Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene, The beauty coming and the beauty gone. If Thought and Love desert us, from that day Let us break off all commerce with the Muse: With Thought and Love companions of our way, Whate'er the senses take or may refuse, The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews Of inspiration on the humblest lay. V(L. IV. Uor M POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. I. EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY. [THIS poem is a favorite among the Quakers, as I have learnt on many occasions. It was composed in front of the house at Alfoxden, in the spring of 1798.] "WHY, William, on that old grey stone, Thus for the length of half a day, Why, William, sit you thus alone, And dream your time away? Where are your books ?—that light bequeathed To Beings else forlorn and blind! Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed You look round on your Mother Earth, 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, 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, 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, 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 |