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Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is and strong, And bounty never yields so much but it seems to do her wrong?
Or is it, that when human Souls a journey long have had And are returned into themselves, they cannot but be sad?
Ormust we be constrained to think that these Spectators rude, Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude, Have souls which never yet have risen, and therefore
No, no, this cannot be-Men thirst for power
and majesty !
Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful mind
Of him who gazes, or has gazed? a grave and steady joy, That doth reject all show of pride, admits no outward sign, Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine!
Whatever be the cause, 'tis sure that they who pry and pore Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than before : One after One they take their turn, nor have I one espied That doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied.
THE HAUNTED TREE.
THOSE silver clouds collected round the sun
To overshade than multiply his beams
By soft reflection
grateful to the sky,
To rocks, fields, woods. Nor doth our human sense Ask, for its pleasure, screen or canopy
More ample than the time-dismantled Oak
Spreads o'er this tuft of heath, which now, attired In the whole fulness of its bloom, affords
Couch beautiful as e'er for earthly use
Was fashioned; whether by the hand of Art,
Of panting Wood-nymph, wearied by the chase.
Than fairest spiritual Creature of the groves,
This venerable Tree; for, when the wind
Haunts this old Trunk; lamenting deeds of which
Not even a zephyr stirs ;
the obnoxious Tree Is mute, – and, in his silence, would look down, O lovely Wanderer of the trackless hills, On thy reclining form with more delight Than his Coevals, in the sheltered vale
Seem to participate, the whilst they view
That, for a brief space, checks the hurrying stream !
WRITTEN IN MARCH,
WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF
THE cock is crowing,
The lake doth glitter,
The green field sleeps in the sun ;
The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest ;
The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding like one!
Like an army defeated
The Snow hath retreated,
On the top of the bare hill;
There's joy in the mountains ;
The rain is over and gone!
YET are they here the same unbroken knot
Men, Women, Children, yea the frame
Their bed of straw and blanket-walls.
Much witnessing of change and cheer,
The weary Sun betook himself to rest.
The glorious path in which he trod.
Regard not her: oh better wrong and strife, (By nature transient) than such torpid life; Life which the very stars reprove
As on their silent tasks they move!
Yet, witness all that stirs in heaven or earth!
And breeding suffers them to be;
Wild outcasts of society!
BEFORE my eyes a Wanderer stood;
Only she wore a cap as white as new-fallen snow.
Its own light to a distance thrown,
fit person for a Queen,
To head those ancient Amazonian files;
Or ruling Bandit's wife among the Grecian Isles.
She begged an alms; no scruple checked
The current of her ready plea,
Words that could challenge no respect
But from a blind credulity;
And yet a boon I gave her; for the Creature
a weed of glorious feature!
I left her, and pursued my way;
The Taller followed with his hat in hand,
Wreathed round with yellow flowers the gayest of the land.