sey] essay. unmeled] unblemished. her lane] alone, by herself.
sey] essay. unmeled] unblemished. her lane] alone, by herself.
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 keepèd 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;
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 keepèd 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;
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 keepèd 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;
seymar]=cymar, a slight covering. raike] range, wander. bughts] milking-pens. goved] stared, gazed. corby] raven. houf] haunt.
seymar]=cymar, a slight covering. raike] range, wander. bughts] milking-pens. goved] stared, gazed. corby] raven. houf] haunt.
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.
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.
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.
514.raike] ramble. tod] fox. attour] out over. forhooy’d] neglected.
514.raike] ramble. tod] fox. attour] out over. forhooy’d] neglected.
1770-1850
Lucy
515.
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!’
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!’
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!’
516.
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!
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!
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!
517.
ITRAVELED 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 show’d, thy nights conceal’d,The bowers where Lucy play’d;And thine too is the last green fieldThat Lucy’s eyes survey’d.
ITRAVELED 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 show’d, thy nights conceal’d,The bowers where Lucy play’d;And thine too is the last green fieldThat Lucy’s eyes survey’d.
ITRAVELED 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 show’d, thy nights conceal’d,The bowers where Lucy play’d;And thine too is the last green fieldThat Lucy’s eyes survey’d.
518.
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.
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.
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.
519.
ASLUMBER 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.
ASLUMBER 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.
ASLUMBER 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.
520.
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!
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!
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!
521.
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.
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.
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.
522.
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.
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.
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.
England, 1802
523.
OFRIEND! 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.
OFRIEND! 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.
OFRIEND! 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.
524.
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.
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.
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.
525.
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!
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!
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!
526.
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.
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.
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.
527.
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!
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!
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!
528.
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?Whatever 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.
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?Whatever 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.
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?Whatever 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.
529.
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.
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.
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.
530.
IWANDER’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.
IWANDER’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.
IWANDER’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.
531.
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!
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!
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!
532.
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;And I could wish my days to beBound each to each by natural piety.
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;And I could wish my days to beBound each to each by natural piety.
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;And I could wish my days to beBound each to each by natural piety.
The Sonnet
533.
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.
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.
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.
534.
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!
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!
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!
535.
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 wreathèd horn.
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 wreathèd horn.
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 wreathèd horn.
536.
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 happy Shepherd-boy!Ye blessèd 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 fullness 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-learnèd 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 relinquished 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.
537.