Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray; Who, not content that former worth stand fast, Looks forward, persevering to the last, 75 From well to better, daily self-surpassed: Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth For ever, and to noble deeds give birth, Or he must fall to sleep without his fame, And leave a dead unprofitable name, 80 Finds comfort in himself and in his cause; And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause: This is the happy Warrior; this is he Whom every man in arms should wish to A six years' darling of a pigmy size! 85 Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted forever by the eternal mind,Mighty prophet! Seer blest! On whom those truths do rest, 113 Which we are toiling all our lives to find, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; Thou, over whom thy immortality Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, A presence which is not to be put by; 120 Thou little child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 125 Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight, See, where 'mid work of his own hand he Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! lies, And let the young lambs bound 175 Be now forever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, 5 Those quivering wings composed, that Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; Of harmony, with instinct more divine; 10 Strength in what remains behind; 180 Type of the wise who soar, but never roam; In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be; 184 In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind. XI And O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and True to the kindred points of Heaven and Milton! thou should'st be living at this England hath need of thee: she is a fen Thy nature is not therefore less divine: Have forfeited their ancient English Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the dower 5 Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER Earth has not anything to show more Dull would he be of soul who could pass by year; And worship'st at the temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not. THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH The world is too much with us: late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our Little we see in Nature that is ours; This Sea that bares her bosom to the The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not.-Great God! I'd rather be Open unto the fields, and to the sky; A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; |