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An ample sovereignty of eye and ear.

From evil speaking; rancour, never sought, Rich are his walks with supernatural cheer; Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie. The region of his inner spirit teems

Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I With vital sounds and monitory gleams

Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous Of high astonishment and pleasing fear.

And thus from day to day my little boat (thought:
He the seven birds hath seen, that never part; Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably.
Seen the Seven Whistlers in their nightly rounds, Blessings be with them-and eternal praise,
And counted them: and oftentimes will start- Who gave us nobler loves and nobler cares:
For overhead are sweeping Gabriel's Hounds, The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs
Doomed, with their impious Lord, the flying Hart Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays !
To chase for ever, on aerial grounds.

Oh! might my name be numbered among theirs,
Then gladly would I end my mortal days.


I am not one who much or oft delight
To season my fireside with personal talk,
Of friends, who live within an easy walk,
Or neighbours, daily, weekly in my sight.
And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright,
Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk,
These all wear out of me, like forms with chalk
Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night.
Better than such discourse doth silence long,
Long, barren silence, square with my desire;
To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,
In the loved presence of my cottage-fire,
And listen to the flapping of the flame,
Or kettle, whispering its faint undersong.


Sept. 3, 1803.
Earth has not any thing to shew more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty :
This city now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!



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;
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.-Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn ;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus coming from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

“ Yet life," you say,“ is life; we have seen and see,
And with a living pleasure we describe ;
And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe
The languid mind into activity.
Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee,
Are fostered by the comment and the gibe.”
Even be it so: yet still among your tribe,
Our daily world's true worldlings, rank not me!
Children are blest, and powerful; their world lies
More justly balanced; partly at their feet,
And part far from them :--sweetest melodies
Are those which are by distance made more sweet;
Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes,
He is a slave: the meanest we can meet!

Wings have we—and as far as we can go
We may find pleasure: wilderness and wood,
Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood
Which with the lofty sanctifies the low: [know,
Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we
Are a substantial world, both pure and good:
Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
There do I find a never-failing store
Of personal themes, and such as I love best;
Matter wherein right voluble I am:
Two will I mention, dearer than the rest;
The gentle Lady, married to the Moor;
And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb.

Nor can I not believe but that hereby
Great gains are mine; for thus I live remote



Two voices are there; one is of the sea,
One of the mountains; each a mighty voice:
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,
They were thy chosen music, Liberty!
There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee
Thou fought'st against him, but hast vainly striven;
Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.
Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft:
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left;
For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be
That mountain floods should thunder as before,
And ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
And neither awful voice be heard by thee!



As if you were her first-born birth, O Friend! I know not which way I must look

And none had lived before you!" For comfort, being as I am opprest,

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, To think that now our life is only drest

When life was sweet, I knew not why, For shew; mean handiwork of craftsman, cook,

To me my good friend Matthew spake,
Or groom !—We must run glittering like a brook

And thus I made reply:
In the open sunshine, or we are unblest:
The wealthiest man among us is the best:

“ The eye il cannot choose but see; No grandeur now in Nature or in book

We cannot bid the ear be still; Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,

Our bodies feet, where'er they be,
This is idolatry; and these we adore:

Against, or with our will.
Plain living and high thinking are no more:
The homely beauty of the good old cause

Nor less I deem that there are powers
Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,

Which of themselves our minds impress; And pure religion breathing household laws.

That we can feed this mind of ours

In a wise passiveness.
LONDON, 1802.

Think you, mid all this mighty sum
Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:

Of things for ever speaking, England hath need of thee: she is a fen

That nothing of itself will come,
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword and pen,

But we must still be seeking?
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower

-Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, Of inward happiness. We are selfish men.

Conversing as I may,
Oh! raise us up, return to us again ;

I sit upon this old gray stone,
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. And dream my time away.”
Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart:
Thou had'st a voice whose sound was like the sea;
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,

So didst thou travel on life's common way,

AN EVENING SCENE, ON THE SAME SUBJECT. In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart

Up! up! my friend, and quit your books; The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

Or surely you'll grow double:

Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks; Great men have been among us; hands that penn'd

Why all this toil and trouble?
And tongues that uttered wisdom, better none :


above the mountain's head, The later Sydney, Marvel, Harrington,

A freshening lustre mellow
Young Vane and others who called Milton friend. Through all the long green fields has spread,
These moralists could act and comprehend:

His first sweet evening yellow.
They knew how genuine glory was put on;
Taught us how rightfully a nation shone (bend

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:

In splendour: what strength was, that would not Come, hear the woodland linnet,
But in magnanimous meekness. France, 'tis strange, How sweet his music! on my life
Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then. There's more of wisdom in it.
Perpetual emptiness! unceasing change!

And hark ! how blithe the throstle sings!
No single volume paramount, no code,
No master spirit, no determined road;

He, too, is no mean preacher:

Come forth into the light of things, But equally a want of books and men !

