Far different we,-a froward race;
Thousands, tho' rich in Fortune's grace,
With cherish'd sullenness of pace

Their way pursue,

Ingrates who wear a smileless face
The whole year through.

If kindred humours e'er would make
My spirit droop for drooping's sake,
From Fancy following in thy wake,
Bright ship of heaven!

A counter impulse let me take
And be forgiven."

INSCRIPTIONS

SUPPOSED TO BE FOUND IN AND NEAR
A HERMIT'S CELL.

HOPES, what are they? Beads of morning
Strung on slender blades of grass;
Or a spider's web adorning
In a strait and treacherous pass.

What are fears but voices airy?
Whispering harm where harm is not;
And deluding the unwary
Till the fatal bolt is shot!

What is glory?—in the socket
See how dying tapers fare! 10
What is pride? —a whizzing rocket
That would emulate a star.

What is friendship? - do not trust her,
Nor the vows which she has made;
Diamonds dart their brightest lustre
From a palsy-shaken head.

What is truth? - a staff rejected;
Duty?
—an unwelcome clog;

9 These verses were thrown off extempore upon leaving Mrs. Luff's house at Fox-Ghyll, one evening. The good wom an is not disposed to look at the bright side of things; and there happened to be present certain ladies who had reached the point of life where youth is ended, and who seemed to contend with each other in expressing their dislike of the country and climate. One of them had been heard to say she could not endure a country where there was "neither sunshine nor cavaliers."-Author's Notes.

8 This was taken from the case of a poor widow who lived in the town of Penrith. Her sorrow was well known to Mrs. Wordsworth, to my sister, and, I believe, to the whole town. She kept a shop, and, when she saw a stranger passing, she was 10 So in all the editions I have seen. But in the habit of going out into the strect to I suspect it should be flare instead of fare: inquire of him after her son.-Author's though the latter may perhaps give the Notes.

same sense.

And not in vain, when thoughts are cast Indulgent centuries spun a thread,

Though the most easily beguiled
Were oft among the first that smiled

At their own fond belief.

If still the reckless change we mourn,
A reconciling thought may turn

To harm that might lurk here,
Ere judgment prompted from within
Fit aims, with courage to begin,

And strength to persevere.

Not Fortune's slave is Man: our state
Enjoins, while firm resolves await

On wishes just and wise,
That strenuous action follow both,
And life be one perpetual growth

Of heaven-ward enterprise.

So taught, so train'd, we boldly face
All accidents of time and place;

Whatever props may fail,
Trust in that sovereign law can spread
New glory o'er the mountain's head,

Fresh beauty through the vale.

That truth informing mind and heart,
The simplest cottager may part,

Ungrieved, with charm and spell;
And yet, lost Wishing-gate, to thee
The voice of grateful memory

Shall bid a kind farewell!1

GOLD AND SILVER FISHES IN A
VASE.

THE soaring lark is blest as proud
When at Heaven's gate she sings;

The roving bee proclaims aloud

Her flight by vocal wings;
While Ye, in lasting durance pent,
Your silent lives employ
For something more than dull content,
Though haply less than joy.

Tet might your glassy prison seem
A place where joy is known,
Where golden flash and silver gleam
Have meanings of their own;

While, high and low, and all about,
Your motions, glittering Elves!
Ye weave, no danger from without,
And peace among yourselves.

Type of a sunny human breast

Is your transparent cell;
Where Fear is but a transient guest,
No sullen Humours dwell;
Where, sensitive of every ray
That smites this tiny sea,
Your scaly panoplies repay
The loan with usury.

How beautiful!-Yet none knows why
This ever-graceful change,
Renew'd-renew'd incessantly-
Within your quiet range.

Is it that ye with conscious skill
For mutual pleasure glide;
And sometimes, not without your will,
Are dwarf'd or magnified?

Fays, Genii of gigantic size!

And now, in twilight dim,
Clustering like constellated eyes,
In wings of Cherubim,

When the fierce orbs abate their glare;
Whate'er your forms express,
Whate'er ye seem, whate'er ye are,
All leads to gentleness.

Cold though your nature be, 'tis pure;
Your birthright is a fence

From all that haughtier kinds endure

Through tyranny of sense.

Ah! not alone by colours bright
Are Ye to Heaven allied,
When, like essential Forms of light,
Ye mingle, or divide.

EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY.
"WHY, William, on that old grey st ne,
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 be- And hark, how blithe the throstle sings!

queath'd

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 sec;
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; Come forth, and bring with you a heart

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."

THE TABLES TURNED.

That watches and receives.

[1708.

LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

I HEARD a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined, [thought
In that sweet mood when pleasam
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
[1798. And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUB

JECT.

Thro' primrose tufts, in that green bower
The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

UP! up! my Friend, and quit your books; The birds around me hopp'd and play'd,
Or surely you'll grow double:
Their thoughts I cannot measure; -

Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; But the least motion which they male,
Why all this toil and trouble?

The Sun, above the mountain's head,
A freshening lustre mellow [spread,
Through all the long green fields has
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.