LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE...

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    <strong>LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE WHICH STANDS HE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE, </strong>

    ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, YET ANDING ABEAUTIFUL PROSPECT.

    --Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands

    Far from all human dwelling: what if here

    No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb;

    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 vacy.

    --Who he was

    That piled these stones, and with the mossy sod

    First covered oer, and taught this aged tree,

    Now wild, to bend its arms in cirg shade,

    I well remember.--He was one who ownd

    No on soul. In youth, by genius nursd,

    And big with lofty views, he to the world

    Went forth, pure in his heart, against the taint

    Of dissolute tongues, gainst jealousy, and hate,

    And s, against all enemies prepared,

    All but : and so, his spirit damped

    At once, with rash disdaiurned away,

    And with the food of pride sustained his soul

    In solitude.--Strahese gloomy boughs

    Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit,

    His only visitants<q></q> a straggling sheep,

    The stone-chat, or the glang sand-piper;

    And on these barren rocks, with juniper,

    Ah, and thistle, thinly sprinkled oer,

    Fixing his downward eye, he many an hour

    A morbid pleasure nourished, trag here

    An embl藏书网em of his own unfruitful life:

    And lifting up his head, he then would gaze

    On the more distant se; how lovely tis

    Thou seest, and he would gaze till it became

    Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain

    The beauty still more beauteous. Nor, that time,

    Would he fet those beings, to whose minds,

    Warm from the labours of benevolence,

    The world, and man himself, appeared a se

    Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh

    With mournful joy, to think that others felt

    What he must never feel: and so, lost man!

    On visionary views would fancy feed,

    Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale

    He died, this seat his only mo.

    If thou be one whose heart the holy forms

    Of young imagination have kept pure,

    Stranger! heh be warned; and know, that pride,

    Ho.. disguised in its own majesty,

    Is littleness; that he, who feels pt

    For any living thing, hath faculties

    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 natures works, one who might move

    The wise man to that s which wisdom holds

    Unlawful, ever. O, be wiser thou!

    Instructed that true knowledge leads to love,

    True dignity abides with him alone

    Who, in the silent hour of inward thought,

    still suspect, and still revere himself,

    In lowliness of heart.

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