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LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet, I knew not why, I heard a thousand blended notes, To me my good friend Matthew spake, 15 While in a grove I sat reclined,
And thus I made reply: In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
“The eye—it cannot choose but see; Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where'er they be, To her fair works did Nature link 5 Against or with our will. The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think “Nor less I deem that there are Powers What man has made of man.
Which of themselves our minds impress;
That we can feed this mind of ours Through primrose tufts, in that green In a wise passiveness.
bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; “Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum 25 And 'tis my faith that every flower Of things forever speaking, Enjoys the air it breathes.
That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking?
“—Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, But the least motion which they made 15 Conversing as I may,
30 It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
I sit upon this old grey stone,
And dream my time away.”
THE TABLES TURNED
An Evening Scene on the same Subject If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be nature's holy plan,
Up! up! my friend, and quit your books; Have I not reason to lament
Or surely you'll grow double:
Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks;
The sun, above the mountain's head, 5 EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread, “Why, William, on that old grey stone, His first sweet evening yellow. Thus for the length of half a day, Why, William, sit you thus alone,
Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: And dream your time away?
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life “Where are your books?—that light be- There's more of wisdom in it. queathed
5 To beings else forlorn and blind!
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed He, too, is no mean preacher: From dead men to their kind.
Come forth into the light of things, 15
Let Nature be your teacher. “You look round on your Mother Earth,
She has a world of ready wealth, As if she for no purpose bore you;
Our minds and hearts to blessAs if you were her first-born birth, Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, And none had lived before you!” Truth breathed by cheerfulness.
One impulse from a vernal wood
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Or of some hermit's cave, where by his
fire Than all the sages can.
The hermit sits alone.
These beauteous forms, Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; 25 Through a long absence, have not been Our meddling intellect
to me Misshapes the beauteous forms of things: As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: We murder to dissect.
But oft, in lonely rooms, and ʼmid the din 25
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them Enough of Science and of Art;
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Close up those barren leaves;
30 Felt in the blood, and felt along the
And passing even into my purer mind,
As have no slight or trivial influence
ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON RE- His little, nameless, unremembered acts
To them I may have owed another gift, 36
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the affections gently lead us on,
While with an eye made quiet by the
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, The day is come when I again repose We see into the life of things.
M Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
If this These plots of cottage-ground, these Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft— 50 orchard-tufts,
In darkness and amid the many shapes Which at this season, with their unripe Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir fruits,
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Are clad in one green hue, and lose them- Have hung upon the beatings of my selves
heart'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 55 These hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer through the lines
woods, Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral How often has my spirit turned to thee! farms,
And now, with gleams of half-extinGreen to the very door; and wreaths of guished thought, smoke
With many recognitions dim and faint, Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! And somewhat of a sad perplexity, бо With some uncertain notice, as might The picture of the mind revives again: seem
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing A motion and a spirit, that impels thoughts
All thinking things, all objects of all That in this moment there is life and food thought, For future years. And so I dare to hope, 65 And rolls through all things. Therefore Though changed, no doubt, from what
am I still I was when first
A lover of the meadows and the woods, I came among these hills; when like a roe And mountains, and of all that we beI bounded o'er the mountains, by the hold sides
From this green earth; of all the mighty Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, world
105 Wherever nature led: more like a man Of eye, and ear-both what they half Flying from something that he dreads, create, than one
And what perceive; well pleased to recogWho sought the thing he loved. For nize nature then
In nature and the language of the sense, (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the And their glad animal movements all gone nurse, by)
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and To me was all in all.— I cannot paint 75
soul What then I was. The sounding cataract Of all my moral being. Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock,
Nor perchance, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy If I were not thus taught, should I the
wood, Their colors and their forms, were then to Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
For thou art with me here upon the banks An appetite; a feeling and a love, 80 Of this fair river; thou my dearest friend, That had no need of a remoter charm, My dear, dear friend; and in thy voice I NBy thought supplied, nor any interest
116 Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is The language of my former heart, and past,
read And all its aching joys are now no more, My former pleasures in the shooting lights And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 85 Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while Faint I, nor mourn, nor murmur; other May I behold in thee what I was once, 120 gifts
My dear, dear sister and this prayer I Have followed; for such loss, I would make, believe,
Knowing that Nature never did betray Abundant recompense. For I have The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, learned
Through all the years of this our life, to To look on nature, not as in the hour
lead Of thoughtless youth; but hearing often- From joy to joy: for she can so inform 125 times
The mind that is within us, so impress The still, sad music of humanity,
With quietness and beauty, and so feed Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample With lofty thoughts, that neither evil power
tongues, To chasten and subdue. And I have Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish felt
men, A presence that disturbs me with the Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor joy
130 Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime, 95 The dreary intercourse of daily life, Of something far more deeply interfused, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Whose dwelling is the light of setting Our cheerful faith, that all which we besuns,
hold And the round ocean and the living air, Is full of blessings. Therefore let the And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; 135
"To-night will be a stormy nightAnd let the misty mountain-winds be You to the town must go; free
And take a lantern, Child, to light 15 To blow against thee: and, in after years, Your mother through the snow.' When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind
"That, Father! will I gladly do: Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 140
'Tis scarcely afternoonThy memory be as a dwelling-place
The minster-clock has just struck two, For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! And yonder is the moon!”
then, If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
At this the father raised his hook, Should be thy portion, with what healing He plied his work, and Lucy took
And snapped a faggot-band; thoughts
The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe: chance
With many a wanton stroke If I should be where I no more can hear
Her feet disperse the powdery snow, Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes
That rises up like smoke. these gleams Of past existence wilt thou then forget The storm came on before its time: That on the banks of this delightful She wandered up and down; stream
150 And many a hill did Lucy climb: We stood together; and that I, so long But never reached the town. A worshipper of Nature, hither came Unwearied in that service: rather say The wretched parents all that night With warmer love oh! with far deeper Went shouting far and wide; zeal
But there was neither sound nor sight 35 Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, To serve them for a guide. That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty At daybreak on a hill they stood cliffs,
That overlooked the moor;
157 And this green pastoral landscape, were And thence they saw the bridge of wood, to me A furlong from their door.
40 More dear, both for themselves and for
They wept-and, turning homeward,
-When in the snow the mother spied LUCY GRAY; OR, SOLITUDE
The print of Lucy's feet.
Then downwards from the steep hill's Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:
45 And, when I crossed the wild,
They tracked the footmarks small; I chanced to see at break of day
And through the broken hawthorn hedge, The solitary child.
And by the long stone-wall;
The marks were still the same;
50 -The sweetest thing that ever grew They tracked them on, nor ever lost; Beside a human door!
And to the bridge they came.
Those footmarks, one by one,
55 Will never more be seen.
And further there were none!