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《Lyrical Ballads: With a Few Other Poems》
ADVERTISEMENT.
It is the honourable characteristic of Poetry that its materials are tobe found in every subject which ihe human mind. Theevidence of this fact is to be sought, not in the writings of Critics,but in those of Poets themselves.
The majority of the following poems are to be sidered as experiments.They were written chie?y with a view to ascertain how far the languageof versation in the middle and lower classes of society is adapted tothe purposes of poetic pleasure. Readers aced to the gaudiness andinane phraseology of many modern writers, if they persist in readingthis book to its clusion, will perhaps frequently have tlewith feelings of strangeness and aukwardness: they will look round forpoetry, and will be io enquire by ecies of courtesy theseattempts be permitted to assume that title. It is desirable thatsuch readers, for their own sakes, should not suffer the solitary wordPoetry, a word of very disputed meaning, to stand in the way of theirgrati?cation; but that, while they are perusing this book, they shouldask themselves if it tains a natural deliion of human passions,human characters, and human is; and if the answer be favourableto the authors wishes, that they should sent to be pleased in spiteof that most dreadful eo our pleasures, our owablishedcodes of decision.
Readers of superior judgment may disapprove of the style in which manyof these pieces are executed it must be expected that many lines andphrases will ly suit their taste. It will perhaps appear tothem, that wishing to avoid the prevalent fault of the day, the authorhas sometimes desded too low, and that many of his expressions aretoo familiar, and not of suf?t dignity. It is apprehehat themore versant the reader is with our elder writers, and with those iimes who have been the most successful in painting manners andpassions, the fewer plaints of this kind will he have to make.
An accurate taste iry, and in all the other arts, Sir JoshuaReynolds has observed, is an acquired talent, which only be producedby severe thought, and a long tinued intercourse with the best modelsof position. This is mentioned not with so ridiculous a purpose as toprevent the most inexperienced reader from judging for himself; butmerely to temper the rashness of decision, and to suggest that if poetrybe a subje which much time has not beeowed, the judgment maybe erroneous, and that in many cases it n..
ght keel.
The western wave was all a ?ame,
The day was well nigh done!
Almost upon the western wave
Rested the broad bright Sun;
When that strange shape drove suddenly
Betwixt us and the Sun.
And strait the Sun was ?eckd with bars
(Heavens mother send us grace)
As if thro a dungeon grate he peerd
With broad and burning face.
Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)
How fast she neres and neres!
Are those _her_ Sails that glan the Sun
Like restless gossameres?
Are these _her_ naked ribs, which ?eckd
The sun that did behind them peer?
And are these two all, all the crew,
That woman and her ?eshless Pheere?
_His_ bones were black with many a crack,
All blad bare, I ween;
Jet-blad bare, save where with rust
Of mouldy damps and el crust
Theyre patc９9ｌiｂ?
she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clusterd round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair,
--Her beauty made me glad.
"Sisters and brothers, little maid,
"How many may you be?"
"How many? seven in all," she said,
And w looked at me.
"And where are they, I pray you tell?"
She answered, "Seven are we,
"And two of us at way dwell,
"And twoo sea.
"Two of us in the church-yard lie,
"My sister and my brother,
"And in the church-yard cottage, I
"Dwell hem with my mother."
"You say that two at way dwell,
"And twoo sea,
"Yet you are seven; I pray you tell
"Sweet Maid, how this may be?"
Then did the little Maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
"Two of us in the church-yard lie,
"Beh the church-yard tree."
"You run about, my little maid,
"Your limbs they are alive;
"If two are in the church-yard laid,
"Then ye are only ?ve."
"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little Maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mothers door,
"And they are side by side.
"My stogs there I often knit,
"My kerchief there I hem;
"And there upon the ground I sit--
"I sit and sing to them.
"And often after su, Sir,
"When it is light and fair,
"I take my little per,
"A my supper there.
"The ?rst that died was little Jane;
"In bed she moaning lay,
"Till God released her of her pain,
"And then she went away.
"So in the church-yard she was laid,
"And all the summer dry,
"Together round her grave we played,
"My brother John and I.
"And when the ground was white with snow,
"And I could run and slide,
"My brother John was forced to go,
"And he lies by her side."
"How many are you then," said I,
"If they two are in Heaven?"
The little Maiden did reply,
"O Master! we are seven."
"But they are dead; those two are dead!
"Their spirits are in heaven!"
Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"
LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.
LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reed,
In that sweet mood when pleasa>.nt thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grievd my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose-tufts, in that sweet bower,
The periwiraild its wreathes;
And tis my faith that every ?ower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hoppd and playd:
Their thoughts I easure,
But the least motion which they made,
It seemd a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch t?t>he breezy air;
And I must think, do all I ,
That there leasure there.
