p. 659¶I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky;And I bethought me of the playful hare:Even such a happy Child of earth am I:Even as these blissful creatures do I fare;Far from the world I walk, and from all care;But there may come another day to me—Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty.
¶My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought,As if life's business were a summer mood;As if all needful things would come unsoughtTo genial faith, still rich in genial good;But how can He expect that others shouldBuild for him, sow for him, and at his callLove him, who for himself will take no heed at all?
¶I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy,The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride;Of Him who walked in glory and in joyFollowing his plough, along the mountain-side:By our own spirits are we deified:We Poets in our youth begin in gladness;But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
¶Now, whether it were by peculiar grace,A leading from above, a something given,Yet it befell, that, in this lonely place,When I with these untoward thoughts had striven,Beside a pool bare to the eye of heavenI saw a Man before me unawares:The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.[660]As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lieCouched on the bald top of an eminence;Wonder to all who do the same espy,By what means it could thither come, and whence;So that it seems a thing endued with sense:Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelfOf rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself;
¶Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead,Nor all asleep—in his extreme old age:His body was bent double, feet and headComing together in Life's pilgrimage;As if some dire constraint of pain, or rageOf sickness felt by him in times long past,A more than human weight upon his frame had cast.
¶Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face,Upon a long grey staff of shaven wood:And, still as I drew near with gentle pace,Upon the margin of that moorish floodMotionless as a cloud the old Man stood;That heareth not the loud winds when they call;And moveth altogether, if it move at all.
¶At length, himself unsettling, he the pondStirred with his staff, and fixedly did lookUpon the muddy water, which he conned,As if he had been reading in a book:And now a stranger's privilege I took;And, drawing to his side, to him did say,'This morning gives us promise of a glorious day.'
¶A gentle answer did the old Man make,In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew:And him with further words I thus bespake,'What occupation do you there pursue?This is a lonesome place for one like you.'Ere he replied, a flash of mild surpriseBroke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes.[661]His words came feebly, from a feeble chest,But each in solemn order followed each,With something of a lofty utterance drest—Choice word and measured phrase, above the reachOf ordinary men; a stately speech;Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use,Religious men, who give to God and man their dues.
¶He told, that to these waters he had comeTo gather leeches, being old and poor:Employment hazardous and wearisome!And he had many hardships to endure:From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor:Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance;And in this way he gained an honest maintenance,
¶The old Man still stood talking by my side;But now his voice to me was like a streamScarce heard; nor word from word could I divide:And the whole body of the Man did seemLike one whom I had met with in a dream;Or like a man from some far region sent,To give me human strength, by apt admonishment.
¶My former thoughts returned: the fear that killsAnd hope that is unwilling to be fed;Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills:And mighty Poets in their misery dead.—Perplexed, and longing to be comforted,My question eagerly did I renew,'How is it that you live, and what is it you do?'
¶He with a smile did then his words repeat:And said, that, gathering leeches, far and wideHe travelled; stirring thus about his feetThe waters of the pools where they abide.'Once I could meet with them on every side;But they have dwindled long by slow decay;Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may.'[662]While he was talking thus, the lonely place,The old Man's shape, and speech—all troubled me:In my mind's eye I seemed to see him paceAbout the weary moors continually,Wandering about alone and silently.While I these thoughts within myself pursued,He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed.
¶And soon with this he other matter blended,Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind,But stately in the main; and when he ended,I could have laughed myself to scorn to findIn that decrepit Man so firm a mind.'God,' said I, 'be my help and stay secure;I'll think of the leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!'
Laodamia
¶'WITH sacrifice before the rising mornVows have I made by fruitless hope inspired;And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlornOf night, my slaughtered Lord have I required:Celestial pity I again implore;—Restore him to my sight—great Jove, restore!'
¶So speaking, and by fervent love endowedWith faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts her handsWhile, like the sun emerging from a cloud,Her countenance brightens—and her eye expands;Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows;And she expects the issue in repose.
¶O terror! what hath she perceived?—O joy!What doth she look on?—whom doth she behold?Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy?His vital presence? his corporeal mould?It is—if sense deceive her not—'tis He!And a God leads him, winged Mercury!
¶Mild Hermes spake—and touched her with his wandThat calms all fear; 'Such grace hath crowned thy prayer,Laodamia! that at Jove's command[663]Thy Husband walks the paths of upper air:He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space;Accept the gift, behold him face to face!'
¶Forth sprang the impassioned Queen her Lord to clasp:Again that consummation she essayed;But unsubstantial Form eludes her graspAs often as that eager grasp was made.The Phantom parts—but parts to reunite,And re-assume his place before her sight.