Let Nature be your teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth, EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY.

Our minds and hearts to blessWhy, William, on that old gray stone,

Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Thus for the length of half a day,

Truth breathed by cheerfulness.
Why, William, sit you thus alone,
And dream your time away?

One impulse from a vernal wood

May teach you more of man,
Where are your books ?—that light bequeathed Of moral evil and of good,
To beings else forlorn and blind!

Than all the sages can.
Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed
From dead men to their kind.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;

Our meddling intellect You look round on your mother earth,

Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: As if she for no purpose bore you;

-We murder to dissect.




Enough of science and of art;

Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, Close up these barren leaves;

Is littleness; that he who feels contempt Come forth, and bring with you a heart

For any living thing, hath faculties
That watches and receives.

Which he has never used; that thought with him
Is in its infancy. The man whose eye

Is ever on himself doth look on one,

The least of Nature's works, one who might move

The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds Left upon a seat in a Yew-tree, which stands near

Unlawful ever. O be wiser, thou! the Lake of Esthwaite, on a desolate Part of the Shore, commanding a beautiful Prospect.

Instructed that true knowledge leads to love,

True dignity abides with him alone Nay, traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands

Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Far from all human dwelling: what if here

Can still suspect, and still revere himself,
No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb ?

In lowliness of heart.
What if these barren boughs the bee not loves ?
Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves,
That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind

By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.
Who he was

I heard a thousand blended notes,
That piled these stones, and with the mossy sod

While in a grove I sate reclin'd, First covered o'er, and taught this aged tree

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts With its dark arms to form a circling bower, I well remember. He was one who owned

Bring sad thoughts to the mind. No common soul. In youth by science nursed,

To her fair works did Nature link And led by nature into a wild scene

The human soul that through me ran; Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth

And much it grieved my heart to think
A favoured being, knowing no desire

What man has made of man.
Which genius did not hallow,-'gainst the taint
Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate,

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, And scorn,—against all enemies prepared,

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; All but neglect. The world, for so it thought,

And 'tis my faith that every flower Owed him no service: wherefore he at once

Enjoys the air it breathes. With indignation turned himself away,

The birds around me hopped and play'd; And with the food of pride sustained his soul

Their thoughts I cannot measure:In solitude.—Stranger! these gloomy boughs

But the least motion which they made,
Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit, .

It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
His only visitants a straggling sheep,
The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper :

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath, To catch the breezy air ;
And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er,

And I must think, do all I can,
Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour

That there was pleasure there.
A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here
An emblem of his own unfruitful life:

If this belief from Heaven is sent,
And lifting up his head, he then would gaze

If such be Nature's holy plan, On the more distant scene,-how lovely 'tis

Have I not reason to lament
Thou seest,—and he would gaze till it became

What man has made of man?
Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain
The beauty, still more beauteous! Nor, that time,
When Nature had subdued him to herself,

Would he forget those beings, to whose minds, In the School of is a Tablet, on which are in-
Warm from the labours of benevolence,
The world, and man himself, appeared a scene

scribed, in gilt letters, the Names of the several Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh

Persons who have been Schoolmasters there since With mournful jiy, to think that others felt

the Foundation of the School, with the Time at What he must never feel: and so,

lost man!

which they entered upon and quitted their Office. On visionary views would fancy feed,

Opposite one of those Names the Author wrote Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale

the following Lines. He died, this seat his only monument.

If Nature, for a favourite child,
If thou be one whose heart the holy forms

In thee hath tempered so her clay,
Of young imagination have kept pure, (pride, That every hour thy heart runs wild,
Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know, that Yet never once doth go astray,


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Read o'er these lines; and then review

And just above yon slope of corn This tablet, that thus humbly rears

Such colours, and no other, In such diversity of hue

Were in the sky, that April morn, Its history of two hundred years.

Of this the very brother. -When through this little wreck of fame,

With rod and line I sued the sport Cypher and syllable! thine eye

Which that sweet season gave, Has travelled down to Matthew's name,

And, coming to the church, stopped short Pause with no common sympathy.

Beside my daughter's grave. And, if a sleeping tear should wake,

Nine summers had she scarcely seen, Then be it neither checked nor stay'd:

The pride of all the vale; For Matthew a request I make

And then she sang;-she would have been Which for himself he had not made.

A very nightingale. Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er,

Six feet in earth my Emma lay; Is silent as a standing pool ;

And yet I loved her more, Far from the chimney's merry roar,

For so it seemed, than till that day
And murmur of the village school.

I e'er had loved before.
The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs And, turning from her grave, I met,
Of one tired out with fun and madness;

Beside the church-yard yew,
The tears which came to Matthew's eyes

A blooming girl, whose hair was wet Were tears of light, the dew of gladness.