If I these thoughts may not prevent,
If such be of my creed the plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has mad９９ｌｉｂ?e of man?
THE THORN.
THE THORN.
I.
There is a thorn; it looks so old,
In truth youd ?nd it hard to say,
How it could ever have been young,
It looks so old and grey.
Not higher than a two-years child,
It sta this aged thorn;
No leaves it has, no thorny points;
It is a mass of knotted joints,
A wretched thing forlorn.
It sta, and like a stone
With lis it is rown.
II.
Like rock or sto is rown
With lis to the very top,
And hung with heavy tufts of moss,
A melancholy crop:
Up from the earth these mosses creep,
And this poor thorn they clasp it round
So close, youd say that they were bent
With plain and ma inte..nt,
T it to the ground;
And all had joined in one endeavour
To bury this poor thorn for ever.
III.
High on a mountains highest ridge,
Where oft the stormy winter gale
Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds
It sweeps from vale to vale;
Not ?ve yards from the mountain-path,
This thorn you on your left espy;
And to the left, three yards beyond,
You see a little muddy pond
Of water, never dry;
Ive measured it from side to side:
Tis three feet long, and two feet wide.
IV.
And close beside this aged thorn,
There is a fresh and lovely sight,
A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,
Just half a foot i.
All lovely colours there you see,
All colours that were ever seen,
And mossy work too is there,
As if by hand of lady fair
The work had woven been,
And cups, the darlings of the eye,
So deep is their vermilion dye.
V.
Ah me! what lovely tints are there!
Of olive-green and scarlet bright,
In spikes, in branches, and in stars,
Green, red, and pearly white.
This heap of earth rown with moss
Which close beside the thorn you see,
So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,
Is like an infants grave in size
As like as like be:
But never, never any where,
An infants grave was half so fair.
VI.
Now would you see this aged thorn,
This pond aeous hill of moss,
You must take care and chuse your time
The mountaio cross.
For oft there sits, between the heap
Thats like an infants grave in size,
And that same pond of which I spoke,
A woman in a scarlet ?cloak,
And to herself she cries,
"Oh misery! oh misery!
"Oh woe is me! oh misery!"
VII.
At all times of the day and night
This wretched woman thither goes,
And she is known to every star,
And every wind that blows;
And there beside the thors
When the blue day-lights in the skies,
And when the whirlwinds on the hill,
Or frosty air is keen and still,
And to herself she cries,
"Oh misery! oh misery!
"Oh woe is me! oh misery!"
VIII.
"Now wherefore thus, by day and night,
"In rain, in tempest, and in snow,
"Thus to the dreary mountain-top
"Does this poor woman go?
"And why sits she beside the thorn
"When the blue day-lights in the sky,
"Or when the whirlwinds on the hill,
"Or frosty air is keen and still,
"And wherefore does she cry?--
"Oh wherefore? wherefore? tell me why
"Does she repeat that doleful cry?"
IX.
I ot tell; I wish I could;
For the true reason no one knows,
But if youd gladly view the spot,
The spot to which she goes;
The heap thats like an infants grave,
The pond--and thorn, so old and grey,
Pass by her door--tis seldom shut--
And if you see her in her hut,
Then to the spot away!--
I never heard of such as dare
Approach the spot when she is there.
X.
"But wherefore to the mountain-top
" this unhappy woman go,
"Whatever star is in the skies,
"Whatever wind may blow?"
Nay rack your brain--tis all in vain,
Ill tell you every thing I know;
But to the thorn, and to the pond
Which is a little step beyond,
I wish that you would go:
Perhaps when you are at the place
You something of her tale may trace.
XI.
Ill give you the best help I :
Before you up the mountain go,
Up to the dreary mountain-top,
Ill tell you all I know.
Tis now some two and twenty years,
Since she (her name is Martha Ray)
Gave with a maidens true good will
Her pany to Stephen Hill;
And she was blithe and gay,
And she was happy, happy still
Wheneer she thought of Stephen Hill.
XII.
And they had ?xd the wedding-day,
The m that must wed them both;
But Stephen to another maid
Had sworn another oath;
And with this other maid to church
Unthinking Stephe--
Poor Martha! on that woful day
A cruel, cruel ?re, they say,
Into her bones was sent:
It dried her body like a der,
And almost turnd her brain to tinder.
XIII.
They say, full six months after this,
While yet the summer-leaves were green,
She to the mountain-top would go,
And there was often seen.
