To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sea 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; Huge 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
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.
(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 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, 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
Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung, 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 played; 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 stones 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; 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.
OUR walk was far among the ancient trees: There was no road, nor any woodman's path; But a thick umbrage-checking the wild growth Of weed and sapling, along soft green turf Beneath the branches-of itself had made A track, that brought us to a slip of lawn, And a small bed of water in the woods.
All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink On its firm margin, even as from a well,
Or some stone-basin which the herdsman's hand Had shaped for their refreshment; nor did sun,
Or wind from any quarter, ever come, But as a blessing to this calm recess, This glade of water and this one green field. The spot was made by Nature for herself; The travellers know it not, and 'twill remain Unknown to them; but it is beautiful;
And if a man should plant his cottage near,
Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees, And blend its waters with his daily meal, He would so love it, that in his death-hour Its image would survive among his thoughts: And therefore, my sweet MARY, this still Nook, With all its beeches, we have named from You!
A NARROW girdle of rough stones and crags, A rude and natural causeway, interposed Between the water and a winding slope
copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy : And there myself and two beloved Friends, One calm September morning, ere the mist Had altogether yielded to the sun, Sauntered on this retired and difficult way.
-Ill suits the road with one in haste; but we Played with our time; and, as we strolled along, It was our occupation to observe
Such objects as the waves had tossed ashore- Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough, Each on the other heaped, along the line Of the dry wreck. And, in our vacant mood, Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard,
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