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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,
50 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 55 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 himself, In lowliness of heart.
“Their graves are green, they may be
seen,” The little maid replied, "Twelve steps or more from my mother's
door, And they are side by side.
“My stockings there I often knit,
WE ARE SEVEN
A simple child,
5 She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, And 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, 15 And wondering looked at me.
“And often after sunset, sir,
“The first that died was sister Jane;
"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.
For when the chiming hounds are out,
No man like him the horn could sound,
He all the country could outrun,
O gentle reader! you would find
Through primrose tufts, in that green
One summer-day I chanced to see
If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY
LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES THE TABLES TURNED
ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON (1798)
REVISITING THE BANKS OF
THE WYE DURING A TOUR AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME
July 13, 1798
Five years have past; five summers, with
Of five long winters! and again I hear
- Once again The sun, above the mountain's head, Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, A freshening lustre mellow
That on a wild secluded scene impress Through all the long green fields has Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and conspread,
nect His first sweet evening yellow.
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
Here, under this dark sycamore, and Come, hear the woodland linnet,
view How sweet his music! on my life
These plots of cottage-ground, these orThere's more of wisdom in it.
chard-tufts, And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
Which at this season, with their unripe
fruits, He, too, is no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose them
selves Let Nature be your teacher.
'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see She has a world of ready wealth,
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, Our minds and hearts to bless -
little lines Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral Truth breathed by cheerfulness.
Green to the very door; and wreaths of One impulse from a vernal wood
smoke May teach you more of man,
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!
LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY
With some uncertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
20 Or of some hermit's cave, where by his
fire The hermit sits alone.
These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to
thee, O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the
woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee! And now, with gleams of half-extin
guished thought, With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity, The picture of the mind revives again: While here I stand, not only with the
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing
thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years.
And so I dare to hope,
65 Though changed, no doubt, from what I
was when first I came among these hills; when like a
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
25 Of towns and cities, I have owed to them In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration: — feelings
too Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered, acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, 1
trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed
mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, Is lightened:— that serene and blessed
mood, In which the affections gently lead us on, Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the
power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how
oft In darkness and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the
sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wherever nature led: more like a man 70 Flying from something that he dreads,
than one Who sought the thing he loved. For
nature then (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, And their glad animal movements all gone
by) To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 75 What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy
wood, Their colors and their forms, were then
to me An appetite; a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye. That time is
past, And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures,
Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other