Tis said, a child was in her womb,
As now to any eye lain;
She was with child, and she was mad,
Yet often she was sober sad
From her exceeding pain.
Oh me! ten thousand times Id rather
That he had died, that cruel father!
XIV.
Sad case for such a brain to hold
union with a stirring child!
Sad case, as you may think, for one
Who had a brain so wild!
Last Christmas whealked of this,
Old Farmer Simpson did maintain,
That in her womb the infant wrought
About its mothers heart, and brought
Her senses back again:
And when at last her time drew near,
Her looks were calm, her senses clear.
XV.
No more I know, I wish I did,
And I would tell it all to you;
For what became of this poor child
Theres hat ever knew:
And if a child was born or no,
Theres no ohat could ever tell;
And if twas born alive or dead,
Theres no one knows, as I have said,
But some remember well,
That Martha Ray about this time
Would up the mountain often climb.
XVI.
And all that winter, when at night
The wind blew from the mountain-peak,
Twas worth your while, though in the dark,
The church-yard path to seek:
For many a time and oft were heard
Cries ing from the mountain-head,
Some plainly living voices were,
And others, Ive heard many swear,
Were voices of the dead:
I ot think, whateer they say,
They had to do with Martha Ray.
XVII.
But that she goes to this old thorn,
The thorn which Ive described to you,
And there sits in a scarlet cloak,
I will be sworn is true.
For one day with my telescope,
To view the o wide and bright,
When to this try ?rst I came,
Ere I had heard of Marthas name,
I climbed the mountai:
A storm came on, and I could see
No object higher than my knee.
XVIII.
Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain,
No s, no fence could I discover,
And then the wind! in faith, it was
A wind full ten times over.
I looked around, I thought I saw
A jutting crag, and oft I ran,
Head-foremost, through the driving rain,
The shelter of the crag to gain,
And, as I am a man,
Instead of jutting crag, I found
A womaed on the ground.
XIX.
I did not speak--I saw her face,
Her face it was enough for me;
I turned about and heard her cry,
"O misery! O misery!"
And there she sits, until the moon
Through half the clear blue sky will go,
And whetle breezes make
The waters of the pond to shake,
As all the try know,
She shudders and you hear her cry,
"Oh misery! oh misery!
XX.
"But whats the thorn? and whats the pond?
"And whats the hill of moss to her?
"And whats the creeping breeze that es
"The little pond to stir?"
I ot tell; but some will say
She hanged her baby oree,
Some say she drow in the pond,
Which is a little step beyond,
But all and each agree,
The little babe was buried there,
Beh that hill of moss so fair.
XXI.
Ive heard the scarlet moss is red
With drops of that poor infants blood;
But kill a new-born infant thus!
I do not think she could.
Som?99lｉb.e say, if to the pond you go,
And ?x on it a steady view,
The shadow of a babe you trace,
A baby and a babys face,
And that it looks at you;
Wheneer you look on it, tis plain
The baby looks at you again.
XXII.
And some had sworn an oath that she
Should be to public justice brought;
And for the little infants bones
With spades they would have sought.
But then the beauteous hill of moss
Before their eyes began to stir;
And for full ?fty yards around,
The grass it shook upon the ground;
But all do still aver
The little babe is buried there,
Beh that hill of moss so fair.
XXIII.
I ot tell how this may be,
But plain it is, the thorn is bound
With heavy tufts of moss, that strive
T it to the ground.
And this I know, full many a time,
When she was on the mountain high,
By day, and in the silent night,
When all the stars shone clear and bright,
That I have heard her cry,
"Oh misery! oh misery!
"O woe is me! oh misery!"
THE LAST OF THE FLOCK.
THE LAST OF THE FLOCK.
In distant tries I have been,
A I have not often seen
A healthy man, a man full grown
Weep in the public roads alone.
But such a one, on English ground,
And in the broad high-way, I met;
Along the broad high-way he came,
His cheeks with tears were wet.
Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad;
And in his arms a lamb he had.
He saw me, aurned aside,
As if he wished himself to hide:
Then with his coat he made essay
To wipe those briny tears away.
I followd him, and said, "My friend
"What ails you? wherefore weep you so?"bbr>;
--"Shame on me, Sir! this lusty lamb,
He makes my tears to ?ow.
To-day I fetched him from the rock;
He is the last of all my ?ock.
When I was young, a single man.
And after youthful follies ran,
Though little given to care and thought,
Yet, so it was, a ewe I bought;
And other sheep from her I raised,
As healthy sheep as you might see,
And then I married, and was rich
As I could wish to be;
Of sheep I numberd a full score,
And every year encreasd my store..９９lｉｂ?
