SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH.

EXTRACT

FROM THE CONCLUSION OF A POEM, COMPOSED IN
ANTICIPATION OF LEAVING SCHOOL.

1786. — 1815.

DEAR native regions, I foretell,
From what I feel at this farewell,
That wheresoe'er my steps may tend,
And whensoe'er my course shall end,
If in that hour a single tie
Survive of local sympathy,

My soul will cast the backward view,
The longing look, alone on you.

Thus, while the sun sinks down to rest
Far in the regions of the west,
Though to the vale no parting beam
Be given, not one memorial gleam,
A lingering light he fondly throws
On the dear hills where first he rose.

ΙΟ

LINES

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.

1795.- 1798.

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 he 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 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

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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 't is
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 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 vale

He died, this seat his only monument.

If thou be one whose heart the holy forms

Of young imagination have kept pure,

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Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride, so 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. Oh, 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.

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