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Yet will I temperately rejoice;
Wide is the range, and free the choice
Of undiscordant themes;

Which, haply, kindred souls may prize
Not less than vernal ecstasies,
And passion's feverish dreams.

For deathless powers to verse belong,
And they like Demi-gods are strong
On whom the Muses smile;

But some their function have disclaimed,

Best pleased with what is aptliest framed

To enervate and defile.

Not such the initiatory strains
Committed to the silent plains
In Britain's earliest dawn:

Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale,

While all-too-daringly the veil
Of nature was withdrawn!

Nor such the spirit-stirring note
When the live chords Alcæus smote,
Inflamed by sense of wrong;
Woe! woe to Tyrants! from the lyre
Broke threateningly, in sparkles dire
Of fierce vindictive song.

And not unhallowed was the page
By winged Love inscribed, to assuage
The pangs of vain pursuit ;

Love listening while the Lesbian Maid
With finest touch of passion swayed
Her own Æolian lute.

O ye, who patiently explore
The wreck of Herculanean lore,
What rapture! could ye seize
Some Theban fragment, or unroll
One precious, tender-hearted, scroll
Of pure Simonides.

That were, indeed, a genuine birth
Of poesy; a bursting forth
Of genius from the dust:
What Horace gloried to behold,
What Maro loved, shall we enfold?
Can haughty Time be just!

1819. 1820.

AFTER-THOUGHT

I THOUGHT of Thee, my partner and my guide,

As being past away.-Vain sympathies ! For, backward, Duddon, as I cast my

eyes,

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And glorious Work of fine intelligence! Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore

Of nicely-calculated less or more; So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense

These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof

Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells,

Where light and shade repose, where music dwells

Lingering and wandering on as loth to die;

Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof

That they were born for immortality. 1820 or 1821. 1822.

MEMORY

A PEN-to register; a key-
That winds through secret wards;
Are well assigned to Memory
By allegoric Bards.

As aptly, also, might be given
A Pencil to her hand;

That, softening objects, sometimes even
Outstrips the heart's demand;

That smooths foregone distress, the lines

Of lingering care subdues,

Long vanished happiness refines,
And clothes in brighter hues;

Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works
Those Spectres to dilate

That startle Conscience, as she lurks
Within her lonely seat.

Oh! that our lives, which flee so fast,
In purity were such,

That not an image of the past
Should fear that pencil's touch!

Retirement then might hourly look
Upon a soothing scene,

Age steal to his allotted nook
Contented and serene;

With heart as calm as lakes that sleep,
In frosty moonlight glistening;
Or mountain rivers, where they creep
Along a channel smooth and deep,
To their own far-off murmurs listening.
1823. 1827.

TO A SKY-LARK

ETHEREAL minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?

Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye

Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?

Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,

Those quivering wings composed, that music still!

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;

A privacy of glorious light is thine; Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood

Of harmony, with instinct more di vine;

Type of the wise who soar, but never

roam;

True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home! 1825. 1827.

SCORN NOT THE SONNET

Composed, almost extempore, in a short walk on the western side of Rydal Lake. (Wordsworth.)

SCORN not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,

Mindless of its just honors; with this key

Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the melody

Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound;

A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound:

With it Camõens soothed an exile's grief;

The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned

His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp, It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faeryland

To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp

Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand

The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew

Soul-animating strains-alas, too few!

1827 1827.

THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK

Written at Rydal Mount. The Rock stands on the right hand a little way leading up the middle road from Rydal to Grasmere. We have been in the habit of calling it the glow-worm rock from the number of glow-worms we have often seen hanging on it as described. The tuft of primrose has, I fear, been washed away by the heavy rains. (Wordsworth)

See Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, April 24th, 1802.

A ROCK there is whose homely front

The passing traveller slights; Yet there the glow-worms hang their lamps,

Like stars, at various heights;
And one coy Primrose to that Rock
The vernal breeze invites.

What hideous warfare hath been waged,
What kingdoms overthrown,
Since first I spied that Primrose-tuft
And marked it for my own;

A lasting link in Nature's chain
From highest heaven let down!

The flowers, still faithful to the stems,
Their fellowship renew;

The stems are faithful to the root,
That worketh out of view;
And to the rock the root adheres
In every fibre true.

Close clings to earth the living rock,
Though threatening still to fall;
The earth is constant to her sphere;
And God upholds them all:

So blooms this lonely Plant, nor dreads
Her annual funeral.

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The following Stanzas are a memorial of a day passed with Sir Walter Scott and other Friends visiting the Banks of the Yarrow under his guidance, immediately before his departure from Abbotsford, for Naples.

The title Yarrow Revisited will stand in no need of explanation for Readers acquainted with the Author's previous poems suggested by that celebrated Stream. (Wordsworth.)

THE gallant Youth, who may have gained,

Or seeks, a " winsome Marrow," Was but an Infant in the lap

When first I looked on Yarrow; Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate Long left without a warder,

I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee, Great Minstrel of the Border!

Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day,

Their dignity installing

In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves
Were on the bough, or falling;

But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed

The forest to embolden;

Reddened the fiery hues, and shot
Transparence through the golden.

For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on
In foamy agitation;

And slept in many a crystal pool

For quiet contemplation:
No public and no private care
The freeborn mind enthralling,
We made a day of happy hours,
Our happy days recalling.

Brisk Youth appeared, the Morn of

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Like guests that meet, and some from far,

By cordial love invited.

And if, as Yarrow, through the woods
And down the meadow ranging,
Did meet us with unaltered face,

Though we were changed and chang-
ing;

If, then, some natural shadows spread
Our inward prospect over,
The soul's deep valley was not slow
Its brightness to recover.

Eternal blessings on the Muse,

And her divine employment!

The blameless Muse, who trains her Sons
For hope and calm enjoyment;
Albeit sickness, lingering yet,

Has o'er their pillow brooded ;

And Care waylays their steps--a Sprite
Not easily eluded.

For thee, O SCOTT! compelled to change
Green Eildon-hill and Cheviot
For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes;
And leave thy Tweed and Tiviot
For mild Sorrento's breezy waves;
May classic Fancy, linking
With native Fancy her fresh aid,
Preserve thy heart from sinking!
Oh! while they minister to thee,
Each vying with the other,
May Health return to mellow Age
With Strength, her venturous brother;
And Tiber, and each brook and rill
Renowned in song and story,
With unimagined beauty shine,
Nor lose one ray of glory!

For Thou, upon a hundred streams,
By tales of love and sorrow
Of faithful love, undaunted truth,
Hast shed the power of Yarrow;
And streams unknown, hills yet unseen,
Wherever they invite Thee,
At parent Nature's grateful call,

With gladness must requite Thee.

A gracious welcome shall be thine,
Such looks of love and honor
As thy own Yarrow gave to me
When first I gazed upon her;
Beleld what I had feared to see,
Unwilling to surrender

Dreams treasured up from early days,
The holy and the tender.

And what, for this frail world, were all That mortals do or suffer,

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As recorded in my sister's Journal, I had first seen the Trosachs in her and Coleridge's com pany. The sentiment that runs through this Sonnet was natural to the season in which I again saw this beautiful spot; but this and some other sonnets that follow were colored by the remembrance of my recent visit to Sir Walter Scott, and the melancholy errand on which he was going. (Wordsworth.)

THERE'S not a nook within this solemn Pass.

But were an apt confessional for One Taught by his summer spent, his autumn

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