gave this paradise for winter hours,
A labyrinth, lady, which your feet shall rove,
Yes! when the sun of life more feebly shines,
Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn gloom
Or of high gladness, you shall hither bring;
And these perennial bowers and murmuring pines
Be gracious as the music and the bloom
And all the mighty ravishment of spring.
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 everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be
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.
WRITTEN IN VERY EARLY YOUTH.
CALM is all nature as a resting wheel.
The kine are couched upon the dewy grass;
The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,
Is cropping audibly his later meal:
Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal
O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky,
Now, in this blank of things, a harmony,
Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal
That grief for which the senses still supply
Fresh food; for only then, when memory
Is hushed, am I at rest. My friends! restrain
Those busy cares that would allay my pain;
Oh, leave me to myself! nor let me feel
The officious touch that makes me droop again
COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1803.
EARTH has not anything to show 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!
PELION and Ossa flourish side by side,
Together in immortal books enrolled;
His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold;
And that inspiring hill, which "did divide
Into two ample horns his forehead wide,"
Shines with poetic radiance as of old;
While not an English mountain we behold
By the celestial muses glorified.
Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in crowds:
What was the great Parnassus' self to thee,
Mount Skiddaw? In his natural sovereignty
Our British hill is fairer far; he shrouds
His double-fronted head in higher clouds,
And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly.
BROOK! whose society the poet seeks
Intent his wasted spirits to renew
And whom the curious painter doth pursue
Through rocky passes, among flowery creeks,
And tracks thee dancing down thy water-breaks;
If I some type of thee did wish to view,
Thee, and not thee thyself, I would not do
Like Grecian artists, give thee human cheeks,
Channels for tears; no Naiad shouldst thou be,
Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints, nor hairs;
It seems the eternal soul is clothed in thee
With purer robes than those of flesh and blood,
And hath bestowed on thee a better good-
Unwearied joy, and life without its cares.
INTENDED MORE PARTICULARLY FOR THE PERUSAL OF THOSE WHO MAY HAVE HAPPENED TO BE ENAMOURED OF SOME BEAUTIFUL PLACE OF RETREAT IN THE COUNTRY OF THE LAKES.
YES, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!
-The lovely cottage in the guardian nook
Hath stirred thee deeply: with its own dear brook,
Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!
But covet not the abode-O do not sigh,
As many do, repining while they look;
Sighing a wish to tear from Nature's book
This blissful leaf with harsh impiety.
Think what the home would be if it were thine,
Even thine, though few thy wants!
The very flowers, are sacred to the poor,
The roses to the porch which they entwine:
Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day
On which it should be touched, would melt, and melt away!
"BELOVED Vale !" I said, "when I shall con
Those many records of my childish years,
Remembrance of myself and of my peers
Will press me down; to think of what is gone
Will be an awful thought, if life have one."
But, when into the Vale I came, no fears
Distressed me; I looked round, I shed no tears;
Deep thought, or awful vision, I had none.
By thousand petty fancies I was crossed,
To see the trees, which I had thought so tall,
Mere dwarfs; the brooks so narrow, fields so small,
A juggler's balls old Time about him tossed;
I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed; and all
The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
METHOUGHT I saw the footsteps of a throne
Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud
Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed;
But all the steps and ground about were strown
With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone
Ever put on; a miserable crowd,
Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud,
"Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan.'
I seemed to mount those steps; the vapours gave
Smooth way; and I beheld the face of one
Sleeping alone within a mossy cave,
With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have
Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone;
A lovely beauty in a summer grave!'
SURPRISED by joy-impatient as the wind
I wished to share the transport-Oh, with whom
But thee, long buried in the silent tomb!
That spot which no vicissitude can find.
Love, faithful love recalled thee to my mind
But how could I forget thee?-Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss? That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn,
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
IT is a beauteous evening, calm and free;
The holy time is quiet as a nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven is on the sea:
Listen! the mighty being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder everlastingly.
Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear'st untouched by solemn thought,
Thy nature therefore is not less divine:
Thou liest "in Abraham's bosom " all the year;
And worshipp'st at the temple's inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.
COMPOSED ON THE EVE OF THE MARRIAGE OF A FRIEND, IN THE
VALE OF GRASMERE.
WHAT need of clamorous bells, or ribbons gay,
These humble nuptials to proclaim or grace?
* Prophetic of the death of the Princess Charlotte.
Angels of love, look down upon the place,
Shed on the chosen vale a sun-bright day!
Even for such omen would the bride display
No mirthful gladness. Serious is her face,
Modest her mien; and she, whose thoughts keep pace
With gentleness, in that becoming way
Will thank you. Faultless does the maid appear,
No disproportion in her soul, no strife:
But, when the closer view of wedded life
Hath shown that nothing human can be clear
From frailty, for that insight may the wife
To her indulgent lord become more dear.
ON APPROACHING HOME AFTER A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803.
FLY, some kind spirit, fly to Grasmere Vale!
Say that we come, and come by this day's light;
Glad tidings!-spread them over field and height;
But chiefly let one cottage hear the tale;
There let a mystery of joy prevail,
The kitten frolic with unruly might,
And Rover whine, as at a second sight
Of near approaching good that shall not fail ;-
And from that infant's face let joy appear;
Yea, let our Mary's one companion child,
That hath her six week's solitude beguiled
With intimations manifold and dear,
While we have wandered over wood and wild,
Smile on his mother now with bolder cheer.
FROM the dark chambers of dejection freed,
Spurning the unprofitable yoke of care,
Rise,
rise; the gales of youth shall bear
Thy genius forward like a winged steed.
Though bold Bellerophon (so Jove decreed
In wrath) fell headlong from the fields of air,
Yet a high guerdon waits on minds that dare,
If aught be in them of immortal seed,
And reason govern that audacious flight
Which heavenward they direct.
Then droop not thou. Erroneously renewing a sad vow
In the low dell 'mid Roslin's fading grove :
A cheerful life is what the muses love,
A soaring spirit is their prime delight.
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