as suggested by the Poet to the owner of the place; but, in 1880, I found the "natural sylvan bridge" restored-an ash tree having fallen across the glen, and reproduced the scene described in the Fenwick note.-ED. [Composed in front of Alfoxden House. My little boy-messenger on this occasion was the son of Basil Montagu. The larch mentioned in the first stanza was standing when I revisited the place in May 1841, more than forty years after. I was disappointed that it had not improved in appearance as to size, nor had it acquired anything of the majesty of age, which, even though less perhaps than any other tree, the larch sometimes does. A few score yards from this tree, grew, when we inhabited Alfoxden, one of the most remarkable beech-trees ever seen. The ground sloped both towards and from it. It was of immense size, and threw out arms that struck into the soil like those of the banyan tree, and rose again from it. Two of the branches thus inserted themselves twice, which gave to each the appearance of a serpent moving along by gathering itself up in folds. One of the large boughs of this tree had been torn off by the wind before we left Alfoxden, but five remained. In 1841 we could barely find the spot where the tree had stood. So remarkable a production of nature could not have been wilfully destroyed.] Ir is the first mild day of March: Each minute sweeter than before The redbreast sings from the tall larch That stands beside our door. There is a blessing in the air, Which seems a sense of joy to yield To the bare trees, and mountains bare, My sister! ('tis a wish of mine) Now that our morning meal is done, Edward will come with you-and, pray, No joyless forms shall regulate We from to-day, my Friend, will date Love, now a universal birth, From heart to heart is stealing, From earth to man, from man to earth: -It is the hour of feeling. One moment now may give us more Than years of toiling reason:1 Our minds shall drink at every pore The spirit of the season. 1 1836. Some silent laws our hearts will make,2 Which they shall long obey: We for the year to come may take Our temper from to-day. And from the blessed power that rolls About, below, above, We'll frame the measure of our souls: They shall be tuned to love. Then come, my Sister! come, I pray, And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness. In editions 1798 to 1815 the title of this poem was, "Lines written at a small distance from my house, and sent by my little boy to the person to whom they were addressed." From 1820 to 1843 the title was, "To my Sister; written at a small distance from my house, and sent by my little boy." After 1845 it was simply "To my Sister." The larch is now gone; but the place where it stood can easily be identified.-ED. [Observed in the holly-grove at Alfoxden, where these verses were written in the spring of 1799. I had the pleasure of again seeing, with dear friends, this grove in unimpaired beauty forty-one years after.] 1 A WHIRL-BLAST from behind the hill Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound; 1820. I sat within an undergrove Of tallest hollies, tall and green; A fairer bower was never seen. You could not lay a hair between, 1800. Along the floor, beneath the shade And all those leaves, that jump and spring, 2 In edd. 1800 to 1805, the following lines are added— That I may never cease to find, Even in appearances like these Enough to nourish and to stir my mind! 1800. [This poem is a favourite among the Quakers, as I have learned 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 From dead men to their kind. 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 That we can feed this mind of ours Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum But we must still be seeking? Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, Conversing as I may, I sit upon this old grey stone, And dream my time away." THE TABLES TURNED. AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT. Comp. 1798. Pub. 1798. Up! up my Friend, and quit your books;1 Or surely you'll grow double: Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks, Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, 1798. |