One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, "The eye-it cannot choose but see; Nor less I deem that there are Powers Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum -Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, I sit upon this old grey stone, And dream my time away." 1798. II. THE TABLES TURNED. AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT. 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, 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. 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- One impulse from a vernal wood Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can. Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things Enough of Science and of Art; Close up those barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives. 1798. III. LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. [ACTUALLY composed while I was sitting by the side of the brook that runs down from the Comb, in which stands the village of Alford, through the grounds of Alfoxden. It was a chosen resort of mine. The brook fell down a sloping rock so as to make a waterfall considerable for that country, and across the pool below, had fallen a tree, an ash if I rightly remember, from which rose perpendicularly, boughs in search of the light intercepted by the deep shade above. The boughs bore leaves of green that for want of sunshine had faded into almost lilywhite; and from the underside of this natural sylvan bridge depended long and beautiful tresses of ivy which waved gently in the breeze that might poetically speaking be called the breath of the waterfall. This motion varied of course in proportion to the power of water in the brook. When, with dear friends, I revisited this spot, after an interval of more than forty years, this interesting feature of the scene was gone. To the owner of the place I could not but regret that the beauty of this retired part of the grounds had not tempted him to make it more accessible by a path, not broad or obtrusive, but sufficient for persons who love such scenes to creep along without difficulty.] I HEARD a thousand blended notes, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, And 'tis my faith that every flower The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure :— The budding twigs spread out their fan, And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. If this belief from heaven be sent, 199 IV. A CHARACTER. [THE principal features are taken from that of my friend Robert Jones.] I MARVEL how Nature could ever find space And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom. There's weakness, and strength both redundant and Such strength as, if ever affliction and pain [vain; Could pierce through a temper that's soft to disease, Would be rational peace-a philosopher's ease. There's indifference, alike when he fails or succeeds, There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare Yet wants heaven knows what to be worthy the name. This picture from nature may seem to depart, |