Year after year my stock it grew,
And from this ohis single ewe,
Full ?fty ely sheep I raised,
As sweet a ?ock a..s ever grazed!
Upon the mountain did they feed;
They throve, a home did thrive.
--This lusty lamb of all my store
Is all that is alive:
And now I care not if we die,
And perish all of poverty.
Ten children, Sir! had I to feed,
Hard labour in a time of need!
My pride was tamed, and in rief,
I of the parish askd relief.
They said I was a wealthy man;
My sheep upon the mountain fed,
And it was ?t that theook
Whereof to buy us bread:"
"Do this; how we give to you,"
They cried, "what to the poor is due?"
I sold a sheep as they had said,
And bought my little children bread,
And they were healthy with their food;
For me it never did me good.
A woeful time it was for me,
To see the end of all my gains,
The pretty ?ock which I had reared
With all my care and pains,
To see it melt like snow away!
For me it was a woeful day.
Aill! 藏书网and still another!
A little lamb, and then its mother!
It was a vein that oppd,
Like blood-drops from my heart they droppd.
Till thirty were not left alive
They dwindled, dwindled, one by one,
And I may say that many a time
I wished they all were gone:
They dwindled one by one away;
For me it was a woeful day.
To wicked deeds I was ined,
And wicked fancies crossd my mind,
And every man I cd to see,
I thought he knew some ill of me
No peao fort could I ?nd,
No ease, within doors or without,
And crazily, and wearily,
I went my work about.
Oft-times I thought to run away;
For me it was a woeful day.
Sir! trecious ?oe,
As dear as my own children be;
For daily with my growing store
I loved my children more and more.
Alas! it was an evil time;
God cursed me in my sore distress,
I prayed, yet every day I thought
I loved my children less;
And every week, and every day,
My ?ock, it seemed to melt away.
They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see!
From ten to ?ve, from ?ve to three,
A lamb, a weather, and a ewe;
And then at last, from three to two;
And of my ?fty, yesterday
I had but only one,
And here it lies upon my arm,
Alas! and I have none;
To-day I fetched it from the rock;
It is the last of all my ?ock."
THE DUNGEON.
THE DUNGEON.
And this place our forefathers made for man!
This is the process of our love and wisdom,
To each poor brother who offends against us--
Most i, perhaps--and what if guilty?
Is this the only cure? Merciful God?
Each pore and natural outlet shrivelld up
By ignorand parg poverty,
His energies roll back upon his heart,
And stagnate and corrupt; till ged to poison,
They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spo?t;
Then we call in our pam.?perd mountebanks--
And this is their best cure! unforted
And friendless solitude, groaning and tears,
And savage 藏书网
faces, at the king hour,
Seen through the steams and vapour of his dungeon,
By the lamps dismal twilight! So he lies
Circled with evil, till his very soul
Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed
By sights of ever more deformity!
With other ministrations thou, O nature!
Healest thy wandering and distempered child:
Thou pourest on him thy soft in?uences,
Thy sunny hues, fair forbbr>ms, and breathing sweets,
Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters,
Till he relent, and o more endure
To be a jarring and a dissonant thing,
Amid this general dand minstrelsy;
But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,
His angry spirit healed and harmonized
By the benignant touch of love a..y.
THE MAD MOTHER.
THE MAD MOTHER.
Her eyes are wild, her head is bare,
The sun has burnt her coal-black hair,
Her eye-brows have a rusty stain,
And she came far from over the main.
She has a baby on her arm,
Or else she were alone;
And underh the hay-stack warm,
And on the green-wood stone,
She talked and sung the woods among;
And it was in the English tongue.
"Sweet babe! they say that I am mad,
But nay, my heart is far too glad;
And I am happy when I sing
Full many a sad and doleful thing:
Then, lovely baby, do not fear!
I pray thee have no fear of me,
But, safe as in a cradle, here
My lovely baby! thou shalt be,
To thee I know too much I owe;
I ot work thee any woe.
A ?re was ohin my brain;
And in .. from distress,
But in the milder grief of pity.
Remembrance! as we glide along,
For him suspend the dashing oar,
And pray that never child of Song
May know his freezing sorrows more.
How calm! how still! the only sound,
The dripping of the oar suspended!
--The evening darkness gathers round
By virtues holiest powers attended.
[3] Collinss Ode on the death of Thomson, the last written, Ibelieve, of the poems which were published during hislife-time. This Ode is also alluded to in the stanza.
EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY.
EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY.
"Why William, on that old grey stone,
"Thus for the length of half a day,
"Why William, sit you thus alone,
"And dream your time away?