¶'Protesilaus, lo! thy guide is gone!Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice:This is our palace,—yonder is thy throne;Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice.Not to appal me have the gods bestowedThis precious boon; and blest a sad abode.'
¶'Great Jove, Laodamia! doth not leaveHis gifts imperfect:—Spectre though I be,I am not sent to scare thee or deceive;But in reward of thy fidelity.And something also did my worth obtain;For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain.
¶'Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretoldThat the first Greek who touched the Trojan strandShould die; but me the threat could not withhold:A generous cause a victim did demand;And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain;A self-devoted chief—by Hector slain.'
¶'Supreme of Heroes—bravest, noblest, best!Thy matchless courage I bewail no more,Which then, when tens of thousands were deprestBy doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore;Thou found'st—and I forgive thee—here thou art—A nobler counsellor than my poor heart.
¶'But thou, though capable of sternest deed,Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave;And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed[664]Thou should'st elude the malice of the grave:Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fairAs when their breath enriched Thessalian air.
¶'No Spectre greets me,—no vain shadow this;Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my side!Give, on this well-known couch, one nuptial kissTo me, this day, a second time thy bride!'Jove frowned in heaven: the conscious Parca; threwUpon those roseate lips a Stygian hue.
¶'This visage tells thee that my doom is past:Nor should the change be mourned, even if the joysOf sense were able to return as fastAnd surely as they vanish. Earth destroysThose raptures duly—Erebus disdains:Calm pleasures there abide—majestic pains.
¶'Be taught, O faithful Consort, to controlRebellious passion: for the Gods approveThe depth, and not the tumult, of the soul;A fervent, not ungovernable, love.Thy transports moderate; and meekly mournWhen I depart, for brief is my sojourn—'
¶'Ah, wherefore?—Did not Hercules by forceWrest from the guardian Monster of the tombAlcestis, a reanimated corse,Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom?Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years,And ./Eson stood a youth 'mid youthful peers.
¶'The Gods to us are merciful—and theyYet further may relent: for mightier farThan strength of nerve and sinew, or the swayOf magic potent over sun and star,Is love, though oft to agony distrest,And though his favourite seat be feeble woman's breast
¶'But if thou goest, I follow—' 'Peace!' he said—She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered;The ghastly colour from his lips had fled;[665]In his deportment, shape, and mien, appearedElysian beauty, melancholy grace,Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
¶He spake of love, such love as Spirits feelIn worlds whose course is equable and pure;No fears to beat away—no strife to heal—The past unsighed for, and the future sure;Spake of heroic arts in graver moodRevived, with finer harmony pursued:
¶Of all that is most beauteous—imaged thereIn happier beauty; more pellucid streams,An ampler ether, a diviner air,And fields invested with purpureal gleams;Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest dayEarth knows, is all unworthy to survey.
¶Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath earnedThat privilege by virtue—'111,' said he,'The end of man's existence I discerned,Who from ignoble games and revelryCould draw, when we had parted, vain delightWhile tears were thy best pastime,—day and night:
¶'And while my youthful peers, before my eyes,(Each hero following his peculiar bent)Prepared themselves for glorious enterpriseBy martial sports,—or, seated in the tent,Chieftains and kings in council were detained;What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained.
¶'The wished-for wind was given:—I then revolvedThe oracle, upon the silent sea;And, if no worthier led the way, resolvedThat, of a thousand vessels, mine should beThe foremost prow in pressing to the strand,—Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand.
¶'Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pangWhen of thy loss I thought, beloved Wife!On thee too fondly did my memory hang,[666]And on the joys we shared in mortal life,—The paths which we had trod—these fountains, flowers,My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers.
¶'But should suspense permit the Foe to cry,'Behold, they tremble!—haughty their array,Yet of their number no one dares to die!'—In soul I swept the indignity away:Old frailties then recurred:—but lofty thought,In act embodied, my deliverance wrought.
¶'And Thou, though strong in love, art all too weakIn reason, in self-government too slow;I counsel thee by fortitude to seekOur blest reunion in the shades below.The invisible world with thee hath sympathized:Be thy affections raised and solemnized.
¶'Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascendSeeking a higher object. Love was given,Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end:For this the passion to excess was driven—That self might be annulled: her bondage proveThe fetters of a dream, opposed to love.'—
¶Aloud she shrieked! for Hermes reappears!Round the dear Shade she would have clung—'tis vain:The hours are past—too brief had they been years;And him no mortal effort can detain:Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly day,He through the portal takes his silent way,And on the palace floor a lifeless corse She lay.
