The world, and man himself, appeared a scene
Of kindred loveliness: then he would figh
With mournful joy, to think that others felt
What he must never feel: and fo, loft Man!
On vifionary views would fancy feed,
Till his eye ftreamed with tears. In this deep vale
He died,—this feat his only monument.
If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms
Of young imagination have kept pure,
Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride,
Howe'er disguised in his own majesty,
Is littleness; that he who feels contempt
For any living thing, hath faculties
Which he hath never ufed; that thought with him
Is in its infancy. The man whose eye
Is ever on himself, doth look on one,
The leaft of Nature's works, one who might move
The wife man to that scorn which wisdom holds
Unlawful, ever. O be wifer, thou!
Inftructed that true knowledge leads to love,
True dignity abides with him alone
Who, in the filent hour of inward thought,
Can ftill fufpect, and ftill revere himself,
In lowlinefs of heart.
When, to the attractions of the busy world,
Preferring ftudious leifure, I had chofen
A habitation in this peaceful vale,
Sharp feafon followed of continual ftorm.
In deepest Winter; and from week to week,
Pathway, and lane, and public road, were clogged
With frequent showers of fnow. Upon a hill,
At a short distance from my cottage, ftands
A ftately fir-grove, whither I was wont
To haften, for I found, beneath the roof
Of that perennial shade, a cloistral place
Of refuge, with an unincumbered floor.
Here, in fafe covert, on the fhallow fnow,
And sometimes on a speck of visible earth,
The red-breaft near me hopped; nor was I loth
To sympathize with vulgar coppice birds
That, for protection from the nipping blast,
Hither repaired.-A fingle beech-tree grew
Within this grove of firs; and on the fork
Of that one beech, appeared a thrush's nest,
A last year's neft, confpicuously built
At fuch small elevation from the ground
As gave fure fign that they who in that houfe
Of nature and of love had made their home
Amid the fir-trees all the Summer long,
Dwelt in a tranquil fpot. And often-times
A few sheep, ftragglers from some mountain-flock,
Would watch my motions with fufpicious ftare,
From the remoteft outskirts of the grove,-
Some nook where they had made their final stand,
Huddling together from two fears—the fear
Of me and of the ftorm. Full many an hour
Here did I lofe. But in this grove the trees
Had been fo thickly planted, and had thriven
In fuch perplexed and intricate array,
That vainly did I seek, between their stems,
A length of open space,-where to and fro
My feet might move without concern or care:
And, baffled thus, before the ftorm relaxed,
I ceafed that shelter to frequent, and prized,
Less than I wished to prize, that calm recess.
The fnows diffolved, and genial Spring returned
To clothe the fields with verdure. Other haunts
Meanwhile were mine; till, one bright April day,
By chance retiring from the glare of noon.
To this forfaken covert, there I found
A hoary pathway traced between the trees,
And winding on with such an easy line
Along a natural opening, that I ftood,
Much wondering at my own fimplicity,
How I could e'er have made a fruitless search
For what was now fo obvious. At the fight
Conviction alfo flashed upon my mind
That this fame path (within the shady grove
Begun and ended) by my Brother's steps
Had been impressed.—To sojourn a short while
Beneath my roof, he from the barren feas
Had newly come-a cherished vifitant!
And much did it delight me to perceive
That to this opportune recefs allured,
He had furveyed it with a finer eye,
A heart more wakeful; that, more loth to part
From place fo lovely, he had worn the track
By pacing here, unwearied and alone,
In that habitual restlessness of foot
With which the failor measures o'er and o'er
His fhort domain upon the veffel's deck,
While she is travelling through the dreary fea.
When thou hadft quitted Efthwaite's pleasant shore,
And taken thy firft leave of thofe green hills
And rocks that were the play-ground of thy youth,
Year followed year, my Brother! and we two,
Converfing not, knew little in what mould
Each other's minds were fashioned; and at length,
When once again we met in Grasmere Vale,
Between us there was little other bond
Than common feelings of fraternal love.
But thou, a school-boy, to the sea hadst carried
Undying recollections; Nature there
Was with thee; fhe, who loved us both, she still
Was with thee; and even fo didst thou become
A filent poet; from the folitude
Of the vast sea didft bring a watchful heart
Still couchant, an inevitable ear,
And an eye practifed like a blind man's touch.
Back to the joy lefs ocean thou art gone;
And now I call the pathway by thy name,
And love the fir-grove with a perfect love.
Thither do I withdraw when cloudlefs funs
Shine hot, or wind blows troublesome and ftrong :
And there I fit at evening, when the steep
Of Silver-How, and Grasmere's placid lake
And one green ifland, gleam between the stems
Of the dark firs, a visionary scene!
And, while I gaze upon the spectacle
Of clouded splendour, on this dream-like fight
Of folemn lovelinefs, I think on thee,
My Brother, and on all which thou haft loft.
Nor feldom, if I rightly guefs, while thou,
Muttering the verses which I muttered first
Among the mountains, through the midnight watch
Art pacing to and fro the vessel's deck
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