeOf that which once was great is pass'd away.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
523. England, 1802 i
O FRIEND! I know not which way I must lookFor comfort, being, as I am, opprest,To think that now our life is only drestFor show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook,Or groom!—We must run glittering like a brookIn the open sunshine, or we are unblest:The wealthiest man among us is the best:No grandeur now in nature or in bookDelights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,This is idolatry; and these we adore:Plain living and high thinking are no more:The homely beauty of the good old causeIs gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,And pure religion breathing household laws.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
524. England, 1802 ii
MILTON! thou shouldst be living at this hour:England hath need of thee: she is a fenOf stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,Have forfeited their ancient English dowerOf inward happiness. We are selfish men;O raise us up, return to us again,And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power!Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart;Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,So didst thou travel on life's common way,In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heartThe lowliest duties on herself did lay.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
525. England, 1802 iii
GREAT men have been among us; hands that penn'dAnd tongues that utter'd wisdom—better none:The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington,Young Vane, and others who call'd Milton friend.These moralists could act and comprehend:They knew how genuine glory was put on;Taught us how rightfully a nation shoneIn splendour: what strength was, that would not bendBut in magnanimous meekness. France, 'tis strange,Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then.Perpetual emptiness! unceasing change!No single volume paramount, no code,No master spirit, no determined road;But equally a want of books and men!
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
526. England, 1802 iv
IT is not to be thought of that the floodOf British freedom, which, to the open seaOf the world's praise, from dark antiquityHath flow'd, 'with pomp of waters, unwithstood,'Roused though it be full often to a moodWhich spurns the check of salutary bands,—That this most famous stream in bogs and sandsShould perish; and to evil and to goodBe lost for ever. In our halls is hungArmoury of the invincible Knights of old:We must be free or die, who speak the tongueThat Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals holdWhich Milton held.—In everything we are sprungOf Earth's first blood, have titles manifold.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
527. England, 1802 v
WHEN I have borne in memory what has tamedGreat Nations, how ennobling thoughts departWhen men change swords for ledgers, and desertThe student's bower for gold, some fears unnamedI had, my Country!—am I to be blamed?Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,Verily, in the bottom of my heart,Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.For dearly must we prize thee; we who findIn thee a bulwark for the cause of men;And I by my affection was beguiled:What wonder if a Poet now and then,Among the many movements of his mind,Felt for thee as a lover or a child!
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
528. The Solitary Reaper
BEHOLD her, single in the field,Yon solitary Highland Lass!Reaping and singing by herself;Stop here, or gently pass!Alone she cuts and binds the grain,And sings a melancholy strain;O listen! for the Vale profoundIs overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chauntMore welcome notes to weary bandsOf travellers in some shady haunt,Among Arabian sands:A voice so thrilling ne'er was heardIn spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,Breaking the silence of the seasAmong the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?—Perhaps the plaintive numbers flowFor old, unhappy, far-off things,And battles long ago:Or is it some more humble lay,Familiar matter of to-day?Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sangAs if her song could have no ending;I saw her singing at her work,And o'er the sickle bending;—I listen'd, motionless and still;And, as I mounted up the hill,The music in my heart I bore,Long after it was heard no more.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
529. Perfect Woman
SHE was a phantom of delightWhen first she gleam'd upon my sight;A lovely apparition, sentTo be a moment's ornament;Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;But all things else about her drawnFrom May-time and the cheerful dawn;A dancing shape, an image gay,To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her upon nearer view,A Spirit, yet a Woman too!Her household motions light and free,And steps of virgin liberty;A countenance in which did meetSweet records, promises as sweet;A creature not too bright or goodFor human nature's daily food;For transient sorrows, simple wiles,Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye sereneThe very pulse of the machine;A being breathing thoughtful breath,A traveller between life and death;The reason firm, the temperate will,Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd,To warn, to comfort, and command;And yet a Spirit still, and brightWith something of angelic light.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
530. Daffodils
I WANDER'D lonely as a cloudThat floats on high o'er vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowd,A host, of golden daffodils;Beside the lake, beneath the trees,Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shineAnd twinkle on the Milky Way,They stretch'd in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glance,Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but theyOut-did the sparkling waves in glee:A poet could not but be gay,In such a jocund company:I gazed—and gazed—but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lieIn vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude;And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
531. Ode to Duty
STERN Daughter of the Voice of God!O Duty! if that name thou love,Who art a light to guide, a rodTo check the erring and reprove;Thou, who art victory and lawWhen empty terrors overawe;From vain temptations dost set free;And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!
