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But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a Where, like a man beloved of God, breeze
Through glooms, which never woodman By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the
How oft, pursuing fancies holy, Of ancient mountain, and beneath the My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds clouds,
I wound, Which image in their bulk both lakes and Inspired beyond the guess of folly, shores
By each rude shape and wild unconquerAnd mountain crags : so shalt thou see and
able sound ! hear
O ye loud Waves! and 0 ye Forests The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
high! Of that eternal language, which thy God And 0 ye Clouds that far above me Utters, who from eternity doth teach
soared! Himself in all, and all things in himself. Thou rising sun! thou blue rejoicing Great universal Teacher ! he shall mold Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. Yea, every thing that is and will be free!
Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be, Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to
With what deep worship I have still thee,
adored Whether the summer clothe the general
The spirit of divinest Liberty. earth With greenness, or the redbreast sit and
II sing Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare
When France in wrath her giant-limbs branch Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
upreared, Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the
And with that oath which smote air,
earth and sea, eave-drops fall Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Stamped her strong foot and said she
would be free, Or if the secret ministry of frost Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Bear witness for me, how I hoped and Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.
feared ! With what a joy my lofty gratulation
Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band : FRANCE: AN ODE
And when to whelm the disenchanted
nation, Like fiends embattled by a wizard's
wand, Ye Clouds! that far above me float and The Monarchs marched in evil day, pause,
And Britain join'd the dire array ; Whose pathless march no mortal may Though dear her shores and circling control!
ocean, Ye Ocean Waves! that, wheresoe'er ye Though many friendships, many youthroll,
ful loves Yield homage only to eternal laws !
Had swoln the patriot emotion Ye Woods! that listen to the night-bird's And flung a magic light o'er all her hills singing,
and groves; Midway the smooth and perilous slope Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat reclined,
To all that braved the tyrant-quelling Save when your own imperious branches
And shame too long delay'd and vain Have made a solemn music of the wind !
For ne'er, O Liberty! with partial aim I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy
Heroes, that for your peaceful country But blessed the pæans of delivered perished, France,
And ye, that fleeing, spot your mountain And hung my head and wept at Britain's
With bleeding wounds; forgive me, that
I cherished “And what,” I said, “though Blasphemy's One thought that ever blessed your cruel loud scream
foes ! With that sweet music of deliverance To scatter rage and traitorous guilt strove!
Where Peace her jealous home had built ; Though all the fierce and drunken pas
A patriot-race to disinherit sions wove
Of all that made their stormy wilds so A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's
And with inexpiable spirit Ye storms, that round the dawning east To taint the bloodless freedom of the assembled,
mountaineer – The Sun was rising, though ye hid his
O France, that mockest Heaven, adullight!
terous, blind, And when to soothe my soul, that And patriot only in pernicious toils ! hoped and trembled,
Are these thy boasts, Champion of human The dissonance ceased, and all seemed
kind ? calm and bright;
To mix with Kings in the low lust of When France her front deep-scarr'd
Yell in the hunt, and share the murderConcealed with clustering wreaths of
ous prey ; glory;
To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils When insupportably advancing,
From freemen torn; to tempt and to Her arm made mockery of the warrior's betray?
ramp; While timid looks of fury glancing, Domestic treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp,
The Sensual and the Dark rebel in Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore;
vain, Then I reproached my fears that would
Slaves by their own compulsion! In not flee; “And soon,” I said, “shall Wisdom teach They burst their manacles and wear her lore
the name In the low huts of them that toil and groan;
Of Freedom, graven on
a heavier And, conquering by her happiness alone,
chain ! Shall France compel the nations to be
O Liberty! with profitless endeavour free,
Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour; Till Love and Joy look round, and call the But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain earth their own.”
Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human IV
power. Forgive me, Freedom! O forgive those Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee dreams!
(Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament,
thee) From bleak Helvetia's icy caverns Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minsent
And factious Blasphemy's obscener Those sounds which oft have raised me, slaves,
whilst they awed, Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions, And sent my soul abroad, The guide of homeless winds, and play Might now perhaps their wonted impulse mate of the waves !
give, And then I felt thee! — on that sea-cliff's Might startle this dull pain, and make it verge,
live! Whose pines, scarce travelled by the
breeze above, Had made one murmur with the distant A grief without a pang, void, dark, and surge!
drear, Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, bare,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief, And shot my being through earth, sea, and In word, or sigh, or tear air,
O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood, Possessing all things with intensest love, To other thoughts by yonder throstle O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there.
All this long eve, so balmy and serene, DEJECTION: AN ODE Have I been gazing on the western sky,
And its peculiar tint of yellow green: Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon
And still I
and with how blank an With the old Moon in her arms;
eye! And I fear, I fear, my Master dear!
