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النشر الإلكتروني

XVII.

TO SLEEP.

A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by,
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky ;
I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie
Sleepless! and soon the small birds' melodies
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees;
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
So do not let me wear to-night away :
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
Come, blessed barrier between day and day,*
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

XVIII.

WITH Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh,
Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed;
Some lying fast at anchor in the road,
Some veering up and down, one knew not why.
A goodly Vessel did I then espy

* Of this line Mr. Wordsworth says, with a curious candour of self-satisfaction, in a letter to Lady Beaumont, that it had been mentioned to him by Coleridge, and indeed by almost every one who had heard it, as eminently beautiful!

Come like a giant from a haven broad;
And lustily along the bay she strode,
Her tackling rich, and of apparel high.
This Ship was nought to me, nor I to her,
Yet I pursued her with a Lover's look ;
This Ship to all the rest did I prefer :

When will she turn, and whither? She will brook
No tarrying; where She comes the winds must stir :
On went She, and due north her journey took.*

XIX.

THE RIVER DUDDON.

O MOUNTAIN Stream! the Shepherd and his Cot
Are privileged Inmates of deep solitude;
Nor would the nicest Anchorite exclude
A field or two of brighter green, or plot
Of tillage-ground, that seemeth like a spot
Of stationary sunshine :-thou hast viewed
These only, Duddon! with their paths renewed
By fits and starts, yet this contents thee not.
Thee hath some awful Spirit impelled to leave,
Utterly to desert, the haunts of men,
Though simple thy companions were and few;
And through this wilderness a passage cleave
Attended but by thy own voice, save when

The clouds and fowls of the air thy way pursue!

*There is a defensive and eulogistic criticism on this sonnet from the pen of the poet himself, in a letter to Lady Beaumont. See Life, by Dr. Wordsworth, I. pp. 336-338.

XX.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO.

I.

YES! hope may with my strong desire keep pace,
And I be undeluded, unbetrayed;

For if of our affections none finds grace

In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God made
The world which we inhabit? Better plea

Love cannot have, than that in loving thee
Glory to that eternal Peace is paid,

Who such divinity to thee imparts

As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.
His hope is treacherous only whose love dies
With beauty, which is varying every hour;
But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power
Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower,
That breathes on earth the air of paradise.

XXI.

FROM THE SAME.

II.

No mortal object did these eyes behold

When first they met the placid light of thine,
And my Soul felt her destiny divine,

And hope of endless peace in me grew

bold:

Heaven-born, the Soul a heaven-ward course must hold ;

Beyond the visible world she soars to seek
(For what delights the sense is false and weak)
Ideal Form, the universal mould.

The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest
In that which perishes: nor will he lend
His heart to aught which doth on time depend.
'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love,
That kills the soul: love betters what is best,
Even here below, but more in heaven above.*

XXII.

FROM THE SAME. TO THE SUPREME BEING.

III.

THE prayers I make will then be sweet indeed
If Thou the spirit give by which I

pray :
My unassisted heart is barren clay,
That of its native self can nothing feed :
Of good and pious works thou art the seed,
That quickens only where thou say'st it may :
Unless Thou show to us thine own true way
No man can find it: Father! Thou must lead.
Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into
By which such virtue may in me be bred
That in thy holy footsteps I may tread;
The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind,
That I may have the power to sing of thee,
And sound thy praises everlastingly.

my

mind

The last line and a half of this sonnet reminds one of Shakspeare's

manner.

XXIII.

TO LADY BEAUMONT.

LADY! the songs of Spring were in the grove
While I was shaping beds for winter flowers;
While I was planting green unfading bowers,
And shrubs-to hang upon the warm alcove,
And sheltering wall; and still, as Fancy wove
The dream, to time and nature's blended powers
gave this paradise for winter hours,

I

A labyrinth, Lady! which your feet shall rove.
Yes! when the sun of life more feebly shines,
Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn gloom
Or of high gladness you shall hither bring;
And these perennial bowers and murmuring pines
Be gracious as the music and the bloom
And all the mighty ravishment of spring.*

XXIV.

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-gathered now like sleeping flowers;

* The rapturousness of Spring was perhaps never more nobly expressed than in the last two lines of this sonnet.

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