And led by nature into a wild scene
Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth A favoured Being, knowing no desire Which genius did not hallow; 'gainst the taint Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate, And scorn, against all enemies prepared, All but neglect. The world, for so it thought, Owed him no service; wherefore he at once 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 sustain The beauty, still more beauteous! Nor, that time, When nature had subdued him to herself, Would he forget those Beings to whose minds, Warm from the labours 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 vale 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 contempt
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 wisdom 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 himself, In lowliness of heart.
THERE was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye And islands of Winander!—many a time, At evening, when the earliest stars began To move along the edges of the hills, Rising or setting, would he stand alone, Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake; And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,
Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,
That they might answer him.-And they would shout Across the watery vale, and shout again, Responsive to his call,—with quivering peals, And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild
Of jocund din! And, when there came a pause Of silence such as baffled his best skill: Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise Has carried far into his heart the voice Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene Would enter unawares into his mind
With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,
Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received Into the bosom of the steady lake.
This boy was taken from his mates, and died
In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old.
Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale
Where he was born and bred: the church-yard hangs
Upon a slope above the village-school;
And, through that church-yard when my way has led On summer-evenings, I believe, that there
A long half-hour together I have stood Mute-looking at the grave in which he lies!
ARMY of Clouds! ye winged Host in troops Ascending from behind the motionless brow Of that tall rock, as from a hidden world, O whither with such eagerness of speed? What seek ye, or what shun ye? of the gale Companions, fear ye to be left behind, Or racing o'er your blue ethereal field Contend ye with each other? of the sea Children, thus post ye over vale and height To sink upon your mother's lap-and rest? Or were ye rightlier hailed, when first mine eyes Beheld in your impetuous march the likeness Of a wide army pressing on to meet Or overtake some unknown enemy?—
But your smooth motions suit a peaceful aim ; And Fancy, not less aptly pleased, compares Your squadrons to an endless flight of birds Aerial, upon due migration bound
To milder climes; or rather do ye urge In caravan your hasty pilgrimage
To pause at last on more aspiring heights Than these, and utter your devotion there With thunderous voice? Or are ye jubilant, And would ye, tracking your proud lord the Sun, Be present at his setting; or the pomp
Of Persian mornings would ye fill, and stand Poising your splendours high above the heads Of worshippers kneeling to their up-risen God? Whence, whence, ye Clouds! this eagerness of speed? Speak, silent creatures. They are gone, are fled, Buried together in yon gloomy mass
That loads the middle heaven; and clear and bright And vacant doth the region which they thronged Appear; a calm descent of sky conducting Down to the unapproachable abyss,
Down to that hidden gulf from which they rose To vanish-fleet as days and months and years, Fleet as the generations of mankind,
Power, glory, empire, as the world itself,
The lingering world, when time hath ceased to be. But the winds roar, shaking the rooted trees,
And see! a bright precursor to a train
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