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XII.

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!
The sea that bares her bosom to the moon ;
The winds that will be howling at all hours
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything 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 rising from the sea,

Or hear old Triton blow its wreathed horn.

1806.

XIII.

COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE.

EARTH has not anything to show 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!

1802.

XIV.

IT is a beauteous evening, calm and free;
The holy time is quiet as a nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven is on the sea:
Listen! the mighty being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder-everlastingly.

Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear'st untouched by solemn thought,
Thy nature therefore is not less divine:
Thou liest "in Abraham's bosom " all the year;
And worshipp'st at the temple's inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.

1802.

XV.

THE shepherd, looking eastward, softly said
"Bright is thy veil, O moon, as thou art bright!”
Forthwith, that little cloud, in ether spread,
And penetrated all with tender light,

She cast away, and showed her fulgent head
Uncovered; dazzling the beholder's sight
As if to vindicate her beauty's right,
Her beauty thoughtlessly disparaged.

Meanwhile that veil, removed or thrown aside,
Went floating from her, darkening as it went;
And a huge mass, to bury or to hide,
Approached this glory of the firmament ;
Who meekly yields, and is obscured-content
With one calm triumph of a modest pride.

1815.

XVI.

TO THE SUPREME BEING.

(From Michael Angelo.)

THE prayers I make will then be sweet indeed,
If Thou the spirit give by which I pray :
My unassisted heart is barren clay,

Which of its native self can nothing feed:
Of good and pious works Thou art the seed,
Which quickens only where Thou say'st it may,
Unless Thou show to us Thine own true way,
No man can find it: Father! Thou must lead.
Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind
By which such virtue may in me be bred
That in Thy holy footsteps I may tread ;
The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind,
That I may have the power to sing of Thee,
And sound Thy praises everlastingly.

[graphic]

THE SHEPHERD, LOOKING EASTWARD, SOFTLY SAID, 'BRIGHT IS THY VEIL,O MOON, AS THOU ART BRIGHT!"-Page 248.

NIV

OF

XVII.

MOST sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
To pace the ground, if path be there or none
While a fair region round the traveller lies
Which he forbears again to look upon;
Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,
The work of fancy, or some happy tone
Of meditation, slipping in between

The beauty coming and the beauty gone.

If Thought and Love desert us, from that day
Let us break off all commerce with the Muse.
With Thought and Love companions of our way,
Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,

The mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews
Of inspiration on the humblest lay.

1833.

XVIII.

WHERE lies the land to which yon ship must go? Festively she puts forth in trim array;

As vigorous as a lark at break of day.

Is she for tropic suns or polar snow?

What boots the inquiry? Neither friend nor foe
She cares for; let her travel where she may,
She finds familiar names, a beaten way

Ever before her, and a wind to blow.

Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark?

And, almost as it was when ships were rare
(From time to time, like pilgrims here and there
Crossing the waters), doubt, and something dark,
Of the old sea some reverential fear

Is with me at thy farewell, joyous bark!

XIX.

1806.

HER only pilot the soft breeze, the boat
Lingers, but Fancy is well satisfied;

With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory, at her side.
And the glad Muse at liberty to note

All that to each is precious, as we float
Gently along; regardless who shall chide
If the heavens smile, and leave us free to glide,
Happy Associates breathing air remote
From trivial cares. But, Fancy and the Muse,
Why have I crowded this small bark with you

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