The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. There, in a black-blue vault she sails along, Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away, Yet vanish not !-the wind is in the tree, But they are silent ;-still they roll along Immeasurably distant, and the vault, Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,
Still deepens its unfathomable depth. At length the Visión closes; and the mind, Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, Is left to muse upon the solemn scene. 1798.
May meet at noontide; Fear and trembling Hope,
Silence and Foresight; Death the Skeleton And Time the Shadow ;-there to celebrate, As in a natural temple scattered o'er With altars undisturbed of mossy stone, United worship; or in mute repose To lie, and listen to the mountain flood Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves. 1803.
VI. NUTTING.
It seems a day
(I speak of one from many singled out) One of those heavenly days that cannot die; When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my steps the Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint, Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds Which for that service had been husbanded, By exhortation of my frugal Dame- Motley accoutrement, of power to smile At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,—and, in truth,
Are stedfast as the rocks; the brook itself, Old as the hills that feed it from afar, Doth rather deepen than disturb the calm Where all things else are still and motionless. And yet, even now, a little breeze, perchance Escaped from boisterous winds that rage with-
Has entered, by the sturdy oaks unfelt, But to its gentle touch how sensitive
Is the light ash! that, pendent from the brow Of yon dim cave, in seeming silence makes A soft eye-music of slow-waving boughs, Powerful almost as vocal harmony
More ragged than need was! O'er pathless rocks,
Through beds of matted fern and tangled thickets,
Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook Unvisited, where not a broken bough
Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign
Of devastation; but the hazels rose
To stay the wanderer's steps and soothe his Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung,
THERE is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, Which to this day stands single, in the midst Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore: Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the
And drew their sounding bows at Azincour, Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers. Of vast circumference and gloom profound This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay; Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed. But worthier still of note Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale, Joined in one solemn and capacious grove; Hugh trunks! and each particular trunk a growth
Of intertwisted fibres serpentine Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved; Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and looks That threaten the profane ;-a pillared shade, Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue, By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged Perennially beneath whose sable roof Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked With unrejoicing berries-ghostly Shapes
A virgin scene!-A little while I stood, Breathing with such suppression of the heart As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed The banquet;-or beneath the trees I sate Among the flowers, and with the flowers I
A temper known to those who, after long And weary expectation, have been blest With sudden happiness beyond all hope. Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves The violets of five seasons re-appear And fade, unseen by any human eye; Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on For ever; and I saw the sparkling foam, And-with my cheek on one of those green
That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees, Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep- I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound, In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air. Then up I rose, And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash
And merciless ravage: and the shady nook Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up Their quiet being: and, unless I now Confound my present feelings with the past; H
Ere from the mutilated bower I turned Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, I felt a sense of pain when I beheld
The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky.- Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand Touch-for there is a spirit in the woods. 1799.
Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass, And with them did we journey several hours At a slow step. The immeasurable height Of woods decaying, never to be decayed, The stationary blasts of waterfalls, And in the narrow rent, at every turn, Winds thwarting winds bewildered and forlorn, The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky, The rocks that muttered close upon our ears, Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside As if a voice were in them, the sick sight And giddy prospect of the raving stream, The unfettered clouds and region of the heavens, Tumult and the darkness and the light- peace, Were all like workings of one mind, the features Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree, Characters of the great Apocalypse, The types and symbols of Eternity,
Of first, and last, and midst, and without end., 1799.
SHE was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.
I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin-liberty;
A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A Creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A Being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller between life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect Woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light. 1804.
O NIGHTINGALE! thou surely art A creature of a "fiery heart:"- These notes of thine-they pierce and pierce ; Tumultuous harmony and fierce! Thou sing'st as if the God of wine Had helped thee to a Valentine; A song in mockery and despite
Of shades, and dews, and silent night; And steady bliss, and all the loves Now sleeping in these peaceful groves.
