And, even with something of a Mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely Nurse doth all she can To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came. VII. Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: To dialogues of business, love, or strife; Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little Actor cons another part; Were endless imitation. VIII. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted forever by the eternal mind,Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! On whom those truths do rest, Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, IX. O joy! that in our embers The thought of our past years in me doth breed For that which is most worthy to be blest; Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; High instincts before which our mortal Nature Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make To perish never; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Hence in a season of calm weather Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea Can in a moment travel thither, X. Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song! And let the young Lambs bound As to the tabor's sound! We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now forever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; Which having been must ever be; In the faith that looks through death XI. And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills and Groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born Day Is lovely yet; The Clouds that gather round the setting sun That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; "I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD" (1807) I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine They stretched in never-ending line Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 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, "SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT" (1807) She was a Phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes are stars of Twilight fair; I saw her upon nearer view, Her household motions light and free, |