Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train ! Turns his necessity to glorious gain;
In face of these doth exercise a power Which is our human nature's highest dower; Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives : By objects, which might force the soul to abate Her feeling, rendered more compassionate; Is placable-because occasions rise
So often that demand such sacrifice;
More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure, As tempted more; more able to endure, As more exposed to suffering and distress; Thence, also, more alive to tenderness.
'Tis he whose law is reason; who depends Upon that law as on the best of friends; Whence, in a state where men are tempted still To evil for a guard against worse ill, And what in quality or act is best Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, He labours good on good to fix, and owes To virtue every triumph that he knows: -Who, if he rise to station of command, Rises by open means; and there will stand On honourable terms, or else retire, And in himself possess his own desire; Who comprehends his trust, and to the same
Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim;
And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state;
Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall, Like showers of manna, if they come at all:
Whose powers shed round him in the common strife, Or mild concerns of ordinary life,
A constant influence, a peculiar grace ;
But who, if he be called upon to face
Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for human kind, Is happy as a Lover; and attired
With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired; And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw; Or if an unexpected call succeed,
Come when it will, is equal to the need: -He who, though thus endued as with a sense And faculty for storm and turbulence,
Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans
To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes; Sweet images! which, wheresoe'r he be, Are at his heart; and such fidelity
It is his darling passion to approve ;
More brave for this, that he hath much to love :- 'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high, Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye, Or left unthought-of in obscurity,—
Who, with a toward or untoward lot,
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not- Plays, in the many games of life, that one Where what he most doth value must be won: Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray; Who, not content that former worth stand fast, Looks forward, persevering to the last, From well to better, daily self-surpast :
Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth For ever, and to noble deeds give birth, Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, And leave a dead unprofitable name— Finds comfort in himself and in his cause; And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause: This is the happy Warrior; this is He That every Man in arms should wish to be.
"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, As if she for no purpose bore you; As if you were her first-born birth, And none had lived before you !"
One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, When life was sweet, I knew not why, To me my good friend Matthew spake, And thus I made reply:
"The eye-it cannot choose but see; We cannot bid the ear be still; Our bodies feel, where'er they be, Against or with our will.
Nor less I deem that there are Powers
Which of themselves our minds impress;
That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness.
Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum Of things for ever speaking, That nothing of itself will come, 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."
AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT AS THE PRECEDING POEM
UP! up my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you'll grow double:
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble?
The sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.
Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life,
There's more of wisdom in it.
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.
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