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Almost suspended, we are laid asleep

Of eye and ear, both what they half create,
In body, and become a living soul:

And what perceive; well pleased to recognize
While with an eye made quiet by the power In nature and the language of the sense,
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,

The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
We see into the life of things.

The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
If this

Of all my moral being.
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft,

Nor perchance, In darkness, and amid the many shapes

If I were not thus taught, should I the more Of joyless day-light; when the fretful stir

Suffer my genial spirits to decay: Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,

For thou art with me, here, upon the banks Have hung upon the beatings of my heart,

Of this fair river; thou, my dearest friend, How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,

My dear, dear friend, and in thy voice I catch Osylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the woods, The language of my former heart, and read How often has my spirit turned to thee! [thought, My former pleasures in the shooting lights

And now, with gleams of half-extinguished of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while With many recognitions dim and faint,

May I behold in thee what I was once, And somewhat of a sad perplexity,

My dear, dear sister! And this prayer I make, The picture of the mind revives again:

Knowing that Nature never did betray While here I stand, not only with the sense

The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts Through all the years of this our life, to lead That in this moment there is life and food

From joy to joy: for she can so inform For future years. And so I dare to hope, [first The mind that is within us, so impress Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when With quietness and beauty, and so feed I came among these hills; when like a roe

With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides

Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,

Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all Wherever Nature led: more like a man

The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Flying from something that he dreads, than one Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Who sought the thing he loved. For Nature then Our cheerful faith that all which we behold
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,

Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
And their glad animal movements all gone by,) Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
To me was all in all.--I cannot paint

And let the misty mountain winds be free
What then I was. The sounding cataract

To blow against thee: and, in after years,
Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock,

When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind
Their colours and their forms, were then to me Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
An appetite: a feeling and a love,

Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
That had no need of a remoter charm,

For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! theu, By thought supplied, or any interest

If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past,

Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
And all its aching joys are now no more,

Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts
Have followed, for such loss, I would believe,
Abundant recompence. For I have learned
To look on Nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime

That after many wanderings, many years
Of something far more deeply interfused,

Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean, and the living air,

More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake.
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods,
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world

For he hath waking empire, wide as dreams;

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And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance,
If I should be where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleans
Of past existence, wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together; and that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, hither came,
Unwearied in that service: rather say
With warmer love, oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,


And this green pastoral landscape, were to me

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Though narrow be that Old Man's cares, and deer,

greater than he seems:

The poor Old Man

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An ample sovereignty of eye and ear.

From evil speaking; rancour, never sought,
Rich are his walks with supernatural cheer; Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie.
The region of his inner spirit teems

Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I
With vital sounds and monitory gleams

Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous
Of high astonishment and pleasing fear.

And thus from day to day my little boat (thought:
He the seven birds hath seen, that never part; Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably.
Seen the Seven Whistlers in their nightly rounds, Blessings be with them and eternal praise,
And counted them: and oftentimes will start- Who gave us nobler loves and nobler cares:
For overhead are sweeping Gabriel's Hounds, The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs
Doomed, with their impious Lord, the flying Hart Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays !
To chase for ever, on aerial grounds.

Oh! might my name be numbered among theirs,
Then gladly would I end my mortal days.

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I am not one who much or oft delight
To season my fireside with personal talk,
Of friends, who live within an easy walk,
Or neighbours, daily, weekly in my sight.
And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright,
Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk,
These all wear out of me, like forms with chalk
Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night.
Better than such discourse doth silence long,
Long, barren silence, square with my desire;
To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,
In the loved presence of my cottage-fire,
And listen to the flapping of the flame,
Or kettle, whispering its faint undersong.


Sept. 3, 1803.
Earth has not any thing to shew more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A 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 lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In 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!

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“Yet life," you say,“ is life; we have seen and see,
And with a living pleasure we describe ;
And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe
The languid mind into activity.
Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee,
Are fostered by the comment and the gibe.”
Even be it so: yet still among your tribe,
Our daily world's true worldlings, rank not me!
Children are blest, and powerful; their world lies
More justly balanced; partly at their feet,
And part far from them :-sweetest melodies
Are those which are by distance made more sweet;
Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes,
He is a slave: the meanest we can meet!

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 hours,
And are up-gathered pow like sleeping flowers;
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.-Great God! I'd rather be
A 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 coming from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.




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Wings have we,-and as far as we can go
We may find pleasure: wilderness and wood,
Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood
Which with the lofty sanctifies the low: (know,
Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we
Are a substantial world, both pure and good:
Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
There do I find a never-failing store
Of personal themes, and such as I love best;
Matter wherein right voluble I am:
Two will I mention, dearer than the rest;
The gentle Lady, married to the Moor ;
And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb.

