And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye and ear-both what they half create, And what perceive; well pleased to recognise In nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being.
Nor perchance, If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
For thou art with me here upon the banks Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend, My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while May I behold in thee what I was once, My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make, 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 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 Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then, If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
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 Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake! WORDSWORTH.
A Remembrance of Grasmere.
O VALE and lake, within your mountain-urn Smiling so tranquilly, and set so deep! Oft doth your dreamy loveliness return, Colouring the tender shadows of my sleep With light Elysian; for the hues that steep Your shores in melting lustre, seem to float On golden clouds from spirit-lands remote, Isles of the blest; and in our memory keep Their place with holiest harmonies. Fair scene, Most loved by evening and her dewy star! Oh! ne'er may man, with touch unhallow'd, jar The perfect music of thy charm serene !
Still, still unchanged, may one sweet region wear Smiles that subdue the soul to love, and tears, and prayer.
A "place of nestling green for Poets made.” I STOOD tiptoe upon a little hill,
The air was cooling, and so very still
That the sweet buds which, with a modest pride, Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, Their scanty-leaved and finely tapering stems, Had not yet lost their starry diadems
Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. The clouds were pure and white as flocks new-shorn, And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves; For not the faintest motion could be seen Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green. There was wide wandering for the greediest eye To peer about upon variety;
Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim, And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim; To picture out the quaint and curious bending Of a fresh woodland alley never-ending: Or by the bowery clefts and leafy shelves, Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves. Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight: With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings. Linger awhile upon some bending planks That lean against a streamlet's rushy banks, And watch intently Nature's gentle doings: They will be found softer than ringdoves' cooings. How silent comes the water round that bend! Not the minutest whisper does it send To the o'erhanging sallows: blades of grass Slowly across the checker'd shadows pass. Why, you might read two sonnets ere they reach To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach A natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds;
Where swarms of minnows show their little heads,, Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the streams, To taste the luxury of sunny beams
Temper'd with coolness. How they ever wrestle With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle
Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand! If you but scantily hold out the hand, That very instant not one will remain ; But turn your eye, and they are there again. The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses, And cool themselves among the emerald tresses; The while they cool themselves, they freshness give, And moisture, that the bowery green may live : So keeping up an interchange of favours, Like good men in the truth of their behaviours. Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop From low hung branches: little space they stop; But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek ; Then off at once, as in a wanton freak:
Or perhaps, to show their black and golden wings, Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
What next? a tuft of evening primroses, O'er which the mind may hover till it doses; O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep, But that 'tis ever startled by the leap Of buds into ripe flowers; or by the flitting Of divers moths that aye their rest are quitting; Or by the moon lifting her silver rim Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim Coming into the blue with all her light.
THE summer dawn's reflected hue To purple changed Loch Katrine blue, Mildly and soft the western breeze Just kiss'd the lake, just stirr'd the trees, And the pleased lake, like maiden coy, Trembled but dimpled not for joy; The mountain-shadows on her breast Were neither broken nor at rest; In bright uncertainty they lie, Like future joys to Fancy's eye. The water-lily to the light Her chalice rear'd of silver bright;
The doe awoke, and to the lawn, Begemm'd with dew-drops, led her fawn; The grey mist left the mountain-side, The torrent show'd its glistening pride ; Invisible in flecked sky,
The lark sent down her revelry; The blackbird and the speckled thrush Good-morrow gave from brake and bush ; In answer coo'd the cushat-dove
Her notes of peace, and rest, and love.
Of Tyne, and ye most ancient woodlands; where Oft, as the giant flood obliquely strides, And his banks open and his lawns extend, Stops short the pleased traveller to view, Presiding o'er the scene, some rustic tower Founded by Norman or by Saxon hands: O ye Northumbrian shades, which overlook The rocky pavement and the mossy falls Of solitary Wensbeck's limpid stream! How gladly I recall your well-known seats Beloved of old, and that delightful time When all alone, for many a summer's day, I wander'd through your calm recesses, led In silence by some powerful hand unseen. Nor will I e'er forget you; nor shall e'er The graver tasks of manhood, or the advice Of vulgar wisdom, move me to disclaim Those studies which possess'd me in the dawn Of life, and fix'd the colour of my mind For every future year: whence even now From sleep I rescue the clear hours of morn, And, while the world around lies overwhelm'd In idle darkness, am alive to thoughts Of honourable fame, of truth divine Or moral, and of minds to virtue won By the sweet magic of harmonious verse.
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