No duty that looks further, and no care.
Each Being has his office, lowly some
And common, yet all worthy if fulfilled 670
With zeal, acknowledgment that with the
gift

Keeps pace a harvest answering to the seed.
Of ill-advised Ambition and of Pride

I would stand clear, but yet to me I feel That an internal brightness is vouchsafed That must not die, that must not pass away.

Why does this inward lustre fondly seek And gladly blend with outward fellowship? Why do they shine around me whom I love? Why do they teach me, whom I thus revere ? Strange question, yet it answers not itself. That humble Roof embowered among the trees,

682

That calm fireside, it is not even in them,
Blest as they are, to furnish a reply
That satisfies and ends in perfect rest.
Possessions have I that are solely mine,
Something within which yet is shared by

none,

Not even the nearest to me and most dear, Something which power and effort may impart;

692

I would impart it, I would spread it wide:
Immortal in the world which is to come
Forgive me if I add another claim
And would not wholly perish even in this,
Lie down and be forgotten in the dust,
I and the modest Partners of my days
Making a silent company in death;
Love, knowledge, all my manifold delights,
All buried with me without monument
Or profit unto any but ourselves!
It must not be, if I, divinely taught,
Be privileged to speak as I have felt
Of what in man is human or divine.

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All shall survive, though changed their office, all

Shall live, it is not in their power to die. Then farewell to the Warrior's Schemes, farewell

The forwardness of soul which looks that

way

Upon a less incitement than the Cause
Of Liberty endangered, and farewell
That other hope, long mine, the hope to fill
The heroic trumpet with the Muse's breath!
Yet in this peaceful Vale we will not spend
Unheard-of days, though loving peaceful
thought,

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A voice shall speak, and what will be the theme?

THE BROTHERS

1800. 1800

This poem was composed in a grove at the north-eastern end of Grasmere lake, which grove was in a great measure destroyed by turning the high-road along the side of the water. The few trees that are left were spared at my intercession. The poem arose out of the fact, mentioned to me at Ennerdale, that a shepherd had fallen asleep upon the top of the rock called The Pillar, and perished as here described, his staff being left midway on the rock.

"THESE Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must live

A profitable life: some glance along,
Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air,
And they were butterflies to wheel about
Long as the summer lasted: some, as wise,
Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag,
Pencil in hand and book upon the knee,
Will look and scribble, scribble on and look,
Until a man might travel twelve stout miles,
Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn.
But, for that moping Son of Idleness,
Why can he tarry yonder? - In our church-
yard

10

Is neither epitaph nor monument, Tombstone nor name -only the turf we

His wife sate near him, teasing matted
wool,
While, from the twin cards toothed with
glittering wire,

He fed the spindle of his youngest child,
Who, in the open air, with due accord
Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps
Her large round wheel was turning. To-
wards the field

In which the Parish Chapel stood alone,
Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall,
While half an hour went by, the Priest had
sent

Many a long look of wonder: and at last, 30 Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white

A Shepherd-lad; who ere his sixteenth year
Had left that calling, tempted to entrust
His expectations to the fickle winds
And perilous waters; with the mariners
A fellow-mariner; - and so had fared
Through twenty seasons; but he had been
reared

Among the mountains, and he in his heart Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas. Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard

The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds

Of caves and trees:

and, when the regular |

wind Between the tropics filled the steady sail, 50 And blew with the same breath through days and weeks,

Lengthening invisibly its weary line
Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours
Of tiresome indolence, would often hang
Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze;
And, while the broad blue wave and spar-
kling foam

Flashed round him images and hues that wrought

In union with the employment of his heart,
He, thus by feverish passion overcome,
Even with the organs of his bodily eye, 60
Below him, in the bosom of the deep,
Saw mountains; saw the forms of sheep
that grazed

On verdant hills - with dwellings among trees,

And shepherds clad in the same country grey

Which he himself had worn.

And now, at last, From perils manifold, with some small wealth

Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles,
To his paternal home he is returned,
With a determined purpose to resume
The life he had lived there; both for the
sake

70

Of many darling pleasures, and the love
Which to an only brother he has borne
In all his hardships, since that happy time
When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two
Were brother-shepherds on their native

hills.

90

That he had seen this heap of turf before,-
That it was not another grave; but one
He had forgotten. He had lost his path,
As up
the vale, that afternoon, he walked
Through fields which once had been well
known to him:

And oh what joy this recollection now
Sent to his heart! he lifted up his eyes,
And, looking round, imagined that he saw
Strange alteration wrought on every side
Among the woods and fields, and that the
rocks,

And everlasting hills themselves were changed.

By this the Priest, who down the field had come,

100

Unseen by Leonard, at the churchyard gate Stopped short, and thence, at leisure,

limb by limb Perused him with a gay complacency. Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself, "Tis one of those who needs must leave the

The good Man might have communed with himself,

But that the Stranger, who had left the grave,

Approached; he recognised the Priest at

once,

And, after greetings interchanged, and given

By Leonard to the Vicar as to one Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued. 120 Leonard. You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life:

Your years make up one peaceful family; And who would grieve and fret, if, wel

come come

And welcome gone, they are so like each other,

funeral

Comes to this churchyard once in eighteen

months;