But now here's neither grass nor pleasant shade; The sun on drearier hollow never shone:

So will it be, as I have often said,

Till trees, and stones, and fountain all are gone."

"Grey-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well;
Small difference lies between thy creed and mine;
This beast not unobserv'd by Nature fell,
His death was mourn'd by sympathy divine.

The Being, that is in the clouds and air,
That is in the green leaves among the groves,
Maintains a deep and reverential care

For them the quiet creatures whom he loves.

The Pleasure-house is dust :-behind, before,
This is no common waste, no common gloom;
But Nature, in due course of time, once more
Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom.

She leaves these objects to a slow decay

That what we are, and have been, may be known; But, at the coming of the milder day,

These monuments shall all be overgrown.

One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,

Taught both by what she shews, and what conceals, Never to blend our pleasure or our pride

With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

There was a Boy, ye knew him well, ye Cliffs
And Islands of Winander! many a time,

At evening, when the stars had just begun
To move along the edges of the hills,
Rising or setting, would he stand alone,
Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake,
And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands
Press'd closely palm to palm and to his mouth
Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,

Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls

That they might answer him. And they would shout Across the wat❜ry vale and shout again

Responsive to his call, with quivering peals,

And long halloos, and sereams, and echoes loud

Redoubled and redoubled, a wild scene

Of mirth and jocund din. And, when it chanced
That pauses of deep silence mock'd his skill,

Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung
Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprize

Has carried far into his heart the voice

Of mountain torrents, or the visible scene
Would enter unawares into his mind

With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,

Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, receiv'd
Into the bosom of the steady lake.

Fair are the woods, and beauteous is the spot, The vale where he was born: the Church-yard hangs Upon a slope above the village school,

And there along that bank when I have pass'd

At evening, I believe, that near his grave

A full half-hour together I have stood,

Mute for he died when he was ten years old.

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