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Perhaps are seated in domestic ring

A gay society with faces bright,

Conversing, reading, laughing; or they sing,
While hearts and voices in the song unite.

*

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MARK the concentred hazels that enclose
Yon old grey Stone, protected from the ray
Of noontide suns :—and even the beams that play
And glance, while wantonly the rough wind blows,
Are seldom free to touch the moss that grows
Upon that roof, amid embowering gloom,
The very image framing of a Tomb,

repose

In which some ancient Chieftain finds
Among the lonely mountains.-Live, ye trees!
And thou, grey Stone, the pensive likeness keep
Of a dark chamber where the Mighty sleep:
For more than Fancy to the influence bends
When solitary Nature condescends

To mimic Time's forlorn humanities.

XI.

COMPOSED AFTER A JOURNEY ACROSS THE HAMBLETON HILLS, YORKSHIRE.

DARK and more dark the shades of evening fell; The wished-for point was reached—but at an hour

* This sonnet is a remarkable instance of what may be done, by such a poet as Wordsworth, with so ordinary an incident as the sight of a lighted candle by night in a mountain cottage.

When little could be gained from that rich dower
Of prospect, whereof many thousands tell.
Yet did the glowing west with marvellous power
Salute us; there stood Indian citadel,

Temple of Greece, and minster with its tower
Substantially expressed-a place for bell

Or clock to toll from! Many a tempting isle,
With groves that never were imagined, lay
'Mid seas how steadfast! objects all for the eye
Of silent rapture; but we felt the while
We should forget them; they are of the sky
And from our earthly memory fade away.*

XII.

they are of the sky,

And from our earthly memory fade away.'

THOSE words were uttered as in pensive mood
We turned, departing from that solemn sight:†
A contrast and reproach to gross delight,
And life's unspiritual pleasures daily wooed!

*This sonnet has been much altered and improved since 1815. In the edition of that year the first twelve lines stood as follows:

Dark and more dark the shades of evening fell;

The wished-for point was reached-but late the hour;

And little could we see of all that power

Of prospect, whereof many thousands tell.
The western sky did recompense us well
With Grecian temple, minaret, and bower;
And in one part a minster with its tower
Substantially expressed-a place for bell
Or clock to toll from! Many a glorious pile
Did we behold, fair sights that might repay
All disappointment! and, as such, the eye
Delighted in them;

Mine eyes yet lingering on that solemn sight.-Edit. 1815.

But now upon this thought I cannot brood;
It is unstable as a dream of night;

*

Nor will I praise a cloud, however bright,
Disparaging Man's gifts, and proper food.
Grove, isle, with every shape of sky-built dome,
Though clad in colours beautiful and pure,
Find in the heart of man no natural home :
The immortal Mind craves objects that endure:
These cleave to it; from these it cannot roam,
Nor they from it: their fellowship is secure.

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DEGENERATE Douglas! oh, the unworthy Lord!
Whom mere despite of heart could so far please,
And love of havoc, (for with such disease
Fame taxes him,) that he could send forth word
To level with the dust a noble horde,
A brotherhood of venerable Trees,
Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these,
Beggared and outraged !—Many hearts deplored
The fate of those old Trees; and oft with pain
The traveller, at this day, will stop and gaze
On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed :
For sheltered places, bosoms, nooks, and bays,
And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,
And the green silent pastures, yet remain.

* It is unstable, and deserts me quite.-Edit. 1815.

This sonnet was composed after Wordsworth's Scotch tour of 1803. The Castle is Nidpath Castle, near Peebles. The degenerate Douglas was the Duke of Queensbury. The anecdote was told to Wordsworth by Walter Scott.

XIV.

TO THE POET, JOHN DYER.

BARD of the Fleece, whose skilful genius made
That work a living landscape fair and bright;
Nor hallowed less with musical delight

Than those soft scenes through which thy childhood strayed,

Those southern tracts of Cambria, 'deep embayed,
With green
hills fenced, with ocean's murmur lull'd ;'
Though hasty Fame hath many a chaplet culled
For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade
Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced,
Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and still,
A grateful few, shall love thy modest Lay,
Long as the shepherd's bleating flock shall stray
O'er naked Snowdon's wide aërial waste;
Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill !

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O GENTLE SLEEP! do they belong to thee,
These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love
To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove,
A captive never wishing to be free.

"The three sonnets to Sleep are very beautiful and peculiar; not Miltonic, or Shaksperian, or Petrarchian, nor like the productions of any later sonnetteers, but entirely Wordsworthian and inimitable."-SARA COLERIDGE.

This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to me
A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove
Upon a fretful rivulet, now above

Now on the water vexed with mockery.
I have no pain that calls for patience, no;
Hence am I cross and peevish as a child :
Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe,
Yet ever willing to be reconciled :
O gentle Creature! do not use me so,
But once and deeply let me be beguiled.

XVI.

TO SLEEP.

FOND words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep!
And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names;
The very sweetest, Fancy culls or frames,
When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep!
Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost steep
In rich reward all suffering; Balm that tames
All anguish; Saint that evil thoughts and aims
Takest away, and into souls dost creep,
Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone,
I surely not a man ungently made,

Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost?
Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown,
Mere slave of them who never for thee prayed,
Still last to come where thou art wanted most !

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