A whirl-blast from behind the hill Rush'd o'er the wood with startling sound; Then-all at once the air was still, And showers of hailstones pattered round. 5 Where leafless oaks towered high above, I sat within an undergrove Of tallest hollies, tall and green; Along the floor, beneath the shade 20 Some Robin Good-fellow were there, And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preacher: 15 Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher. She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to blessSpontaneous wisdom breathed by health, 20 Truth breathed by cheerfulness. One impulse from a vernal wood 1 "A friend who was somewhat unreasonably attached to modern books of moral philosophy." -Wordsworth. 25 Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; beauteous forms We murder to dissect. of On that best portion of a good man's life, Is lightened:-that serene and blessed In which the affections gently lead us on,- In body, and become a living soul: Enough of Science and of Art; 30 Close up those barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN Five years have past; five summers, with the length Of five long winters! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs With a soft inland murmur. - Once again 5 Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, That on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose 10 Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see 15 These hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms, Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! With some uncertain notice, as might seem 20 Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire The hermit sits alone. These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me 25 As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, 30 With tranquil restoration:-feelings too of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence If this 50 Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oftIn darkness and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart 55 How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee! And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, With many recognitions dim and faint, 60 And somewhat of a sad perplexity, The picture of the mind revives again: That in this moment there is life and food 65 For future years. And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first I came among these hills; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, 70 Wherever nature led: more like a man Flying from something that he dreads than one Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, And their glad animal movements all gone by) 75 To me was all in all.-I cannot paint Abundant recompense. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour 30 Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy 95 Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man: 00 A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of all that we behold 105 From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye, and ear,-both what they half 150 create, And what perceive; well pleased to recognize Knowing that Nature never did betray The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy: for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 135 Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty mountain-winds be free To blow against thee: and, in after years, When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind 140 Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, Thy memory be as a dwelling-place If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, 145 Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance If I should be where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence-wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came Unwearied in that service: rather say With warmer love-oh! with far deeper zeal 155 Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget 7 to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake! THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR 1798 1800 I saw an aged beggar in my walk; And he was seated, by the highway side, On a low structure of rude masonry Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they 5 Who lead their horses down the steep rough road May thence remount at ease. The aged man Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone That overlays the pile; and, from a bag All white with flour, the dole of village dames, 10 He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one; And scanned them with a fixed and serious look Of idle computation. In the sun, Upon the second step of that small pile, Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills, 15 He sat, and ate his food in solitude: And ever scattered from his palsied hand, That, still attempting to prevent the waste, Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers Fell on the ground; and the small mountain birds, 20 Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal, Approached within the length of half his staff. Him from my childhood have I known; and then He was so old, he seems not older now; He travels on, a solitary man, 25 So helpless in appearance, that for him The sauntering horseman throws not with a slack And careless hand his alms upon the ground, But stops,-that he may safely lodge the coin Within the old man's hat; nor quits him so, 30 But still, when he has given his horse the rein, Watches the aged beggar with a look Sidelong, and half-reverted. She who tends The toll-gate, when in summer at her door She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees 35 The aged beggar coming, quits her work, And lifts the latch for him that he may He travels on, a solitary man; 45 His age has no companion. On the ground His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along, They move along the ground; and, evermore, Instead of common and habitual sight Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale, 50 And the blue sky, one little span of earth Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day, Bow-bent, his eyes forever on the ground, He plies his weary journey; seeing still, And seldom knowing that he sees, some straw, 55 Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track, The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have At distance still the same. Poor traveller! |