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A RED, RED ROSE

(1793)

O my Luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June:
O my Luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi' the sun: I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve!
And fare-thee-weel awhile!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Though it were ten thousand mile!

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Their tinsel show, and a' that The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,

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Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see you birkie2 ca'd a lord,

Wha struts, an' stares an' a' that; Tho' hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof3 for a' that: For a' that, and a' that,

His ribband, star, an' a' that:
The man o' independent mind,
He looks an' laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Guid faith, he maunna fa' that!

For a' that, an' a that,

Their dignities an' a' that; The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth, Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,

(As come it will for a' that),

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That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth, 35 May bear the gree, an' a' that.

For a that, an' a' that,

It's coming yet for a' that,

That Man to Man, the warld o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.

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O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST

(1796)

O wert thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee;
Or did Misfortune's bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield' should be my bosom,

To share it a', to share it a'.

Or were I in the wildest waste,

Sae bleak and bare, sae bleak and bare, 10 The desert were a Paradise,

If thou wert there, if thou wert there;

Or were I monarch o' the globe,

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,

The brightest jewel in my Crown

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Wad be my Queen, wad be my Queen.

1 Hodden grey, a coarse woolen stuff, which (being undyed) retained the natural gray color of the wool.

Try.

2 A conceited, self-assertive man; a "young sport." Lout, fool.

1 Shelter.

VII. THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH AND SCOTT

William Wordsworth

1770-1850

LINES

c. 1784-c. 1837

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These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration:-feelings too Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered, acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,

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This poem was composed during a short excursion in the valley of the Wye, which Wordsworth made with his sister. He visited the ruins of Tintern Abbey, but the poem, we are told, was composed some miles from the historic ruin, and deals entirely with the beauties of the Wye valley, and apparently with some scenes especially associated with memories of the past.

In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world,

Is lightened: that serene and blessed mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on,-
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul;
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.

If this

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Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft—
In darkness and amid the many shapes
Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart-
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer thro' the
woods,

How often has my spirit turned to thee!

And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,

With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,

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The picture of the mind revives again:
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
That in this moment there is life and food
For future years. And so I dare to hope,
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was

when first

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(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
And their glad animal movements all gone by)
To me was all in all.-I cannot paint
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite; a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, nor any interest
Unborrowed from the eye.-That time is

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For thou art with me here upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend,
My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart, and read 120
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
May I behold in thee what I was once,
My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make,
Knowing that Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
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

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For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing
thoughts

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"You look round on your Mother Earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you;
As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before you!"

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet, I knew not why,
To me my good friend Matthew spake,
And thus I made reply:

"The eye-it cannot choose but see;
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
Against or with our will.

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Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance-
If I should be where I no more can hear

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(1798)

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; Or surely you'll grow double:

Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble?

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She died, and left to me

This heath, this calm, and quiet scene;

The memory of what has been,

And never more will be.

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SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN

WAYS

(1799)

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,

A Maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye!

-Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.

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If from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,1
You will suppose that with an upright path
Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent
The pastoral mountains front you, face to face.5
But, courage! for around that boisterous brook
The mountains have all opened out themselves,
And made a hidden valley of their own.
No habitation can be seen; but they
Who journey thither find themselves alone
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and
kites

That overhead are sailing in the sky.

It is in truth an utter solitude;

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Nor should I have made mention of this Dell But for one object which you might pass by, 15 Might see and notice not. Beside the brook Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones: And to that simple object appertains

1 Narrow valley or ravine.

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Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale2 There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name; An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen, Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs, And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt And watchful more than ordinary men. Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds, Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes, When others heeded not, he heard the South 50 Make subterraneous music, like the noise Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock Bethought him, and he to himself would say, "The winds are now devising work for me!" 55 And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives The traveller to a shelter, summoned him Up to the mountains: he had been alone Amid the heart of many thousand mists, That came to him, and left him, on the heights. So lived he till his eightieth year was past. And grossly that man errs, who should suppose That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks,

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Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts.

Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had

breathed

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Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named)
And his old Father both betook themselves
To such convenient work as might employ
Their hands by the fire-side; perhaps to card
Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair
Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe,
Or other implement of house or field.

Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge,

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That in our ancient uncouth country style
With huge and black projection overbrowed
Large space beneath, as duly as the light
Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp;
An aged utensil, which had performed
Service beyond all others of its kind.
Early at evening did it burn-and late,
Surviving comrade of uncounted hours,
Which, going by from year to year, had found,
And left the couple neither gay perhaps
Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes,
Living a life of eager industry.

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And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year,

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There by the light of this old lamp they sate,
Father and Son, while far into the night
The Housewife plied her own peculiar work,
Making the cottage through the silent hours
Murmur as with the sound of summer flies.
This light was famous in its neighborhood,
And was a public symbol of the life
That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced,
Their cottage on a plot of rising ground

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Stood single, with large prospect, north and south.

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