صور الصفحة
النشر الإلكتروني

The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure :— But the leaft 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.

If I these thoughts may not prevent,
If fuch be of my creed the plan,
Have I not reafon to lament

What man has made of man?

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;

So is it now I am a man ;

So be it when I fhall grow old,
Or let me die !

The child is father of the man;

And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.


There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,
Which to this day stands fingle, in the midst
Of its own darkness, as it ftood of yore,
Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands
Of Umfraville or Percy, ere they marched
To Scotland's heaths; or those that croffed the sea,

And drew their founding bows at Azincour,
Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poitiers.
Of vaft circumference and gloom profound
This folitary tree !-a living thing
Produced too flowly ever to decay ;
Of form and aspect too magnificent
To be destroyed. But worthier still of note
Are those fraternal four of Borrowdale,

Joined in one folemn and capacious grove ;
Huge trunks!-and each particular trunk a growth
Of intertwisted fibres ferpentine
Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved,-
Nor uninformed with phantafy, and looks
That threaten the profane ;-a pillared shade,
Upon whofe grafflefs floor of red-brown hue,
By fheddings from the pining umbrage tinged
Perennially-beneath whose fable roof

Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked
With unrejoicing berries, ghostly shapes

May meet at noontide-Fear and trembling Hope,
Silence and Forefight-Death the skeleton.
And Time the shadow,-there to celebrate,
As in a natural temple fcattered o'er
With altars undisturbed of mofsly stone,
United worship; or in mute repose
To lie, and liften to the mountain flood
Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.


Brook! whose society the Poet seeks,
Intent his wafted fpirits to renew;

And whom the curious painter doth pursue
Through rocky passes, among flowery creeks,
And tracks thee dancing down thy water-breaks;
If I fome type of thee did wish to view,
Thee, and not thee thyfelf, I would not do
Like Grecian artists, give thee human cheeks,
Channels for tears; no Naiad fhould'ft thou be,
Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints, nor hairs;
It seems the eternal foul is clothed in thee

With purer robes than those of flesh and blood,
And hath bestowed on thee a better good;
Unwearied joy, and life without its cares.


Intended more particularly for the perufal of those who may have happened to be enamoured of fome beautiful Place of Retreat in the Country of the Lakes.

Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!

-The lovely cottage in the guardian nook
Hath stirred thee deeply; with its own dear brook,

Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!
But covet not the abode-Oh! do not sigh,
As many do, repining while they look;
Sighing a wish to tear from Nature's book

This blissful leaf with harfh impiety.

Think what the home would be if it were thine,

Even thine, though few thy wants !-Roof, window, door,

The very flowers are facred to the poor,

The roses to the porch which they entwine :

Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day

On which it should be touched, would melt, and melt away!


"Beloved Vale!" I faid, "when I shall con
Those many records of my childish years,
Remembrance of myself and of my peers
Will prefs me down to think of what is gone

Will be an awful thought, if life have one."
But, when into the Vale I came, no fears
Diftreffed me; I looked round, I fhed no tears;
Deep thought, or awful vision, I had none.
By thousand petty fancies I was croffed,

To fee the trees, which I had thought fo tall,
Mere dwarfs; the brooks fo narrow, fields fo fmall.
A juggler's balls old Time about him toffed;
I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed; and all
The weight of fadness was in wonder lost.

The world is too much with us; late and foon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we fee in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a fordid boon!
This fea that bares her bofom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like fleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.-Great God! I'd rather be


pagan fuckled in a creed outworn;

So might I, ftanding on this pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ;

Have fight of Proteus rising from the sea ;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

« السابقةمتابعة »