How exquisitely the individual Mind (And the progressive powers perhaps no less Of the whole species) to the external World Is fitted: and how exquisitely, too,
Theme this but little heard of among Men, The external World is fitted to the Mind; And the creation (by no lower name
Can it be called) which they with blended might Accomplish: this is our high argument.
- Such grateful haunts foregoing, if I oft Must turn elsewhere to travel near the tribes
And fellowships of men, and see ill sights Madding passions mutually inflamed; Must he a humanity in fields and groves Pipe solitary anguish; or must hang Brooding above the fierce confederate storm Of sorrow, barricadoed evermore
Within the walls of Cities; may these sounds Have their authentic comment - that even these Hearing, I be not downcast or forlorn!
Descend, prophetic Spirit! that inspirest The human Soul of universal earth,
Dreaming on things to come; and dost possess A metropolitan Temple in the hearts
Of mighty Poets; upon me bestow
A gift of genuine insight; that my Song With star-like virtue in its place may shine; Shedding benignant influence, - and secure,
Itself, from all malevolent effect
Of those mutations that extend their sway
Throughout the nether sphere! And if with this I mix more lowly matter; with the thing Contemplated, describe the Mind and Man
*Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic Soul Of the wide world dreaming on things to come. SHAKSPEARE's Sonnets.
Contemplating, and who, and what he was,
The transitory Being that beheld
This Vision,-when, and where, and how he lived; Be not this labor useless. If such theme
May sort with highest objects, then, dread Power, Whose gracious favor is the primal source Of all illumination, may my Life
Express the image of a better time,
More wise desires, and simpler manners; - nurse My heart in genuine freedom: — All pure thoughts Be with me; - so shall thy unfailing love Guide and support, and cheer me to the end!"
A summer forenoon- The Author reaches a ruined Cottage, upon a Common, and there meets with a revered Friend, the Wanderer, of whom he gives an account-The Wanderer, while resting under the shade of the trees that surround the Cottage, relates the History of its last Inhabitant.
'Twas summer, and the sun had mounted high: Southward the landscape indistinctly glared Through a pale steam; but all the northern downs, In clearest air ascending, showed far off
A surface dappled o'er with shadows flung From brooding clouds; shadows that lay in spots Determined and unmoved, with steady beams Of bright and pleasant sunshine interposed; Pleasant to him who on the soft cool moss Extends his careless limbs along the front Of some huge cave, whose rocky ceiling casts
A twilight of its own, an ample shade,
Where the Wren warbles; while the dreaming Man,
Half conscious of the soothing melody, With side-long eye looks out upon the scene, By power of that impending covert thrown To finer distance. Other lot was mine; Yet with good hope that soon I should obtain As grateful resting-place, and livelier joy. Across a bare wide Common I was toiling With languid steps that by the slippery ground Were baffled; nor could my weak arm disperse The hosts of insects gathering round my face, And ever with me as I paced along.
Upon that open level stood a Grove,
The wished-for port to which my course was bound. Thither I came, and there, amid the gloom Spread by a brotherhood of lofty elms, Appeared a roofless Hut; four naked walls That stared upon each other! I looked round, And to my wish and to my hope espied Him whom I sought; a Man of reverend age, But stout and hale, for travel unimpaired. There was he seen upon the Cottage bench, Recumbent in the shade as if asleep; An iron-pointed staff lay at his side.
Him had I marked the day before alone And stationed in the public way, with face
Turned toward the sun then setting, while that staff Afforded to the Figure of the Man Detained for contemplation or repose,
Graceful support; his countenance meanwhile Was hidden from my view, and he remained Unrecognised; but, stricken by the sight, With slackened footsteps I advanced, and soon A glad congratulation we exchanged
At such unthought-of meeting. For the night We parted, nothing willingly; and now He by appointment waited for me here Beneath the shelter of these clustering elms.
We were tried Friends: amid a pleasant vale, In the antique market village where were passed My school-days, an apartment he had owned, To which at intervals the Wanderer drew, And found a kind of home or harbor there. He loved me; from a swarm of rosy Boys Singled out me, as he in sport would say, For my grave looks too thoughtful for my years. As I grew up, it was my best delight
To be his chosen Comrade. Many a time, On holidays, we rambled through the woods: We sate -we walked; he pleased me with report Of things which he had seen; and often touched Abstrusest matter, reasonings of the mind, Turned inward; or at my request would sing Old songs - the product of his native hills; A skilful distribution of sweet sounds, Feeding the soul, and eagerly imbibed As cool refreshing Water, by the care Of the industrious husbandman, diffused
Through a parched meadow-ground, in time of drought. Still deeper welcome found his pure discourse: How precious when in riper days I learned To weigh with care his words, and to rejoice In the plain presence of his dignity!
Oh! many are the Poets that are sown
By Nature; Men endowed with highest gifts,
The vision and the faculty divine;
Yet wanting the accomplishment of Verse,
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