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LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING 269

These Lines were included among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."-ED.

I HEARD a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link

The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green 1 bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;

And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.*

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure :—
But the least motion which they made,
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,2

Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

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This Alfoxden dell, once known locally as "The Mare's Pool," was a trysting-place of Wordsworth, Coleridge, and their friends. Coleridge thus describes it, in his poem beginning "This LimeTree Bower, my Prison," addressed to Charles Lamb

The roaring dell, o'er-wooded, narrow, deep,
And only speckled by the midday sun;

Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rock
Flings arching like a bridge ;-that branchless ash,
Unsunn'd and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves
Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still,

Fanned by the waterfall!

Of all the localities around Alfoxden, this grove is the one chiefly associated with Wordsworth. There was no path to the waterfall, as suggested by the Poet to the owner of the place, in 1840; but, in 1880, I found the "natural sylvan bridge restored. An ash tree, having fallen across the glen, reproduced the scene exactly as it is described in the Fenwick note.-Ed.

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TO MY SISTER

Composed 1798.-Published 1798

[Composed in front of Alfoxden House. My little boymessenger on this occasion was the son of Basil Montagu. The larch mentioned in the first stanza was standing when I revisited the place in May 1841, more than forty years after. I was disappointed that it had not improved in appearance as to size, nor had it acquired anything of the majesty of age, which, even though less perhaps than any other tree, the larch sometimes does. A few score yards from this tree, grew, when we inhabited Alfoxden, one of the most remarkable beech-trees ever seen. The ground sloped both towards and from it. It was of immense size, and threw out arms that struck into the soil, like those of the banyan-tree, and rose again from it. Two of the branches thus inserted themselves twice, which gave to each the appearance of a serpent moving along by gathering itself up in folds. One of the large boughs of this tree had been torn off by the wind before we left Alfoxden, but five remained. In 1841 we could barely find the spot where the tree had stood. So remarkable a production of nature could not have been wilfully destroyed.-I. F.]

In the editions 1798 to 1815 the title of this poem was, Lines written at a small distance from my House, and sent by my little Boy to the person to whom they are addressed. From 1820 to 1843 the title was, To my Sister; written at a small distance from my House, and sent by my little Boy. In 1845 and afterwards, it was simply To my Sister. The poem was placed by Wordsworth among those of "Sentiment and Reflection."—ED.

1 1837.

IT is the first mild day of March:

Each minute sweeter than before

The redbreast sings from the tall larch
That stands beside our door.

There is a blessing in the air,

Which seems a sense of joy to yield

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.

Edward will come with you ;—and, pray,
Put on with speed your woodland dress;
And bring no book: for this one day
We'll give to idleness.

No joyless forms shall regulate

Our living calendar:

We from to-day, my Friend, will date
The opening of the year.

Love, now a1 universal birth,

From heart to heart is stealing,

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

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One moment now may give us more
Than years of toiling reason:1

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

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Some silent laws our hearts will 2 make,
Which they shall long obey:

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We for the year to come may take

Our temper from to-day.

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

We'll frame the measure of our souls:
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.

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The larch is now gone; but the place where it stood can easily be identified.-ED.

EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY

Composed 1798.-Published 1798

[This poem is a favourite among the Quakers, as I have learned on many occasions. It was composed in front of the house of Alfoxden, in the spring of 1798.*—I. F.]

Included among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection." -ED.

"WHY, William, on that old grey stone,

Thus for the length of half a day,

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* In his "Advertisement" to the first edition of "Lyrical Ballads" (1798) Wordsworth writes, "The lines entitled Expostulation and Reply, and those which follow, arose out of conversation with a friend who was somewhat unreasonably attached to modern books of Moral Philosophy." Was the friend Sir James Mackintosh? or was it a much more probable supposition-his friend, S. T. Coleridge?-ED.

Why, William, sit you thus alone,

And dream your time away?

"Where are your books?—that light bequeathed 5 To Beings else forlorn and blind!

Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed
From dead men to their kind.

"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,
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.

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"Nor less I deem that there are Powers

Which of themselves our minds impress;
That we can feed this mind of ours

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"Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,

Conversing as I may,

I sit upon this old grey stone,

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And dream my time away."

VOL. I

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