Here am I, and to-morrow's sun,
To her I left, shall prove

70 That bliss is ne'er so surely won
As when a circuit has been run
Of valour, truth, and love.
So from the spot whereon he stood,
He moved with stealthy pace;

75 And, drawing nigh, with his living eye, He recognised the face;

And whispers caught, and speeches small,
Some to the green-leaved tree,

Month falls on month with heavier Some muttered to the torrent-fall ;

105 Beside the torrent dwelling-bound

day

Our own domestic mountain. Thing and If Thought and Love desert us, from that thought Mix strangely; trifles light, and partly Let us break off all commerce with the vain, Can prop, as you have learnt, our nobler With Thought and Love companions of being:

Yes, Lady, while about your neck is wound

10 (Your casual glance oft meeting) this bright cord,

Muse:

our way,

10

Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,
The Mind's internal heaven shall shed

her dews

Of inspiration on the humblest lay.

POEMS OF

SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION.

I.

"You look round on your Mother Earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you;
As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before you!"

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet, I knew not why,
To me my good friend Matthew spake, 15
And thus I made reply:

"The eye-it cannot choose but see;
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
Against or with our will.

20

"Nor less I deem that there are Powers
Which of themselves our minds impress;
That we can feed this mind of ours
In a wise passiveness.

II.

THE TABLES TURNED.

AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME
SUBJECT.

[Composed 1798.-Published 1798.]
UP! up! my Friend, and quit your
books;

Or surely you'll grow double:

Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;

Why all this toil and trouble?

The sun, above the mountain's head, 5
A freshening lustre mellow

Through all the long green fields has
spread,

His first sweet evening yellow.

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life,
There's more of wisdom in it.

10

15

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your Teacher.
She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless-
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.
One impulse from a vernal wood

"Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum 25 May teach you more of man,

Of things for ever speaking,

That nothing of itself will come,

But we must still be seeking?

Of moral evil and of good,

Than all the sages can.

20

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; 25
Our meddling intellect

Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of
things:-

We murder to dissect.

R

Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy;

5 And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy.

There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare

Through primrose tufts, in that green Of shame scarcely seeming to know that

bower,

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

she's there,

10 There's virtue, the title it surely may

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:-
But the least motion which they made, 15
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

IV.

A CHARACTER.

20

TO MY SISTER.

[Composed 1798.-Published 1798.]

IT is the first mild day of March:
Each minute sweeter than before,
The redbreast sings from the tall larch

[Composed probably September or October, 1800. That stands beside our door.

-Published 1900.]

Which seems a sense of joy to yield
There is a blessing in the air,
To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
And grass in the green field.

My sister! ('tis a wish of mine)
Now that our morning meal is done,
Make haste, your morning task resign;
Come forth and feel the sun.

20

10

Our living calendar:

We from to-day, my Friend, will date

The opening of the year.

Love, now a universal birth,

From heart to heart is stealing,

From earth to man, from man to earth:
-It is the hour of feeling.

One moment now may give us more
Than years of toiling reason:

Our minds shall drink at every pore
The spirit of the season.

Some silent laws our hearts will make,
Which they shall long obey:

We for the year to come may take
Our temper from to-day.

And from the blessed power that rolls
About, below, above,

20

He all the country could outrun,

Could leave both man and horse behind;
And often, ere the chase was done,

He reeled, and was stone-blind.

And still there's something in the world
At which his heart rejoices;

For when the chiming hounds are out,
He dearly loves their voices!

But, oh the heavy change !-bereft

20

25

25 Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see!

Old Simon to the world is left

In liveried poverty.

His Master's dead, -and no one now
Dwells in the Hall of Ivor;

30

30

Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
He is the sole survivor.

And he is lean and he is sick;

His body, dwindled and awry,
Rests upon ankles swoln and thick;

35

We'll frame the measure of our souls: 35 His legs are thin and dry.
They shall be tuned to love.

Then come, my Sister! come, I pray,
With speed put on your woodland dress;
And bring no book: for this one day
We'll give to idleness.

VI.

SIMON LEE,

THE OLD HUNTSMAN;

With an incident in which he was concerned.
[Composed 1798.-Published 1798.]

IN the sweet shire of Cardigan,
Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,
An old Man dwells, a little man,
"Tis said he once was tall.

Full five-and-thirty years he lived
A running huntsman merry;
And still the centre of his cheek
Is red as a ripe cherry.

No man like him the horn could sound,
And hill and valley rang with glee
When Echo bandied, round and round,
The halloo of Simon Lee.

One prop he has, and only one,
His wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village Common.

40 Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
Not twenty paces from the door,
A scrap of land they have, but they
Are poorest of the poor.

4C

This scrap of land he from the heath
Enclosed when he was stronger;
But what to them avails the land
Which he can till no longer?

45

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