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Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone
emory of affections old and true,
IT is a beauteous evening, calm and free,
The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity; The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea Listen ! the mighty Being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder-everlastingly. Dear Child ! dear Girl! that walkest with me here, If thou appear untouched by solemn thought, Thy 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.
* In Cumberland and Westmoreland are several inscriptions upon the native rock, which, from the wasting of time, and the rudeness of the workmanship, have been mistaken for Runic. They are without doubt Roman.
The Rotha, mentioned in this poem, is the River which, flowing through the lakes of Grasmere and Rydale, falls into Wynandermere. On Helmerag, that impressive single mountain at the head of the Vale of Grasmere, is a rock which from most points of view bears a striking resemblance to an old Woman cowering. Close by this rock is one of those fissures or caverns, which in the language of the country are called dungeons. Most of the mountains here mentioned immediately surround the Vale of Grasmere; of the others, some are at a considerable distance, but they belong to the same cluster.
TO A SEXTON.
LET thy wheel-barrow alone
Wherefore, Sexton, piling still In thy bone-house bone on bone ? 'T is already like a hill In a field of battle made, Where three thousand skulls are laid ; These died in peace each with the other, Father, sister, friend, and brother.
Mark the spot to which I point !
Look but at the gardener's pride-
Thus then, each to other dear,
And, should I live through sun and rain
COMPOSED ON MAY MORNING.
WHILE from the purpling east departs
The star that led the dawn,
For May is on the lawn.
Fortran the expected Power,
Shakes off that pearly shower.
All Nature welcomes Her whose sway
Tempers the year's extremes ;
Like morning's dewy gleams;
The tremulous heart excite; And hums the balmy air to still
The balance of delight.
Time was, blest Power! when youths and maids At peep
of dawn would rise, And wander forth in forest glades
Thy birth to solemnize.
Untouched the hawthorn bough,
Man changes, but not Thou !
Thy feathered Lieges bill and wings
In Love's disport employ;
Awake to silent joy :
Where the slim wild deer roves,
Their own mysterious groves.
Instinctive homage pay;
To honor thee, sweet May !
Behold a smokeless sky,
To open a bright eye.
And if, on this thy natal morn,
The pole, from which thy name Hath not departed, stands forlorn
Of song and dance and game; Still from the village-green a vow
Aspires to thee addrest, Wherever peace is on the brow,
Or love within the breast.
Yes! where Love nestles thou canst teach
The soul to love the more;
That never loved before.
The bashful freed from fear,
In flows the joyous year.
Hush, feeble lyre! weak words refuse
The service to prolong!
Intrusts the imperfect song;
Throughout the live-long day,
The sovereignty of May.
FAST thou seen, with flash incessant,
Bubbles gliding under ice, Bodied forth and evanescent, No one knows by what device?
Such are thoughts !-A wind-swept meadow