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And even the motion of our human blood, On Revisiting the Banks of the Wpe. Almost suspended, we are laid asleep.

In body, and become a living soul : Five years have passed; five summers, with the While with an eye made quiet by the power length

Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, Of five long winters! and again I hear

We see into the life of things. These waters, rolling from their mountain springs

If this With a soft inland murmur. Once again

Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft, Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,

In darkness, and amid the many shapes Which on a wild secluded scene impress

Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir Thoughts of more deep seclusion, and connect Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, The landscape with the quiet of the sky.

Have hung upon the beatings of my heart, The day is come when I again repose

How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, Here, under this dark sycamore, and view

O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer through the These plots of cottage ground, these orchard woods, tufts,

How often has my spirit turned to thee! Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits, And now, with gleams of half - extinguished Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves

thought, 'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see With many recognitions dim and faint, These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines And somewhat of a sad perplexity, Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms The picture of the mind revives again: Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke While here I stand, not only with the sense Sent up, in silence, from among the trees

Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
With some uncertain notice, as might seem, That in this moment there is life and food
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, For future years. And so I dare to hope,
Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when
The hermit sits alone.

first
These beauteous forms I came among these hills; when like a roe
Through a long absence have not been to me I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:

Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din

Wherever Nature led : more like a man Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,

Flying from something that he dreads, than one In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,

Who sought the thing he loved. For Nature Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;

then And passing even into my purer mind

(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, With tranquil restoration:— feelings too

And their glad animal movements all gone by,) Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, To me was all in all. I cannot paint As have no slight or trivial influence

What then I was. The sounding cataract On that best portion of a good man's life,

Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, His little, nameless, unremembered acts

The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,

Their colors and their forms, were then to me To them I may have owed another gift,

An appetite: a feeling and a love,
Of aspect more sublime; that blessèd mood, That had no need of a remoter charm,
In which the burthen of the mystery,

By thought supplied, or any interest
In which the heavy and the weary weight Unborrowed from the eye. That time is past,
Of all this unintelligible world,

And all its aching joys are now no more, Is lightened :— that serene and blessed mood, And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this In which the affections gently lead us on,

Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts Until, the breath of this corporeal frame,

Have followed, for such loss, I would believe,

ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE.

79

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 recognize
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 ecstasies 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.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

Harvest.

SWEET, sweet, sweet,

Is the wind's song,
Astir in the rippled wheat

All day long,
It hath the brook's wild gayety,
The sorrowful cry of the sea.

Oh, hush and hear !
Sweet, sweet, and clear,
Above the locust's whirr

And hum of bee
Rises that soft, pathetic harmony.

In the meadow-grass

The innocent white daisies blow, The dandelion plume doth poss

Vaguely to and fro

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