Nor can I not believe but that hereby
Great gains are mine; for thus I live remote

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 boly glee
Thou fought'st against him, but hast vainly striven ;
Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,
Where 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-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be
That mountain floods should thunder as before,
And ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
And neither awful voice be heard by thee!

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As if you were her first-born birth, O Friend! I know not which way I must look

And none had lived before you!” For comfort, being as I am opprest,

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, To think that now our life is only drest

When life was sweet, I knew not why, For shew; mean handiwork of craftsman, cook,

To me my good friend Matthew spake, Or groom !-We must run glittering like a brook

And thus I made reply:
In the open sunshine, or we are unblest:
The wealthiest man among us is the best:

“ The eyeit tannot choose but see; No grandeur now in Nature or in book

We cannot bid the ear be still; Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,

Our bodies feet, where'er they be,
This is idolatry; and these we adore:

Against, or with our will.
Plain living and high thinking are no more:
The homely beauty of the good old cause

Nor less I deem that there are powers
Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,

Which of themselves our minds impress; And pure religion breathing household laws.

That we can feed this mind of ours

In a wise passiveness.
LONDON, 1802.

Think you, mid all this mighty sum
Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:

Of things for ever speaking, England hath need of thee: she is a fen

That nothing of itself will come,
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword and pen,

But we must still be seeking?
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower

--Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, Of inward happiness. We are selfish men.

Conversing as I may,
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;

I sit upon this old gray stone,
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. And dream my time away."
Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart:
Thou had'st a voice whose sound was like the sea;
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,

So didst thou travel on life's common way,

In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

Up! up! my friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you'll grow double:
Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks;

Why all this toil and trouble ?
Great men have been among us; hands that penn'd
And tongues that uttered wisdom, better none: The sun, above the mountain's head,
The later Sydney, Marvel, Harrington,

A freshening lustre mellow
Young Vane and others who called Milton friend.

Through all the long green fields bas spread, These moralists could act and comprehend:

His first sweet evening yellow.
They knew how genuine glory was put on;
Taught us how rightfully a nation shone (bend

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
In splendour: what strength was, that would not Come, hear the woodland linnet,
But in magnanimous meekness. France, 'tis strange,

How sweet his music! on my life
Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then. There's more of wisdom in it.
Perpetual emptiness! unceasing change!

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! No single volume paramount, no code,

He, too, is no mean preacher: No master spirit, no determined road;

Come forth into the light of things, But equally a want of books and men !

Let Nature be your teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth, EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY.

Our minds and hearts to bless“ Why, William, on that old gray stone,

Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Thus for the length of half a day,

Truth breathed by cheerfulness.
Why, William, sit you thus alone,
And dream your time away?

One impulse from a vernal wood

May teach you more of man,
Where are your books ?-that light bequeathed Of moral evil and of good,
To beings else forlorn and blind!

Than all the sages can.
Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed
From dead men to their kind.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;

Our meddling intellect You look round on your mother earth,

Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: As if she for no purpose bore you;

-We murder to dissect.


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Enough of science and of art;

Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, Close up these barren leaves;

Is littleness; that he who feels contempt Come forth, and bring with you a heart

For any living thing, hath faculties
That watches and receives.

Which he has never used; that thought with him
Is in its infancy. The man whose eye

Is ever on himself doth look on one,

The least of Nature's works, one who might move

The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds Lest upon a seat in a Yew-tree, which stands near the Lake of Esthwaite, on a desolate Part of the

Unlawful ever. O be wiser, thou! Shore, commanding a beautiful Prospect.

Instructed that true knowledge leads to love,

True dignity abides with him alone Nay, traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands

Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Far from all human dwelling: what if here

Can still suspect, and still revere himself,
No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb?

In lowliness of heart.
What if these barren boughs the bee not loves ?
Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves,
That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind

By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.

Who he was

I heard a thousand blended notes,
That piled these stones, and with the mossy sod

While in a grove I sate reclin'd, First covered o'er, and taught this aged tree

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts With its dark arms to form a circling bower,

Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
I well remember.--He was one who owned
No common soul. In youth by science nursed, To her fair works did Nature link
And led by nature into a wild scene

The human soul that through me ran;
Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth

And much it grieved my heart to think
A favoured being, knowing no desire

What man has made of man.
Which genius did not hallow,-'gainst the taint
Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate,

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, And scorn,—against all enemies prepared,

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; All but neglect. The world, for so it thought,

And 'tis my faith that every flower Owed him no service: wherefore he at once

Enjoys the air it breathes. With indignation turned himself away,

The birds around me hopped and play'd; And with the food of pride sustained his soul

Their thoughts I cannot measure: In solitude.-Stranger! these gloomy boughs

But the least motion which they made,
Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit, .

It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
His only visitants a straggling sheep,
The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper :

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath, To catch the breezy air ;
And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er,

And I must think, do all I can,
Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour.

That there was pleasure there.
A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here
An emblem of his own unfruitful life:

If this belief from Heaven is sent,
And lifting up his head, he then would gaze

If such be Nature's holy plan, On the more distant scene,-how lovely 'tis

Have I not reason to lament
Thou seest,—and he would gaze till it became

What man has made of man?
Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain
The beauty, still more beauteous! Nor, that time,
When Nature had subdued him to herself,

Would he forget those beings, to whose minds, In the School of is a Tablet, on which are in-
Warm from the labours of benevolence,
The world, and man himself, appeared a scene

scribed, in gilt letters, the Names of the several Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh

Persons who have been Schoolmasters there since With mournful joy, to think that others felt

the Foundation of the School, with the Time at What he must never feel: and so, lost man!

which they entered upon and quitted their Office. On visionary views would fancy feed,

Opposite one of those Names the Author wrote Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale He died, this seat his only monument.

the following Lines.

If Nature, for a favourite child, If thou be one whose heart the holy forms

In thee hath tempered so her clay, Of young imagination have kept pure,

[pride, That every hour thy heart runs wild, Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know, that Yet never once doth go astray,

Read o'er these lines; and then review

And just above yon slope of coru This tablet, that thus humbly rears

Such colours, and no other, In such diversity of hue

Were in the sky, that April morn, Its history of two hundred years.

Of this the very brother. -When through this little wreck of fame,

With rod and line I sued the sport Cypher and syllable! thine eye

Which that sweet season gave, Has travelled down to Matthew's name,

And, coming to the church, stopped short Pause with no common sympathy.

Beside my daughter's grave. And, if a sleeping tear should wake,

Nine summers had she scarcely seen, Then be it neither checked nor stay'd:

The pride of all the vale; For Matthew a request I make

And then she sang; she would have been Which for himself he had not made.

A very nightingale. Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er,

Six feet in earth my Emma lay; Is silent as a standing pool ;

And yet I loved her more, Far from the chimney's merry roar,

For so it seemed, than till that day And murmur of the village school.

I e'er had loved before. The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs And, turning from her grave, I met, Of one tired out with fun and madness;

Beside the church-yard yew, The tears which came to Matthew's eyes

A blooming girl, whose hair was met Were tears of light, the dew of gladness.

With points of morning dew. Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup

A basket on her head she bare; Of still and serious thought went round,

Her brow was smooth and white: It seemed as if he drank it up,

To see a child so very fair, He felt with spirit so profound.

It was a pure delight! -Thou soul of God's best earthly mould !

No fountain from its rocky care Thou happy soul! and can it be

E'er tripped with foot so free; That these two words of glittering gold

She seemed as happy as a wave Are all that must remain of thee?

That dances on the sea.

There came from me a sigh of pain THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS.

Which I could ill confine; We walked along, while bright and red

I looked at her, and looked again: Uprose the morning sun;

-And did not wish her mine." And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said,

Matthew is in his grave, yet now, “ The will of God be done!"

Methinks, I see him stand, A village schoolmaster was he,

As at that moment, with a bough
With hair of glittering gray;

Of wilding in his hand.
As blithe a man as you could see
On a spring holiday.

And on that morning, through the grass,
And by the steaming rills,
We travelled merrily, to pass

We talked with open heart, and tongue A day among the hills.

Affectionate and true,

A pair of friends, though I was young, “ Our work," said I, " was well begun;

And Matthew seventy-two.
Then, from thy breast what thought
Beneath so beautiful

We lay beneath a spreading oak,
So sad a sigh has brought?"

Beside a mossy seat;

And from the turf a fountain broke,
A second time did Matthew stop;

And gurgled at our feet.
And fixing still his eye
Upon the eastern mountain-top,

“ Now, Matthew!" said I, “ let us match To me he made reply:

This water's pleasant tune

With some old border-song, or catch, “ Yon cloud with that long purple cleft

That suits a summer's noon.
Brings fresh into my mind
A day like this which I have left

Or of the church-clock and the chimes Full thirty years behind.

Sing here beneath the shade,


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