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
Droop'd with its wither'd 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 play'd; A temper known to those, who, after long And weary expectation, have been bless'd With sudden happiness beyond all hope. Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves The violets of five seasons reappear And fade, unseen by any human eye; Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on Forever; and I saw the sparkling foam, And-with my cheek on one of those green stones That, fleeced with moss, beneath the shady trees, Lay round me, scatter'd 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 dragg'd to earth both branch and bough, with crash And merciless ravage; and the shady nook
Of hazels, and the green and moss bower, Deform'd and sullied, patiently gave up Their quiet being; and, unless I now Confound my present feelings with the past, Even then, when from the bower I turn'd away Exulting rich beyond the wealth of kings,
I felt a sense of pain when I beheld
The silent trees and 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,
COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE.
["No poem of mine," says Wordsworth, "was composed under circumstances more pleasant for me to remember than this. I began it after leaving Tintern, after crossing the Wye, and concluded it just as I was entering Bristol in the evening, after a ramble of four or five days with my sister."]
FIVE years have pass'd; 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
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 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 These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, 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, 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 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, With tranquil restoration:-feelings too Of unremember'd pleasure: such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremember'd acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
*The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above Tintern.
To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight, Of all this unintelligible world
Is lightened; that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on,- Until, the breath of this corporeal frame, And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul : While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft- In 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- How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
O sylvan Wye! thou wand'rer through the woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee !
And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives again :
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
That in this moment there is life and food
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, 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) To me was all in all.-I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appetite; a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, or any interest Unborrowed from the eye.-That time is past, And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor morn nor murmur; other gifts Have followed; for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompense. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour
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 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 : A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 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 ecstacies 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.
ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY.
(From Recollections of Early Childhood).
THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore;
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