"Where are your books? that light bequeathd
"To beings else forlorn and blind!
"Up! Up! and drink the spirit breathd
"From dead men to their kind.
"You look round on your mother 藏书网earth,
"As if she for no purpose bore you;
"As if you were her ?rst-born birth,
"And none had lived before you!"
One m thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet I knew not why,
To me my good friend Matthew spake,
And thus I made reply.９９ｌｉｂ.
"The eye it ot chuse but see,
"We ot bid the ear be still;
"Our bodies feel, whereer they be,
"Against, or with our will.
"Nor less I deem that there are powers,
"Which of themselves our minds impress,
"That we feed this mind of ours,
"In a wise passiveness.
"Think you, mid all this mighty sum
"Of things for ever speaking,
"That not.hing of itself will e,
"But we must still be seeking?
"--Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,
"versing as I may,
"I sit upon this old grey stone,
"And dream my time away."
THE TABLES TURNED...
THE TABLES TURNED; AN EVENING SE, ON THE SAME SUBJECT.
Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks,
Why all this toil and trouble?
Up! up! my friend, and quit your books,
Or surely youll grow double.
The sun above the mountains head,
A freshening lustre mellow,
Through all the long green ?elds has spread,
His ?rst sweet evening yellow.
Books! tis a dull and endless strife,
e, hear the woodland li,
How.. his musiy life
Theres more of wisdom in it.
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
And he is no mean preacher;
e forth into the light of th藏书网ings,
Let Nature be your teacher.
She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds as to bless--
Spontaneous wisdom breathed 9９ｌｉb?by health,
Truth breathed by chearfulness.
One impulse from a vernal wood
May teaore of man;
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages .
Sweet is the lore whiature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Misshapes the beauteous forms of things;
--We murder to dissect.
Enough of sd of art;
Close up these barren leaves;
ebbr>.. forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.
OLD MAN TRAVELLING...
OLD MAN TRAVELLING; ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY, A SKETCH.藏书网.
The day is e when I again repose
Here, uhis dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Among the woods and copses lose themselves,
Nor, with their green and simple hue, disturb
The wild green landscape. Once again I see
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms
Green to the very door; and wreathes of smoke
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees,
With some uain notice, as might seem,
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Or of some hermits cave,> where by his ?re
The hermit sits alone.
Though absent long,
These forms of beauty have not been to me,
As is a landscape to a blind mans eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, a along the heart,
And passing even into my purer mind
With tranquil restoration:--feelings too
Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps,
As may have had no tbbr>?rivial in?uence
On that best portion of a good mans life;
His little, nameless, unremembered acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have owed anift,
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world
Is lightend:--that serene and blessed mood,
In which the affes gently lead us on,
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame,
And eveion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and bee a living soul:
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.
If this
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft,
In darkness, and amid th?９9ｌｉｂ.e many shapes
Of joyless day-light; when the fretful stir
Unpro?table, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart,
How oft, in spirit, have I turo thee
O sylvahou wahrough the woods,
How often has my spirit turo thee!
And now, with gleams of half-extinguishd thought,
With many reitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives again:
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
That in this moment there is life and food
For future years. And so I dare to hope
Though ged, no doubt, from what I was, when ?rst
I came among these hills; when like a roe
I bounded oer the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led; more like a man
Flying from something that he dreads, than one
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
And their glad animal movements all gone by,)
To me was all in all.--I ot paint
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite: a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, or any i
Unborrowed from the eye.--That time is past,
And all its ag joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur: ifts
Have followed, for such loss, I would believe,
Abundant repence. 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,
Not harsh nrating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presehat disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round o, and the living air,
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 greeh; of all the mighty world
Of eye and ear, both what they half-create,[5]
And erceive; well pleased tnize
In nature and the language of the sense,
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.
Nor, perce,
If I were not thus taught, should I the more
Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
For thou art with me, here, upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend,
My dear, dear Friend, and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart, and read
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
May I behold in thee what I was once,
My dear, dear Sister! And this prayer I make,
Knowing that Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her; tis her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy: for she so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness ay, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that her evil tongues,
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of sel?sh men,
Nreetings where no kindness is, nor all
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall eer prevail against us, or disturb
Our chearful faith that all which we behold
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
Ahe misty mountain winds be free
To blow against thee: and in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; Oh! then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, rief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! Nor, perce,
If I should be, where I no more hear
Thy voior catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
Of past existence, wilt thou then fet
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 fet,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absehese steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves, and for thy sake.
[4] The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above
Tintern.
[5] This line has a close resemblao an admirable line of
Young, the exact expression of which I ot recollect.
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