¶Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved,She perished; and, as for a wilful crime,By the just Gods whom no weak pity moved,Was doomed to wear out her appointed time,Apart from happy Ghosts—that gather flowersOf blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers.[667]Yet tears to human suffering are due;And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrownAre mourned by man, and not by man alone,As fondly he believes.—Upon the sideOf Hellespont (such faith was entertained)A knot of spiry trees for ages grewFrom out the tomb of him for whom she diedAnd ever, when such stature they had gainedThat Ilium's walls were subject to their view,The trees' tall summits withered at the sight;A constant interchange of growth and blight!
We Are Seven
¶A SIMPLE Child,
¶I met a little cottage Girl:She was eight years old, she said;Her hair was thick with many a curlThat 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,And wondering looked at me.
¶'And where are they? I pray you tell.'She answered, 'Seven are we;And two of us at Conway dwell,And two are gone to sea.
¶'Two of us in the church-yard lie,My sister and my brother;And, in the church-yard cottage, IDwell near them with my mother.'[668]'You say that two at Conway dwell,And two are gone to sea,Yet ye are seven!—I pray you tell,Sweet Maid, how this may be.'
¶Then did the little Maid reply,'Seven boys and girls are we;Two of us in the church-yard lie,Beneath the church-yard tree.'
¶'You run above, my little Maid,Your limbs they are alive;If two are in the church-yard laid,Then ye are only five.'
¶'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,My kerchief there I hem;And there upon the ground I sit,And sing a song to them.
¶'And often after sun-set, Sir,When it is light and fair,I take my little porringer,And eat my supper there.
¶'The first that died was sister Jane;In bed she moaning lay,Till God released her of her pain;And then she went away.
¶'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[669]'And when the ground was white with snow,And I could run and slide,My brother John was forced to go,And he lies by her side.'
¶'How many are you, then,' said I,'If they two are in heaven?'Quick was the little Maid's reply,'O Master! we are seven.'
¶'But they are dead; those two are dead!Their spirits are in heaven!''Twas throwing words away; for stillThe little Maid would have her will,And said, 'Nay, we are seven!'
LucyI
¶STRANGE fits of passion have I known:And I will dare to tell,But in the lover's ear alone,What once to me befell.
¶When she I loved look'd every dayFresh as a rose in June,I to her cottage bent my way,Beneath an evening moon.
¶Upon the moon I fix'd my eye,All over the wide lea;With quickening pace my horse drew nighThose paths so dear to me.
¶And now we reach'd the orchard-plot;And, as we climb'd the hill,The sinking moon to Lucy's cotCame near and nearer still.[670]In one of those sweet dreams I slept,Kind Nature's gentlest boon!And all the while my eyes I keptOn the descending moon.
¶My horse moved on; hoof after hoofHe raised, and never stopp'd:When down behind the cottage roof,At once, the bright moon dropp'd.
¶What fond and wayward thoughts will slideInto a lover's head!'O mercy!' to myself I cried,'If Lucy should be dead!'
II
¶She dwelt among the untrodden waysBeside the springs of Dove;A maid whom there were none to praise,And very few to love.
¶A violet by a mossy stoneHalf-hidden from the eye!—Fair as a star, when only oneIs shining in the sky.
¶She lived unknown, and few could knowWhen Lucy ceased to be;But she is in her grave, and, O!The difference to me!
¶IllI travell'd among unknown menIn lands beyond the sea;Nor, England! did I know till thenWhat love I bore to thee.
¶'Tis past, that melancholy dream!Nor will I quit thy shoreA second time, for still I seemTo love thee more and more.[671]Among thy mountains did I feelThe joy of my desire;And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheelBeside an English fire.
¶Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'dThe bowers where Lucy play'd;And thine too is the last green fieldThat Lucy's eyes survey'd.IVThree years she grew in sun and shower;Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flowerOn earth was never sown:This child I to myself will take;She shall be mine, and I will makeA lady of my own.
¶'Myself will to my darling beBoth law and impulse: and with meThe girl, in rock and plain,In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,Shall feel an overseeing powerTo kindle or restrain.
¶'She shall be sportive as the fawnThat wild with glee across the lawnOr up the mountain springs;And her's shall be the breathing balm,And her's the silence and the calmOf mute insensate things.
¶'The floating clouds their state shall lendTo her; for her the willow bend;Nor shall she fail to seeE'en in the motions of the stormGrace that shall mould the maiden's formBy silent sympathy.
¶'The stars of midnight shall be dearTo her; and she shall lean her earIn many a secret place[672]Where rivulets dance their wayward round,And beauty born of murmuring soundShall pass into her face.
¶'And vital feelings of delightShall rear her form to stately height,Her virgin bosom swell;Such thoughts to Lucy I will giveWhere she and I together liveHere in this happy dell.'