There are who ask not if thine eyeBe on them; who, in love and truth,Where no misgiving is, relyUpon the genial sense of youth:Glad hearts! without reproach or blot;Who do thy work, and know it not:O, if through confidence misplacedThey fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.
Serene will be our days and bright,And happy will our nature be,When love is an unerring light,And joy its own security.And they a blissful course may holdEven now, who, not unwisely bold,Live in the spirit of this creed;Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need.
I, loving freedom, and untried;No sport of every random gust,Yet being to myself a guide,Too blindly have reposed my trust:And oft, when in my heart was heardThy timely mandate, I deferr'dThe task, in smoother walks to stray;But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.
Through no disturbance of my soul,Or strong compunction in me wrought,I supplicate for thy control;But in the quietness of thought.Me this uncharter'd freedom tires;I feel the weight of chance-desires;My hopes no more must change their name,I long for a repose that ever is the same.
Yet not the less would I throughoutStill act according to the voiceOf my own wish; and feel past doubtThat my submissiveness was choice:Not seeking in the school of prideFor 'precepts over dignified,'Denial and restraint I prizeNo farther than they breed a second Will more wise.
Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wearThe Godhead's most benignant grace;Nor know we anything so fairAs is the smile upon thy face:Flowers laugh before thee on their beds,And fragrance in thy footing treads;Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.
To humbler functions, awful Power!I call thee: I myself commendUnto thy guidance from this hour;O, let my weakness have an end!Give unto me, made lowly wise,The spirit of self-sacrifice;The confidence of reason give;And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live!
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
532. The Rainbow
MY heart leaps up when I beholdA rainbow in the sky:So was it when my life began;So is it now I am a man;So be it when I shall grow old,Or let me die!The Child is father of the Man;I could wish my days to beBound each to each by natural piety.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
533. The Sonnet i
NUNS fret not at their convent's narrow room,And hermits are contented with their cells,And students with their pensive citadels;Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,High as the highest peak of Furness fells,Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:In truth the prison unto which we doomOurselves no prison is: and hence for me,In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be boundWithin the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground;Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be)Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,Should find brief solace there, as I have found.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
534. The Sonnet ii
SCORN not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frown'd,Mindless of its just honours; with this keyShakespeare unlock'd his heart; the melodyOf this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound;A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;With it Camöens sooth'd an exile's grief;The Sonnet glitter'd a gay myrtle leafAmid the cypress with which Dante crown'dHis visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp,It cheer'd mild Spenser, call'd from Faery-landTo struggle through dark ways; and when a dampFell round the path of Milton, in his handThe Thing became a trumpet; whence he blewSoul-animating strains—alas, too few!
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
535. The World
THE world is too much with us; late and soon,Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:Little we see in Nature that is ours;We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!This sea that bares her bosom to the moon;The winds that will be howling at all hours,And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers;For this, for everything, we are out of tune;It moves us not.—Great God! I'd rather beA Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
536. Ode Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood
THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,The earth, and every common sight,To me did seemApparell'd in celestial light,The glory and the freshness of a dream.It is not now as it hath been of yore;—Turn wheresoe'er I may,By night or day,The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
The rainbow comes and goes,And lovely is the rose;The moon doth with delightLook round her when the heavens are bare;Waters on a starry nightAre beautiful and fair;The sunshine is a glorious birth;But yet I know, where'er I go,That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,And while the young lambs boundAs to the tabor's sound,To me alone there came a thought of grief:A timely utterance gave that thought relief,And I again am strong:The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,And all the earth is gay;Land and seaGive themselves up to jollity,And with the heart of MayDoth every beast keep holiday;—Thou Child of Joy,Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happyShepherd-boy!
Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the callYe to each other make; I seeThe heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;My heart is at your festival,My head hath its coronal,The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.O evil day! if I were sullenWhile Earth herself is adorning,This sweet May-morning,And the children are cullingOn every side,In a thousand valleys far and wide,Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm:—I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!—But there's a tree, of many, one,A single field which I have look'd upon,Both of them speak of something that is gone:The pansy at my feetDoth the same tale repeat:Whither is fled the visionary gleam?Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: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,But trailing clouds of glory do we comeFrom God, who is our home:Heaven lies about us in our infancy!Shades of the prison-house begin to closeUpon the growing Boy,But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,He sees it in his joy;The Youth, who daily farther from the eastMust travel, still is Nature's priest,And by the vision splendidIs on his way attended;At length the Man perceives it die away,And fade into the light of common day.
Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,And, even with something of a mother's mind,And no unworthy aim,The homely nurse doth all she canTo make her foster-child, her Inmate Man,Forget the glories he hath known,And that imperial palace whence he came.
Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,A six years' darling of a pigmy size!See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,With light upon him from his father's eyes!See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,Some fragment from his dream of human life,Shaped by himself with newly-learned art;A wedding or a festival,A mourning or a funeral;And this hath now his heart,And unto this he frames his song:Then will he fit his tongueTo dialogues of business, love, or strife;But it will not be longEre this be thrown aside,And with new joy and prideThe little actor cons another part;Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage'With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,That Life brings with her in her equipage;As if his whole vocationWere endless imitation.
Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belieThy soul's immensity;Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keepThy heritage, thou eye among the blind,That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,—Mighty prophet! Seer blest!On whom those truths do rest,Which we are toiling all our lives to find,In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;Thou, over whom thy ImmortalityBroods like the Day, a master o'er a slave,A presence which is not to be put by;To whom the graveIs but a lonely bed without the sense or sightOf day or the warm light,A place of thought where we in waiting lie;Thou little Child, yet glorious in the mightOf heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,Why with such earnest pains dost thou provokeThe years to bring the inevitable yoke,Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,And custom lie upon thee with a weight,Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
O joy! that in our embersIs something that doth live,That nature yet remembersWhat was so fugitive!The thought of our past years in me doth breedPerpetual benediction: not indeedFor that which is most worthy to be blest—Delight and liberty, the simple creedOf childhood, whether busy or at rest,With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:—Not for these I raiseThe song of thanks and praise;But for those obstinate questioningsOf sense and outward things,Fallings from us, vanishings;Blank misgivings of a CreatureMoving about in worlds not realized,High instincts before which our mortal NatureDid tremble like a guilty thing surprised:But for those first affections,Those shadowy recollections,Which, be they what they may,Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;Uphold us, cherish, and have power to makeOur noisy years seem moments in the beingOf the eternal Silence: truths that wake,To perish never:Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,Nor Man nor Boy,Nor all that is at enmity with joy,Can utterly abolish or destroy!Hence in a season of calm weatherThough inland far we be,Our souls have sight of that immortal seaWhich brought us hither,Can in a moment travel thither,And see the children sport upon the shore,And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!And let the young lambs boundAs to the tabor's sound!We in thought will join your throng,Ye that pipe and ye that play,Ye that through your hearts to-dayFeel the gladness of the May!What though the radiance which was once so brightBe now for ever taken from my sight,Though nothing can bring back the hourOf splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;We will grieve not, rather findStrength in what remains behind;In the primal sympathyWhich having been must ever be;In the soothing thoughts that springOut of human suffering;In the faith that looks through death,In years that bring the philosophic mind.
And O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,Forebode not any severing of our loves!Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;I only have relinquish'd one delightTo live beneath your more habitual sway.I love the brooks which down their channels fret,Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they;The innocent brightness of a new-born DayIs lovely yet;The clouds that gather round the setting sunDo take a sober colouring from an eyeThat hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;Another race hath been, and other palms are won.Thanks to the human heart by which we live,Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,To me the meanest flower that blows can giveThoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
537. Desideria
SURPRISED by joy—impatient as the WindI turned to share the transport—O! with whomBut Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,That spot which no vicissitude can find?Love, faithful love, recall'd thee to my mind—But how could I forget thee? Through what power,Even for the least division of an hour,Have I been so beguiled as to be blindTo my most grievous loss?—That thought's returnWas the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;That neither present time, nor years unbornCould to my sight that heavenly face restore.
William Wordsworth. 1770-1850
538. Valedictory Sonnet to the River Duddon
I THOUGHT of Thee, my partner and my guide,As being pass'd away.—Vain sympathies!For, backward, Duddon! as I cast my eyes,I see what was, and is, and will abide;Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide;The Form remains, the Function never dies;While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise,We Men, who in our morn of youth defiedThe elements, must vanish;—be it so!Enough, if something from our hands have powerTo live, and act, and serve the future hour;And if, as toward the silent tomb we go,Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower,We feel that we are greater than we know.