To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness. Thee, thee my life's celestial sign!) Pleased with the harvest hope that runs Before the path of milder suns; Pleased while the sylvan world displays Its ripeness to the feeding gaze; Pleased when the sullen winds resound the knell Of the resplendent miracle. III. But something whispers to my heart That, as we downward tend, Lycoris! life requires an art Then welcome, above all, the Guest Whose smiles, diffused o'er land and sea, Of youth into the breast: May pensive Autumn ne'er present A claim to her disparagement! While blossoms and the budding spray Still, as we nearer draw to life's dark goal, Be hopeful Spring the favourite of the Soul! 247 XXVI. TO THE SAME. 66 [THIS as well as the preceding and the two that follow were composed in front of Rydal Mount and during my walks in the neighbourhood. Nine-tenths of my verses have been murmured out in the open air and here let me repeat what I believe has already appeared in print. One day a stranger having walked round the garden and grounds of Rydal Mount asked one of the female servants, who happened to be at the door, permission to see her master's study. 'This," said she, leading him forward, "is my master's library where he keeps his books, but his study is out of doors." After a long absence from home it has more than once happened that some one of my cottage neighbours has said "Well, there he is; we are glad to hear him booing about again." Once more in excuse for so much egotism let me say, these notes are written for my familiar friends, and at their earnest request. Another time a gentleman whom James had conducted through the grounds asked him what kind of plants throve best there : after a little consideration he answered-"Laurels." "That is," said the stranger, "as it should be; don't you know that ENOUGH of climbing toil !—Ambition treads Mount toward the empire of the fickle clouds, Induces, for its old familiar sights, Unacceptable feelings of contempt, With wonder mixed-that Man could e'er be tied, And formal fellowship of petty things! The umbrageous woods are left-how far beneath! But lo! where darkness seems to guard the mouth Of yon wild cave, whose jaggèd brows are fringed With flaccid threads of ivy, in the still And sultry air, depending motionless. Mingling with night, such twilight to compose Audible tears, from some invisible source To awe the lightness of humanity: Or, shutting up thyself within thyself, Of gentler thought, protracted till thine eye Be calm as water when the winds are gone, 1817. XXVII. SEPTEMBER, 1819. THE sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields Like a fair sister of the sky, Unruffled doth the blue lake lie, And, sooth to say, yon Vocal grove, For that from turbulence and heat This, this is holy;-while I hear But list!—though winter storms be nigh, There lives Who can provide For all his creatures; and in Him, These choristers confide. XXVIII. UPON THE SAME OCCASION. DEPARTING Summer hath assumed No faint and hesitating trill, Such tribute as to winter chill Clear, loud, and lively is the din, |