¶Thus Nature spake—The work was done—How soon my Lucy's race was run!She died, and left to meThis heath, this calm and quiet scene;The memory of what has been,And never more will be.
V
¶A slumber did my spirit seal;I had no human fears:She seem'd a thing that could not feelThe touch of earthly years.
¶No motion has she now, no force;She neither hears nor sees;Roll'd round in earth's diurnal courseWith rocks, and stones, and trees.
The Inner Vision
¶MOST sweet it is with unuplifted eyesTo pace the ground, if path there be or noneWhile a fair region round the Traveller liesWhich he forbears again to look upon;
¶Pleased rather with some soft ideal sceneThe work of Fancy, or some happy toneOf meditation, slipping in betweenThe beauty coming and the beauty gone.[673]—If Thought and Love desert us, from that dayLet us break off all commerce with the Muse:With Thought and Love companions of our way—
¶Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,—The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dewsOf inspiration on the humblest lay.
By the Sea
¶IT is a beauteous evening, calm and free;The holy time is quiet as a nunBreathless with adoration; the broad sunIs sinking down in its tranquillity;
¶The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea:Listen! the mighty being is awake,And doth with his eternal motion makeA sound like thunder—everlastingly.
¶Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thoughtThy nature is not therefore less divine:
¶Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year,And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine,God being with thee when we know it not.
Upon Westminster Bridge
¶Sept. 3, 1802
¶EARTH has not anything to show more fair:Dull would he be of soul who could pass byA sight so touching in its majesty:This City now doth like a garment wear
¶The beauty of the morning: silent, bare,Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lieOpen unto the fields, and to the sky,All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.[674]Never did sun more beautifully steepIn his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
¶The river glideth at his own sweet will:Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;And all that mighty heart is lying still!
To A DISTANT FRIEND
¶WHY art thou silent? Is thy love a plantOf such weak fibre that the treacherous airOf absence withers what was once so fair?Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?
¶Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant,Bound to thy service with unceasing care—The mind's least generous wish a mendicantFor nought but what thy happiness could spare.
¶Speak!—though this soft warm heart, once free to holdA thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,Be left more desolate, more dreary cold
¶Than a forsaken bird's-nest fill'd with snow'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine—Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!
400 De Side Ria
¶SURPRIZED by joy—impatient as the wind—I turn'd to share the transport—O with whomBut Thee—deep buried in the silent tomb,That spot which no vicissitude can find?
¶Love, faithful love recall'd thee to my mindBut how could I forget thee? Through what powerEven for the least division of an hourHave I been so beguiled as to be blind[675]To my most grievous loss—That thought's returnWas the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
p. 675¶Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;That neither present time, nor years unbornCould to my sight that heavenly face restore.
401 We Must Be Free or Die
¶IT is not to be thought of that the floodOf British freedom, which, to the open seaOf the world's praise, from dark antiquityHath flowed, 'with pomp of waters, unwithstood,Roused though it be full often to a moodWhich spurns the check of salutary bands,That this most famous Stream in bogs and sandsShould perish; and to evil and to goodBe lost for ever. In our halls is hungArmoury of the invincible knights of old:We must be free or die, who speak the tongueThat Shakespeare spoke: the faith and morals holdWhich Milton held.—In everything we are sprungOf Earth's first blood, have titles manifold.
402 England and Switzerland
¶[1802]Two voices are there, one is of the Sea,One of the Mountains, each a mighty voice:In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,They were thy chosen music, Liberty!
¶There came a tyrant, and with holy gleeThou fought'st against him,—but hast vainly striven:Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art drivenWhere not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.
¶—Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft;Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left—For high-soul'd Maid, what sorrow would it be[676]That Mountain floods should thunder as before,And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,And neither awful Voice be heard by Thee!
¶403 ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC
¶ONCE did She hold the gorgeous East in feeAnd was the safeguard of the West; the worthOf Venice did not fall below her birth,Venice, the eldest child of liberty.
¶She was a maiden city, bright and free;No guile seduced, no force could violate;And when she took unto herself a mate,She must espouse the everlasting Sea.
¶And what if she had seen those glories fade,Those titles vanish, and that strength decay,—Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid
¶When her long life hath reach'd its final day:Men are we, and must grieve when even the shadeOf that which once was great has pass'd away.
404 London, Mdcccii
¶O FRIEND! I know not which way I must lookFor comfort, being, as I am, opprestTo think that now our life is only drestFor show; mean handi-work of craftsman, cook,
¶Or groom!—We must run glittering like a brookIn the open sunshine, or we are unblest;The wealthiest man among us is the best:No grandeur now in nature or in book
¶Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,This is idolatry; and these we adore:Plain living and high thinking are no more:
¶The homely beauty of the good old causeIs gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,And pure religion breathing household laws.
