Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemazed: The best of his skill he has tried ; His feelers, methinks, I can see him put forth To the east and the west, to the south and the north; But he finds neither guide-post nor guide. His spindles sink under him, foot, leg, and thigh! Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws; No brother, no mate has he near him—while I As if green summer grass were the floor of my room, Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless Thing! Till summer come up from the south, and with crowds Of thy brethren a march thou should'st sound through the clouds. And back to the forests again! It is the first mild day of March: The redbreast sings from the tall larch There is a blessing in the air, To the bare trees, and mountains bare, My sister! ('tis a wish of mine) Now that our morning meal is done, Edward will come with you;—and, pray, No joyless forms shall regulate Our living calendar : We from to-day, my Friend, will date * Written at Alfoxden, 1798. The Edward mentioned in the fourth stanza, was young Basil Montagu, by whom the Poet sent the pencilled lines to his sister. Love, now a universal birth, From heart to heart is stealing, From earth to man, from man to earth : One moment now may give us more Than * Our minds shall drink at every pore Some silent laws our hearts will make, Which they shall long obey : We for the year to come may take Our temper from to-day. And from the blessed power that rolls We'll frame the measure of our souls: They shall be tuned to love. Then come, my Sister! come, I pray, * Than fifty years of reason.-Edit. 1815. Compare this stanza with the sixth stanza of "The Tables Turned." LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.* I HEARD a thousand blended notes, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts To her fair works did Nature link And much it grieved my heart to think Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,† The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure : But the least motion which they made, It seemed a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. * Written in 1798, while sitting by the side of the brook that runs down the Comb, in which is the village of Alford, near Alfoxden. † that sweet bower -Edit. 1815. If this belief from heaven be sent, TO A YOUNG LADY, WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG WALKS IN THE DEAR Child of Nature, let them rail! A harbour and a hold; Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shalt see A light to young and old. There, healthy as a shepherd boy, And treading among flowers of joy Thou, while thy babes around thee cling, Shalt show us how divine a thing A Woman may be made. Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die, But an old age serene and bright, And lovely as a Lapland night, Shall lead thee to thy grave. 1803. * If I these thoughts may not prevent, If such be of my creed the plan.-Edit. 1815. As if thy heritage were joy, And pleasure were thy trade.-Edit. 1815. |