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Serene he towers, in deepest purple dy'd ;
Glad Day-light laughs upon his top of snow,
Glitter the stars above, and all is black below.
At such an hour I heav'd the human sigh,
When roar'd the sullen Arve in anger by,
That not for thee, delicious vale! unfold

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Thy reddening orchards, and thy fields of gold;

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That thou, the * slave of slaves, art doom'd to pine,
While no Italian arts their charms combine

To teach the skirt of thy dark cloud to shine;
For thy poor babes that, hurrying from the door,
With pale-blue hands, and eyes that fix'd implore,
Dead muttering lips, and hair of hungry white,
Besiege the traveller whom they half affright.
-Yes, were it mine, the cottage meal to share
Forc'd from my native mountains bleak and bare;
O'er + Anet's hopeless seas of marsh to stray,
Her shrill winds roaring round my lonely way;
To scent the sweets of Piedmont's breathing rose,

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And orange gale that o'er Lugano blows;
In the wide range of many a weary round,

Still have my pilgrim feet unfailing found,

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As despot courts their blaze of gems display,
Ev'n by the secret cottage far away
The lilly of domestic joy decay;

While Freedom's farthest hamlets blessings share,
Found still beneath her smile, and only there.

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The casement shade more luscious woodbine binds,

And to the door a neater pathway winds,
At early morn the careful housewife, led
To cull her dinner from it's garden bed,

Of weedless herbs a healthier prospect sees,
While hum with busier joy her happy bees;
In brighter rows her table wealth aspires,
And laugh with merrier blaze her evening fires;
Her infant's cheeks with fresher roses glow,

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And wilder graces sport around their brow;

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By clearer taper lit a cleanlier board

Receives at supper hour her tempting hoard;

The chamber hearth with fresher boughs is spread,

And whiter is the hospitable bed.

It is scarce necessary to observe that these lines were written before the emancipation of Savoy.

A vast extent of marsh so called near the lake of Neuf-chatel.

-And thou! fair favoured region! which my soul
Shall love, till Life has broke her golden bowl,
Till Death's cold touch her cistern-wheel assail,
And vain regret and vain desire shall fail;
Tho' now, where erst the grey-clad peasant stray'd,
To break the quiet of the village shade
Gleam war's * discordant habits thro' the trees,
And the red banner mock the sullen breeze;
'Tho' now no more thy maids their voices suit
To the low-warbled breath of twilight lute,
And heard, the pausing village hum between,
No solemn songstress lull the fading green,
Scared by the fife, and rumbling drum's alarms,
And the short thunder, and the flash of arms;
While, as Night bids the startling uproar die,

Sole sound, the † sourd renews his mournful cry:

-Yet, hast thou found that Freedom spreads her pow'r
Beyond the cottage hearth, the cottage door :
All nature smiles; and owns beneath her eyes
Her fields peculiar, and peculiar skies.
Yes, as I roam'd where Loiret's ‡ waters glide
Thro' rustling aspins heard from side to side,
When from october clouds a milder light

Fell, where the blue flood rippled into white,
Methought from every cot the watchful bird

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This, as may be supposed, was written before France became the seat of war.

An insect so called, which emits a short, melancholy cry, heard, at the close of the summer evenings, on the banks of the Loire.

The river Loiret, which has the honour of giving name to a department, rises out of the earth at a place, called La Source, a league and a half southeast of Orleans, and taking at once the character of a considerable stream, winds under a most delicious bank on its left, with a flat country of meadows, woods, and vineyards on its right, till it falls into the Loire about three or four leagues below Orleans. The hand of false taste has committed on its banks those outrages which the Abbé de Lille so pathetically deprecates in those charming verses descriptive of the Seine, visiting in secret the retreat of his friend Watelet. Much as the Loiret, in its short course, suffers from injudicious ornament, yet are there spots to be found upon its banks as soothing as meditation could wish for the curious traveller may meet with some of them where it loses itself among the mills in the neighbourhood of the villa called La Fontaine. The walks of La Source, where it takes its rise, may, in the eyes of some people, derive an additional interest from the recollection that they were the retreat of Bolingbroke during his exile, and that here it was that his philosophical works were chiefly composed. The inscriptions, of which he speaks in one of his letters to Swift descriptive of this spot, are not, I believe, now extant. The gardens have been modelled within these twenty years according to a plan evidently not dictated by the taste of the friend of Pope.

