From joy to joy: for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the 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, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
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 gleams
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, That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!
ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER DORA,
ON BEING REMINDED THAT SHE WAS A MONTH OLD THAT DAY, SEPTEMBER 16.
HAST thou then survived
Mild offspring of infirm humanity,
Meek Infant! among all forlornest things The most forlorn-one life of that bright star, The second glory of the Heavens ?—Thou hast ; Already hast survived that great decay,
That transformation through the wide earth felt, And by all nations. In that Being's sight From whom the race of human kind proceed, A thousand years are but as yesterday; And one day's narrow circuit is to Him Not less capacious than a thousand years.
But what is time? What outward glory? Neither A measure is of Thee, whose claims extend Through "heaven's eternal year. "-Yet hail to Thee, Frail, feeble Monthling!-by that name, methinks, Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out
Not idly.-Hadst thou been of Indian birth, Couched on a casual bed of moss and leaves, And rudely canopied by leafy boughs, Or to the churlish elements exposed
On the blank plains,—the coldness of the night, Or the night's darkness, or its cheerful face Of beauty, by the changing Moon adorned, Would, with imperious admonition, then Have scored thine age, and punctually timed Thine infant history, on the minds of those
Who might have wandered with thee.-Mother's love, Nor less than mother's love in other breasts, Will, among us warm-clad and warmly-housed Do for thee what the finger of the heavens Doth all too often harshly execute For thy unblest coevals, amid wilds Where fancy hath small liberty to grace The affections, to exalt them or refine; And the maternal sympathy itself, Though strong, is, in the main, a joyless tie Of naked instinct, wound about the heart. Happier, far happier, is thy lot and ours! Even now-to solemnise thy helpless state, And to enliven in the mind's regard Thy passive beauty-parallels have risen, Resemblances, or contrasts, that connect, Within the region of a father's thoughts, Thee and thy mate and sister of the sky. And first; thy sinless progress, through a world By sorrow darkened and by care disturbed,
Apt likeness bears to hers, through gathered clouds, Moving untouched in silver purity,
And cheering oft-times their reluctant gloom. Fair are ye both, and both are free from stain : But thou, how leisurely thou fill'st thy horn With brightness! leaving her to post along, And range about, disquieted in change, And still impatient of the shape she wears. Once up, once down the hill, one journey, Babe, That will suffice thee; and it seems that now Thou hast fore-knowledge that such task is thine; Thou travellest so contentedly, and sleep'st In such a heedless peace. Alas! full soon Hath this conception, grateful to behold, Changed countenance, like an object sullied o'er
By breathing mist; and thine appears to be A mournful labour, while to her is given
Hope, and a renovation without end.
-That smile forbids the thought; for on thy face Smiles are beginning, like the beams of dawn, To shoot and circulate; smiles have there been seen; Tranquil assurances that Heaven supports The feeble motions of thy life, and cheers Thy loneliness: or shall those smiles be called Feelers of love, put forth as if to explore This untried world, and to prepare thy way Through a strait passage intricate and dim? Such are they; and the same are tokens, signs, Which, when the appointed season hath arrived, Joy, as her holiest language, shall adopt;
And Reason's godlike power be proud to own.
Left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, which stands near the Lake of Esthwaite, on a desolate Part of the Shore, commanding a beautiful 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 the bee love not these barren boughs? 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
That piled these stones, and with the mossy sod First covered o'er, and taught this aged Tree With its dark arms to form a circling bower, I well remember.—He was one who owned No common soul. In youth by science nursed, And led by nature into a wild scene
Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth A favoured Being, knowing no desire Which Genius did not hallow,—'gainst the taint Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate, And scorn,-against all enemies prepared, All but neglect. The world, for so it thought, Owed him no service; wherefore he at once With indignation turned himself away, And with the food of pride sustained his soul In solitude.-Stranger! these gloomy boughs Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit, His only visitants a straggling sheep, The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper :
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