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A time-worn tree, he could not bring
Then men were measured by their wit,
At either end their candles.
When Blake was busy with the Dutch
His few remaining boughs were green,
When, clad in black, a pair were met
They mourned their darling here.
They joined their boy. The tree at last Lies prone, discoursing of the past,
Some fancy-dreams awaking,
Resigned, though headlong changes come, Though nations arm to tuck of drum, And dynasties are quaking.
Romantic spot! By honest pride
Of eld tradition sanctified;
My pensive vigil keeping,
I feel thy beauty like a spell,
And thoughts, and tender thoughts, upwell,
AND in the frosty season, when the sun
Was set, and visible for many a mile
The cottage windows blazed through twilight gloom,
I wheeled about,
Proud and exulting like an untired horse
That cares not for his home. All shod with steel,
And woodland pleasures, — the resounding horn,
Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars
The orange sky of evening died away.
Not seldom from the uproar I retired
Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng,
That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed
When we had given our bodies to the wind,
With visible motion her diurnal round!
Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,
Ye presences of nature in the sky
With triumph and delight, with hope and fear,
NCE more upon this happy hill
Doth yet my free foot bound at will;
Of heathery sweetness to the vale;
And through those woods, my boyhood knew
Upon the dreary autumn eves:
Once more I tread these pleasant fields
Once more the old accustomed rest,
CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide;
All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling, And starting around me the echoes replied.
On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending,
And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,
One huge, nameless rock in the front was ascending, When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died.
Dark green was that spot mid the brown mountain heather,
Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather, Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay. Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended, The much-loved remains of her master defended, And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.
How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start?