Crowed with ear-piercing power 'till then unheard ;
Each clacking mill, that broke the murmuring streams,
Rock'd the charm'd thought in more delightful dreams;
Chasing those long long dreams the falling leaf
Awoke a fainter pang of moral grief;

The measured echo of the distant flail
Winded in sweeter cadence down the vale;
A more majestic tide the water roll'd,

*

And glowed the sun-gilt groves in richer gold :
-Tho' Liberty shall soon, indignant, raise

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Red on his hills his beacon's comet blaze;
Bid from on high his lonely cannon sound,
And on ten thousand hearths his shout rebound;
His larum-bell from village-tow'r to tow'r

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Swing on th' astounded ear it's dull undying roar :
Yet, yet rejoice, tho' Pride's perverted ire
Rouze Hell's own aid, and wrap thy hills in fire.
Lo! from th' innocuous flames, a lovely birth!
With it's own Virtues springs another earth:
Nature, as in her prime, her virgin reign
Begins, and Love and Truth compose her train;
With pulseless hand, and fix'd unwearied gaze,
Unbreathing Justice her still beam surveys:
No more, along thy vales and viny groves,
Whole hamlets disappearing as he moves,
With cheeks o'erspread by smiles of baleful glow,
On his pale horse shall fell Consumption go.

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Oh give, great God, to Freedom's waves to ride
Sublime o'er Conquest, Avarice, and Pride,

To break, the vales where Death with Famine scow'rs,

And dark Oppression builds her thick-ribb'd tow'rs;
Where Machination her fell soul resigns,
Fled panting to the centre of her mines;
Where Persecution decks with ghastly smiles
Her bed, his mountains mad Ambition piles;
Where Discord stalks dilating, every hour,
And crouching fearful at the feet of Pow'r,
Like Lightnings eager for th' almighty word,

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Look up for sign of havoc, Fire, and Sword; †

*The duties upon many parts of the French rivers were so exorbitant that the poorer people, deprived of the benefit of water carriage, were obliged to transport their goods by land.

And, at his heels,

Leash'd in like hounds, should Famine, Sword, and Fire,

Crouch for employment.

-Give them, beneath their breast while Gladness springs,
To brood the nations o'er with Nile-like wings;

And grant that every sceptred child of clay,

Who cries, presumptuous, "here their tides shall stay,"
Swept in their anger from th' affrighted shore,
With all his creatures sink-to rise no more.

To-night, my friend, within this humble cot
Be the dead load of mortal ills forgot,
Renewing, when the rosy summits glow
At morn, our various journey, sad and slow.

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The following is Wordsworth's Itinerary of the Tour, taken by him and his friend Jones, which gave rise to Descriptive

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The pedestrians bought a boat at Basle, and in it floated down the Rhine as far as Cologne, intending to proceed in the same way to Ostend; but they returned to England from Cologne by Calais. In the course of this tour, Wordsworth wrote a letter to his sister, dated "Sept. 6, 1790, Keswill, a small village on the Lake of Constance," which will be found amongst his letters in a subsequent volume.-Ed.

III

The following two variants in Descriptive Sketches are from MS. notes written in the late Lord Coleridge's copy of the edition of 1836-7.

1. 247.

1. 249.

Yet the world's business hither finds its way
At times, and unsought tales beguile the day,
And tender thoughts are those which Solitude

Yet tender thoughts dwell there. No Solitude
Hath power Youth's natural feelings to exclude.

IV

Anecdote for Fathers

See Eusebius' Praeparatio Evangelica, vi. 5.— kλeîe Biŋv κάρτος τε λόγων ψευδηγόρα λέξω—which was Apollo's answer to certain persons who tried to force his oracle to reply.—ED.

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