And quit the flowers that summer brings A recreant harp, that sings of fear And heaviness in Clifford's ear! I said, when evil men are strong, No life is good, no pleasure long, A weak and cowardly untruth! Our Clifford was a happy Youth, And thankful through a weary time, That brought him up to manhood's prime. -Again he wanders forth at will, And tends a flock from hill to hill: His garb is humble; ne'er was seen Such garb with such a noble mien; Among the shepherd-grooms no mate Hath he, a Child of strength and state! Yet lacks not friends for solemn gleeA spirit-soothing company, That learned of him submissive ways; Came, and rested without fear; And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright, He knew the rocks which Angels haunt He hath kenned them taking wing: "Quell the Scot,' exclaims the Lance- Tell thy name, thou trembling Field; Happy day, and mighty hour, When our Shepherd, in his power, Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword, To his ancestors restored Like a re-appearing Star, Like a glory from afar, First shall head the flock of war!" Alas! the fervent Harper did not know Love had he found in huts where poor men lie; His daily teachers had been woods and rills, The silence that is in the starry sky, The sleep that is among the lonely hills. In him the savage virtue of the Race, Glad were the vales, and every cottage-hearth; "The good Lord Clifford" was the name he bore. 1807. XXIV. LINES, COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE JULY 13, 1798. FIVE years have past; five summers, with the length These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, *The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above Tintern. VOL. II. M Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves Among the woods and copses, nor disturb The wild green landscape. Once again I see These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms, Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! With some uncertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire The Hermit sits alone. These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration:-feelings too Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, |