The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; Land and Sea Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Doth every Beast keep holiday ;— Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 4. Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; My head hath its coronal, The fulness of your bliss, I feel I feel it all. On every side, In a thousand valleys far and wide, -But there's a Tree, of many, one, Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 5. Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: And cometh from afar : Not in entire forgetfulness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come Heaven lies about us in our infancy! But He beholds the light, and whence it flows The Youth, who daily farther from the east Is on his way attended; At length the Man perceives it die away, 6. Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And even with something of a Mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely Nurse doth all she can To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came. 7. Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: To dialogues of business, love, or strife: Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little Actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage' Were endless imitation. 8. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep On whom those truths do rest, Which we are toiling all our lives to find, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! 9. O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, The thought of our past years in me doth breed For that which is most worthy to be blest; Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise ; But for those obstinate questionings Moving about in worlds not realised, Those shadowy recollections, Are yet the fountain light of all our day, Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence in a season of calm weather Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea Can in a moment travel thither, And see the Children sport upon the shore, 10. Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song! As to the tabor's sound! We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day What though the radiance which was once so bright Though nothing can bring back the hour Strength in what remains behind; Which having been must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring In the faith that looks through death, II. And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; I only have relinquished one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the Brooks, which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripped lightly as they: The innocent brightness of a new-born Day Is lovely yet; |