Her native brightness. As the ample moon, In the deep stillness of a summer even Rising behind a thick and lofty grove, Burns, like an unconsuming fire of light,
In the green trees; and, kindling on all sides. Their leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil Into a substance glorious as her own, Yea, with her own incorporated, by power Capacious and serene :-Like power abides In man's celestial spirit; virtue thus Sets forth and magnifies herself; thus feeds A calm, a beautiful, and silent fire, From the encumbrances of mortal life, From error, disappointment-nay, from guilt; And sometimes, so relenting justice wills, From palpable oppressions of despair.'
A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract Of inland ground, applying to his ear The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell; To which, in silence hushed, his very soul Listened intensely; and his countenance soon Brightened with joy; for from within were heard Murmurings, whereby the monitor expressed Mysterious union with its native sea.
Even such a shell the universe itself
Is to the ear of Faith; and there are times, I doubt not, when to you it doth impart Authentic tidings of invisible things; Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power; And central peace, subsisting at the heart Of endless agitation. Here you stand, Adore, and worship, when you know it not; Pious beyond the intention of your thought; Devout above the meaning of your will.
-Yes, you have felt, and may not cease to feel.
The estate of man would be indeed forlorn If false conclusions of the reasoning power Made the eye blind, and closed the passages Through which the ear converses with the heart. Has not the soul, the being of your life, Received a shock of awful consciousness, In some calm season, when these lofty rocks At night's approach bring down the unclouded sky, To rest upon their circumambient walls;
A temple framing of dimensions vast, And yet not too enormous for the sound Of human anthems,-choral song, or burst Sublime of instrumental harmony, To glorify the Eternal! What if these Did never break the stillness that prevails Here, if the solemn nightingale be mute, And the soft woodlark here did never chant Her vespers,-Nature fails not to provide Impulse and utterance. The whispering air Sends inspiration from the shadowy heights, And blind recesses of the caverned rocks; The little rills, and waters numberless, Inaudible by daylight, blend their notes With the loud streams: and often, at the hour When issue forth the first pale stars, is heard, Within the circuit of this fabric huge, One voice-the solitary raven, flying
Athwart the concave of the dark blue dome, Unseen, perchance above all power of sight— An iron knell! with echoes from afar Faint-and still fainter-as the cry, with which The wanderer accompanies her flight
Through the calm region, fades upon the ear, Diminishing by distance till it seemed
To expire; yet from the abyss is caught again, And yet again recovered!
[THE GAINS OF RESTRAINT.]
Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells; And students with their pensive citadels; Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom, High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells, Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells: In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me, In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground; Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be) Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, Should find brief solace there, as I have found.
[ON THE BEACH AT CALAIS.]
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free; The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity ;
The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea: Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder-everlastingly.
Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here, If thou appear untouched by solemn thought, Thy nature is not therefore less divine: Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not.
COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1802 [? 1803].
Earth has not any thing to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty : This City now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!
THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGATION OF SWITZERLAND.
Two Voices are there; one is of the sea, One of the mountains; each a mighty Voice: In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, They were thy chosen music, Liberty!
There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee
Thou fought'st against him; but hast vainly striven: Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven, Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft : Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left; For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be That Mountain floods should thunder as before, And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore, And neither awful Voice be heard by thee ! (1802 or 1803?)
WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER 1802.
Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; Oh! raise us up, return to us again; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
The world is too much with us: late and soon. Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for every thing, we are out of tune; It moves us not.-Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn: So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
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