LINES

All but neglect. The world, for so it

thought, Owed him no service ; wherefore he at

Left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, which stands near the lake of Esthwaite, on a desolate part of the shore, commanding a beautiful prospect.

once

Composed in part at school at Hawkshear. The tree has disappeared, and the slip of Common on which it stood, that ran parallel to the lake and lay open to it, ha: long been enclosed; so that the road has lost inrich of its attraction. This spot was my favorite walk in the evenings during the latter part of my school-time.

(Wordsworth's note.)

Nay, Traveller ! rest. This lonely Yew.

tree stands Far from all human dwelling: what if

here No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant

herb? What if the bee love not these barren

boughs ? Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling

waves,

That break against the shore, shall lull

thy mind By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.

-Who lie was That piled these stones and with the

mossy sod First covered, and here taught this aged

Tree With its dark arms to form a circling

bower, I well remember.--He was

one who owned No common soul. In youth by science

nursed, And led by nature into a wild scene Of lofty hopes, he to the world went

forth A favored Being, knowing no desire Which genius did not hallow ; 'gainst

the taint Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and

bate, And scorn,-against all enemies pre

pared,

With indignation turned himself away, And with the food of pride sustained his

soul In solitude.-Stranger! these gloomy

boughs Had charms for him; and here he loved

to sit, His only visitants a straggling sheep, The stone-chat, or the glancing sand

piper : And on these barren rocks, with fern

and heath, And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er, Fixing his downcast eye, he many an

hour A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing

here An emblem of his own unfruitful life: And, lifting up his head, he then would

gaze On the more distant scene,-how lovely

'tis Thou seest,--and he would gaze till it

became Far lovelier, and his heart could not sus

tain The beauty, still more beauteous! Nor,

that time, When nature had subdued him to her

self, Would he forget those Beings to whose

minds, Warm from the labors of benevolence, The world, and human life, appeared a

scene Of kindred loveliness : then he would

sigh, Inly disturbed, to think that others felt What he must never feel : and so, lost

Man ! On visionary views would fancy feed, Till his eye streamed with tears. In this

deep rale

Down which she so often has tripped

with her pail ; And a single small cottage, a nest like a

dove's, The one only dwelling on earth that she

loves.

He died,--this seat his only monument. If Thou be one whose heart the holy

forms Of young imagination have kept pure, Stranger! henceforth be warned; and

know that pride, Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, Is littleness; that he, who feels con

tempt For any living thing, hath faculties Which he has never used ; that thought

with him Is in its infancy. The man whose eye Is ever on himself doth look on one, The least of Nature's works, one who

might move The wise man to that scorn which wis.

dom holds Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, Thou ! Instructed that true knowledge leads to

love; True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward

thought, Can still suspect, and still revere him

self, In lowliness of heart. 1787-1795. 1798.

She looks, and her heart is in heaven:

but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the

shade: The stream will not flow, and the hill

will not rise, And the colors have all passed away

from her eyes! 1797. 1800.

A NIGHT-PIECE

Composed on the road between Nether Stowey anıl Alfoxden, extempore. I distinctly recollect the very moment when I was struck, as described

.“ He looks up-the clouds are split," etc. (Wordsworth)

“Wordsworth particularly recommended to me among his Poems of Imagination, Yen Trees, and a description of Night. These, he says, are amongst the best for the imaginative power displayed in them." (Diary of Henry Crabb Robinson, May 9, 1815.)

--The sky is overcast With a continuous cloud of texture close, Heavy and wan, all whitened by the

Moon, Which through that veil is indistinctly

seen, A dull, contracted circle, yielding light So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls, Chequering the ground-from rock,

plant, tree, or tower. At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam Startles the pensive traveller while le

treads His lonesome path, with unobserving

eye Bent earthward ; he looks up-the

clouds are split Asunder,--and above his head he sees The clear Moon, and the glory of the

heavens. There, in a black-blue vault she sails

along, Followed by multitudes of stars, that,

small And sharp, and bright, along the dark

abyss Drive as she drives : how fast they

wheel away, Yet vanish not!-the wind is in the tree But they are silent ;-still they roll along Immeasurably distant; and the vault,

"Tis a note of enchantment; what ails

her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees ; Bright volumes of vapor through Loth

bury glide, And a river flows on through the vale

of Cheapside.

Green pastures she views in the midst

“So in the church-yard she was laid ;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.
“ And when the ground was white with

show,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."

She had a rustic, woodland air, Anul she was wildly clad : Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; - Her beauty made me glad. “Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be ?” " How many ? Seven in all," she said And wondering looked at me. “ And where are they? I pray you tell." She answerel, “ Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea. “ Two of us in the church-yard lie, My sister and my brother ; And in the church-yard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother." “ You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven !-I pray you tell, Sweet Maid, how this may be." Then did the little Maid reply,

Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the church-yard lie, Beneath the church-yard tree.” “ You run about, my little Maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the church-yard laid, Then ye are only five." “ Their graves are green, they may be

seen, The little Maid replied,

9

SIMON LEE

THE OLD HUNTSMAN;

WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS

CONCERNED.

This old man had been huntsman to the squires of Alfoxden. . The fact was as mentioned in the poem; and I have, after an interval of fortyfive years, the inage of the old man as fresh before my eyes as if I had seen him yesterday: The expression when the hounds were out. ** dearly love their voice," was word for word

1 from his own lips.

(Wordsworth.)

In the sweet shire of Cardigan, Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall.

One summer-day I chanced to see
This old Man doing all he could
To unearth the root of an old tree,
A stump of rotten wood.
The mattock tottered in his hand;
So vain was his endeavor,
That at the root of the old tree
He might have worked for ever.

But, oh the heavy change !-bereft
Of health, strength, friends, and kindred,

see !
Old Simon to the world is left
In liveried poverty.
His Master's dead,

and no one now
Dwells in the Hall of Ivor ;
Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead ;
He is the sole survivor.
And he is lean and he is sick;
His body, dwindled and awry,
Rests upon ankles swoln and thick ;
His legs are thin and dry.
One prop he has, and only one,
His wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village Common.
Beside their moss-grown but of clay,
Not twenty paces from the door,
A scrap of land they have, but they
Are poorest of the poor.
This scrap of land he from the leath
Enclosed when he was stronger ;
But what to them avails the land
Which he can till no longer ?

“You're overtasked, good Simon Lee,
Give me your tool," to him I said;
And at the word riglit gladly he
Received my proffered aid.
I struck, and with a single blow
The tangled root I severed,
At which the poor old Man so long
And vainly had endeavored.

The tears into his eyes were brought,
And thanks and praises seemed to run
So fast out of his heart, I thought
They never would have done.
-I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds
With coldness still returning ;
Alas! the gratitude of men
Hath oftener left me mourning.

1798. 1798.

Oft, working oy her Husband's side,
Ruth does what Simon cannot do ;
For she, with scanty cause for pride,
Is stouter of the two.
And, though you with your utmost skill
From labor could not wean them.

LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY

SPRING I HEARD a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant

thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind.