The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. Still deepens its unfathomable depth. And drew their sounding bows at Azincour, To be destroyed. But worthier still of note Of intertwisted fibres serpentine May meet at noontide; Fear and trembling Silence and Foresight; Death the Skeleton To lie, and listen to the mountain flood VI. NUTTING. It seems a day (I speak of one from many singled out) More ragged than need was! O'er pathless rocks, That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees, And merciless ravage: and the shady nook Ere from the mutilated bower I turned VII. THE SIMPLON PASS. BROOK and road Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass, And with them did we journey several hours At a slow step. The immeasurable height Of woods decaying, never to be decayed, The stationary blasts of waterfalls, And in the narrow rent, at every turn, Winds thwarting winds bewildered and forlorn, The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky, The rocks that muttered close upon our ears, Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside As if a voice were in them, the sick sight And giddy prospect of the raving stream, The unfettered clouds and region of the heavens, Tumult and peace, the darkness and the lightWere all like workings of one mind, the features Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree, Characters of the great Apocalypse, The types and symbols of Eternity, Of first, and last, and midst, and without end. 1799. VIII. SHE WAS a Phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; To be a moment's ornament; I saw her upon nearer view, Her household motions light and free, A countenance in which did meet Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene A traveller between life and death; To warn, to comfort, and command; 1804. IX. O NIGHTINGALE ! thou surely art A creature of a "fiery heart:" These notes of thine-they pierce and pierce; Of shades, and dews, and silent night; I heard a Stock-dove sing or say He did not cease; but cooed-and cooed; X. THREE years she grew Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse: and with me In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, To kindle or restrain. She shall be sportive as the fawn And hers shall be the breathing balm, Of mute insensate things. The floating clouds their state shall lend Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the Storm Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, pass into her face. And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell." Thus Nature spake-The work was done How soon my Lucy's race was run! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm, and quiet scene; The memory of what has been, And never more will be. 1799 1799. XI. A SLUMBER did my spirit seal ; I had no human fears: She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years. No motion has she now, no force; She neither hears nor sees; Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, With rocks, and stones, and trees. XII. I WANDERED lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, The waves beside them danced; but they In such a jocund company: I gazed-and gazed-but little thought For oft, when on my couch I lie And then my heart with pleasure fills, In the silence of morning the song of the Bird. 'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, Down which she so often has tripped with her pail; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade: to waste; The Newsman is stopped, though he stops on the fret; And the half-breathless Lamplighter-he's in the net! The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore; The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her store; If a thief could be here he might pilfer at ease; She sees the Musician, 'tis all that she sees ! He stands, backed by the wall ;-he abates not his din; His hat gives him vigour, with boons dropping in, From the old and the young, from the poorest; and there! The one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare. a band; I am glad for him, blind as he is!-all the while If they speak 'tis to praise, and they praise with a smile. That tall Man, a giant in bulk and in height, Not an inch of his body is free from delight; Have souls which never yet have risen, and therefore prostrate lie? No, no, this cannot be ;-men thirst for power and majesty! Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful mind employ Of him who gazes, or has gazed? a grave and steady joy, That doth reject all show of pride, admits no outward sign, Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine! Whatever be the cause, 'tis sure that they who pry and pore Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than before: One after One they take their turn, nor have I one espied That doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied. 1806. The Show-man chooses well his place, 'tis Leicester's busy Square: And is as happy in his night, for the heavens are blue and fair; Calm, though impatient, is the crowd; each stands ready with the fee, And envies him that's looking;-what an insight must it be! Yet, Show-man, where can lie the cause? Shall thy Implement have blame, A boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is put to shame ? Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes in fault? Their eyes, or minds? or, finally, is yon resplendent vault? Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as we have here? Or gives a thing but small delight that never can be dear? The silver moon with all her vales, and hills of mightiest fame, Doth she betray us when they're seen? or are they but a name? Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is and strong, And bounty never yields so much but it seems to do her wrong? Or is it, that when human Souls a journey long have had And are returned into themselves, they cannot but be sad? Or must we be constrained to think that these Spectators rude, Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude, XVI. WRITTEN IN MARCH, WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF BROTHER's water. THE Cock is crowing, The small birds twitter, The green field sleeps in the sun; Are at work with the strongest ; Their heads never raising; Like an army defeated On the top of the bare hill; The Ploughboy is whooping-anon-anon: Blue sky prevailing ; The rain is over and gone! 1801. |