With points of morning dew. Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup

A basket on her head she bare; Of still and serious thought went round,

Her brow was smooth and white: It seemed as if he drank it up

To see a child so very fair, He felt with spirit so profound.

It was a pure delight! - Thou soul of God's best earthly mould !

No fountain from rocky cave Thou happy soul! and can it be

E'er tripped with foot so free; That these two words of glittering gold

She seemed as happy as a wave Are all that must remain of thee?

That dances on the sea.

There came from me a sigh of pain THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS.

Which I could ill confine; We walked along, while bright and red

I looked at her, and looked again: Uprose the morning sun;

-And did not wish her mine." And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said, Matthew is in his grave, yet now, “ The will of God be done!"

Methinks, I see him stand, A village schoolmaster was he,

As at that moment, with a bough
With hair of glittering gray;

Of wilding in his hand.
As blithe a man as you could see
On a spring holiday.

And on that morning, through the grass,
And by the steaming rills,
We travelled merrily, to pass

We talked with open heart, and tongue

Affectionate and true, A day among the hills.

A pair of friends, though I was young, “ Our work,” said I, “ was well begun;

And Matthew seventy-two.
Then, from thy breast what thought
Beneath so beautiful a sun,

We lay beneath a spreading oak,
So sad a sigh has brought?".

Beside a mossy seat;

And from the turf a fountain broke,
A second time did Matthew stop;

And gurgled at our feet.
And fixing still his eye
Upon the eastern mountain-top,

“ Now, Matthew !" said I, “ let us match To me he made reply:

This water's pleasant tune

With some old border-song, or catch, “ Yon cloud with that long purple cleft

That suits a summer's noon. Brings fresh into


mind A day like this which I have left

Or of the church-clock and the chimes Full thirty years behind.

Sing here beneath the shade,


That half-mad thing of witty rhymes
Which you last April made !"

And, ere we came to Leonard's Rock,

sang those witty rhymes In silence Matthew lay, and eyed

About the crazy old church clock,
The spring beneath the tree;

And the bewildered chimes.
And thus the dear old man replied,
The gray-liaired man of glee:

LINES « Down to the vale this water steers,

WRITTEN WBILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENING. How merrily it goes! 'Twill murmur on a thousand years,

How richly glows the water's breast And flow as now it flows.

Before us, tinged with evening hues,

While, facing thus the crimson west, And here, on this delightful day,

The boat her silent course pursues ! I cannot choose but think

And see how dark the backward stream! How oft, a vigorous man, I lay

A little moment past so smiling! Beside this fountain's brink.

And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam,

Some other loiterers beguiling.
My eyes are dim with childish tears,
My heart is idly stirred,

Such views the youthful bard allure;
For the same sound is in my ears

But, heedless of the following gloom, Which in those days I heard.

He deems their colours shall endure Thus fares it still in our decay:

Till peace go with him to the tomb.

-And let him nurse his fond deceit,
And yet the wiser mind
Mourns less for what age takes away

And what if he must die in sorrow!

Who would not cherish dreams so sweet, Than what it leaves behind.

Though grief and pain may come to-morrow? The blackbird in the summer trees, The lark upon the hill, Let loose their carols when they please,

REMEMBRANCE OF COLLINS, Are quiet when they will.

COMPOSED UPON THE THAMES NEAR RICHMOND, With Nature never do they wage

Glide gently, thus for ever glide,

o Thames! that other bards may see A foolish strife; they see

As lovely visions by thy side A happy youth, and their old age

As now, fair river! come to me. Is beautiful and free:

O glide, fair stream/ for ever so, But we are pressed by heavy laws;

Thy quiet soul on all bestowing, And often, glad no more,

Till all our minds for ever flow, We wear a face of joy, because

As thy deep waters now are flowing. We have been glad of yore.

Vain thoughtl-Yet be as now thou art, If there is one who need bemoan

That in thy waters may be seen His kindred laid in earth,

The image of a poet's heart, The household hearts that were his own,

How bright, how solemn, how serene! It is the man of mirth..

Such as did once the poet bless,

Who, murmuring here a later ditty, My days, my friend, are almost gone,

Could find no refuge from distress
My life has been approved,

But in the milder grief of pity.
And many love me; but by none
Am I enough beloved."

Now let us, as we float along,

For him suspend the dashing oar; « Now both himself and me he


And pray that never child of song
The man who thus complains !
I live and sing my idle songs

May know that poet's sorrows more.

How calm! how still! the only sound, Upon these happy plains,

The dripping of the oar suspended ! And, Matthew, for thy children dead

-The evening darkness gathers round I'll be a son to thee!"

By virtue's holiest powers attended. At this he grasped my hand, and said, “ Alas! that cannot be.”

ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY. We rose up from the fountain-side; And down the smooth descent Of the green sheep-track did we glide;

The little hedge-row birds, And through the wood we went;

That peck along the road, regard him not.


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