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and We shall have a deadly storm.
bars, Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence. That give away their motion to the stars;
Those stars, that glide behind them or be
tween, Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but almade
ways seen : The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Yon crescent moon, as fixed as if it grew Spence,
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue; This night, so tranquil now, will not go I see them all so excellently fair, hence
I see, not feel, how beautiful they are ! Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade Than those which mould yon cloud in
III lazy flakes, Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and
My genial spirits fail;
And what can these avail rakes
To lift the smothering weight from off my Upon the strings of this Æolian lute,
breast? Which better far were mute;
It were a vain endeavour, For lo! the new-moon winter bright!
Though I should gaze for ever And overspread with phantom light, (With swimming phantom light o'er
On that green light that lingers in the
west : spread But rimmed and circled by a silver
I may not hope from outward forms to
The passion and the life, whose fountains I see the old moon in her lap, foretelling
are within. The coming-on of rain and squally blast. And oh! that even now the gust were
IV swelling, And the slant night shower driving O Lady, we receive but what we give, loud and fast!
And in our life alone does Nature live:
Ours is her wedding garment, ours her
shroud! And what we ought behold, of higher
worth, Than that inanimate cold world allowed To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
Enveloping the earth — And from the soul itself must there be sent A sweet and potent voice, of its own
birth, Of all sweet sounds the life and element !
But now afflictions bow me down to earth: Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;
But oh! each visitation Suspends what Nature gave me at my
birth, My shaping spirit of Imagination. For not to think of what I needs must feel,
But to be still and patient, all I can; And haply by abstruse research to steal
From my own nature all the natural
This was my sole resource, my only
plan: Till that which suits a part infects the
whole, And now is almost grown the habit of my
O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me
mist, This beautiful and beauty-making power. Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was
given, Save to the pure, and in their purest hour, Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once
and shower, Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power, Which wedding Nature to us gives in
dower, A new earth and new heaven, Undreamt of by the sensual and the
proud Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous
We in ourselves rejoice! And thence flows all that charms or ear
or sight, All melodies the echoes of that voice, All colours a suffusion from that light.
Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around
Reality's dark dream!
What a scream
ravest without, Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted
tree, Or pine-grove whither woodman
clomb, Or lonely house, long held the witches'
home, Methinks were fitter instruments for
thee, Mad Lutanist! who in this month of
showers, Of dark brown gardens, and of peeping
flowers, Makest Devils' yule, with worse than
wintry song, The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves
among Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds ! Thou mighty Poet, even to frenzy bold !
What tell'st thou now about?
'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout, With groans of trampled men, with
smarting wounds At once they groan with pain, and shudder
VI There was a time when, though my path
was rough, This joy within me dallied with distress, And all misfortunes were but as the stuff Whence Fancy made me dreams of hap
piness : For hope grew round me, like the twining
with the cold !
vine, And fruits, and foliage, not my own,
But hush! there is a pause of deepest These waters, rolling from their mountainsilence !
springs And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, With a soft inland murmur. Once again With groans and tremulous shudderings - Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, all is over
That on a wild secluded scene impress It tells another tale, with sounds less Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and condeep and loud!
nect A tale of less affright,
The landscape with the quiet of the sky. And tempered with delight,
The day is come when I again repose As Otway's self had framed the tender lay; Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 'Tis of a little child
These plots of cottage-ground, these Upon a lonesome wild,
orchard-tufts, Not far from home, but she hath lost her Which at this season, with their unripe way:
fruits, And now moans low in bitter grief and fear, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themAnd now screams loud, and hopes to make
selves her mother hear.
Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
These hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little VIII
Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral 'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I
farms, of sleep:
Green to the very door; and wreaths of Full seldom may my friend such vigils
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees ! Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of
With some uncertain notice, as might seem healing,
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, And may this storm be but a mountain
Or of some hermit's cave, where by his birth,
fire May all the stars hang bright above her
The hermit sits alone. dwelling, Silent as though they watched the sleep- Through a long absence, have not been
These beauteous forms, ing Earth!
to me With light heart may she rise,
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice;
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them To her may all things live, from pole to
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, pole,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; Their life the eddying of her living soul !
And passing even into my purer mind, O simple spirit, guided from above,
With tranquil restoration : - feelings too Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice,
Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.
As have no slight or trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life, WILLIAM WORDSWORTH His little, nameless, unremembered acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES To them I may have owed another gift,
ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON Of aspect more sublime; that blessed REVISITING THE BANKS OF
mood, THE WYE DURING A TOUR In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight Five years have past; five summers,
Of all this unintelligible world, with the length
Is lightened: - that serene and blessed Of five long winters! and again I hear