The Same
¶MILTON! thou shouldst be living at this hour:England hath need of thee: she is a fenOf stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
¶Have forfeited their ancient English dowerOf inward happiness. We are selfish men:O! raise us up, return to us again;And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
¶Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea,Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free;
¶So didst thou travel on life's common wayIn cheerful godliness; and yet thy heartThe lowliest duties on herself did lay.
When I Have Borne
¶WHEN I have borne in memory what has tamedGreat nations; how ennobling thoughts departWhen men change swords for ledgers, and desertThe student's bower for gold,—some fears unnamed
¶I had, my Country!—am I to be blamed?Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,Verily, in the bottom of my heartOf those unfilial fears I am ashamed.
¶For dearly must we prize thee; we who findIn thee a bulwark for the cause of men;And I by my affection was beguiled:
¶What wonder if a Poet now and then,Among the many movements of his mind,Felt for thee as a lover or a child!
The World Is Too Much with Us
¶THE World is too much with us; late and soon,Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;Little we see in Nature that is ours;We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
¶This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,The winds that will be howling at all hoursAnd are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers,For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;
¶It moves us not.—Great God! I'd rather beA Pagan suckled in a creed outworn,—So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
¶Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
Within King's College Chapel, Cambridge
¶TAX not the royal Saint with vain expense,With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd(Albeit labouring for a scanty bandOf white-robed Scholars only) this immense
¶And glorious work of fine intelligence!—Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the loreOf nicely-calculated less or more:—So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense
¶These lofty pillars, spread that branching roofSelf-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cellsWhere light and shade repose, where music dwells
¶Lingering and wandering on as loth to die—Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proofThat they were born for immortality.
p. 679¶409 VALEDICTORY SONNET TO THE RIVER DUDDON
¶I THOUGHT of Thee, my partner and my guide,As being past away.—Vain sympathies!For, backward, Duddon! as I cast my eyes,I see what was, and is, and will abide;Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide;The Form remains, the Function never dies;While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise,We Men, who in our morn of youth defiedThe elements, must vanish;—be it so!Enough, if something from our hands have powerTo live, and act, and serve the future hour;And if, as toward the silent tomb we go,Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendentdower,We feel that we are greater than we know.
¶410 COMPOSED AT NEIDPATH CASTLE, THE PROPERTY OF
Lord Queensberry
¶[1803]DEGENERATE Douglas! oh, the unworthy lord!Whom mere despite of heart could so far pleaseAnd love of havoc, (for with such diseaseFame taxes him,) that he could send forth word
¶To level with the dust a noble horde,A brotherhood of venerable trees,Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these,Beggar'd and outraged!—Many hearts deplored
¶The fate of those old trees; and oft with painThe traveller at this day will stop and gazeOn wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:
¶For shelter'd places, bosoms, nooks, and bays,And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,And the green silent pastures, yet remain.
411 Admonition to a Traveller
¶YES, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!—The lovely cottage in the guardian nookHath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook,Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!
¶But covet not the abode; O do not sighAs many do, repining while they look;Intruders who would tear from Nature's bookThis precious leaf with harsh impiety:
¶—Think what the home must be if it were thine,Even thine, though few thy wants!—Roof, window, door,The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,
¶The roses to the porch which they entwine:Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the dayOn which it should be touch'd would melt away!
412 To SLEEP
¶A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass byOne after one; the sound of rain, and beesMurmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;—
¶I've thought of all by turns, and still I lieSleepless; and soon the small birds' melodiesMust hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees,And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
¶Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay,And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:So do not let me wear to-night away:
¶Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?Come, blessed barrier between day and day,Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
The SonnetI
¶NUNS fret not at their convent's narrow room;And hermits are contented with their cells;And students with their pensive citadels;Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,High as the highest peak of Furness-fells,Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:In truth the prison, unto which we doomOurselves, no prison is: and hence for me,In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be boundWithin the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground;Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be)Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,Should find brief solace there, as I have found.
II
¶SCORN not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frown'd,Mindless of its just honours; with this keyShakespeare unlock'd his heart; the melodyOf this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound;A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;With it Camoens sooth'd an exile's grief;The Sonnet glitter'd a gay myrtle leafAmid the cypress with which Dante crown'dHis visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp,It cheer'd mild Spenser, call'd from Faery-landTo struggle through dark ways; and, when a dampFell round the path of Milton, in his handThe Thing became a trumpet; whence he blewSoul-animating strains—alas, too few!