I heard a Stock-dove sing or say His homely tale, this very day: His voice was buried among trees, Yet to be come-at by the breeze:
He did not cease; but cooed-and cooed; And somewhat pensively he wooed: He sang of love, with quiet blending, Slow to begin, and never ending; Of serious faith, and inward glee; That was the song-the song for me! 1806.
THREE years she grew in sun and shower, Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower On earth was never sown;
This Child I to myself will take. She shall be mine, and I will make A Lady of my own.
Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse: and with me The Girl, in rock and plain,
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power
To kindle or restrain.
She shall be sportive as the fawn That wild with glee across the lawn Or up the mountain springs;
And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm
Of mute insensate things.
The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend;
Nor shall she fail to see
Even in the motions of the Storm
Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form
By silent sympathy.
The stars of midnight shall be dear
To her; and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place
Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face.
And vital feelings of delight
Shall rear her form to stately height,
Her virgin bosom swell;
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live
Here in this happy dell."
Thus Nature spake-The work was done
How soon my Lucy's race was run!
She died, and left to me
This heath, this calm, and quiet scene;
The memory of what has been,
And never more will be.
I WANDERED lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed-and gazed-but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. 1804.
As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night,
So He, where he stands, is a centre of light; It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-browed Jack,
And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket on back.
That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in haste
What matter! he's caught-and his time runs
The Newsman is stopped, though he stops on the fret:
And the half-breathless Lamplighter-he's in the net!
The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore;
The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her
If a thief could be here he might pilfer at ease; She sees the Musician, 'tis all that she sees! He stands, backed by the wall;-he abates not his din;
His hat gives him vigour, with boons dropping in,
From the old and the young, from the poorest; and there!
The one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare. O blest are the hearers, and proud be the hand Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a band;
I am glad for him, blind as he is!-all the while
If they speak 'tis to praise, and they praise with a smile.
That tall Man, a giant in bulk and in height, Not an inch of his body is free from delight;
Have souls which never yet have risen, and therefore prostrate lie?
No, no, this cannot be ;-men thirst for power and majesty!
Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful mind employ
Of him who gazes, or has gazed? a grave and steady joy,
That doth reject all show of pride, admits no outward sign,
Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine !
Whatever be the cause, 'tis sure that they who pry and pore
Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than before:
One after One they take their turn, nor have I
That doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied. 1806.
The Show-man chooses well his place, 'tis Leicester's busy Square:
And is as happy in his night, for the heavens are blue and fair;
Calm, though impatient, is the crowd; each stands ready with the fee,
And envies him that's looking;-what an insight must it be!
Yet, Show-man, where can lie the cause? Shall thy Implement have blame,
A boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is put to shame ?
Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes in fault?
Their eyes, or minds? or, finally, is yon resplendent vault?
Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as we have here?
Or gives a thing but small delight that never can be dear?
The silver moon with all her vales, and hills of mightiest fame,
Doth she betray us when they're seen? or are they but a name?
Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is and
And bounty never yields so much but it seems to do her wrong?
Or is it, that when human Souls a journey long
And are returned into themselves, they cannot
Or must we be constrained to think that these Spectators rude,
Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude,
WRITTEN IN MARCH,
WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF BROTHER'S WATER. THE Cock is crowing. The stream is flowing, The small birds twitter, The lake doth glitter,
The green field sleeps in the sun; The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest ; The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising; There are forty feeding like one!
Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill;
The Ploughboy is whooping-anon-anon: There's joy in the mountains; There's life in the fountains; Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing ; The rain is over and gone! 1801.
LYRE! though such power do in thy magic live As might from India's farthest plain Recall the not unwilling Maid, Assist me to detain
The lovely Fugitive: Check with thy notes the impulse which, betrayed
By her sweet farewell looks, I longed to aid. Here let me gaze enrapt upon that eye, Of contemplation, the calm port The impregnable and awe-inspiring fort By reason fenced from winds that sigh Among the restless sails of vanity. But if no wish be hers that we should part, A humbler bliss would satisfy my heart. Where all things are so fair, Enough by her dear side to breathe the air Of this Elysian weather;
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