An appetite: a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, or any interest Unborrow'd from the eye. That time is past, And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts Have follow'd, for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompense. For I have learn'd To look on Nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity,
Not harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man: A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye and ear, both what they half create,* And what perceive; well pleased to recognize In Nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being.
Nor perchance, If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay;
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 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
This line has a close resemblance to an admirable line of Young, the exact express of which I cannot recollect.
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.
Joems proceeding from Sentiment and Reflection.
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 these barren boughs the bee not loves? 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.
That piled these stones, and with the mossy sod First cover'd o'er, and taught this aged tree With its dark arms to form a circling bower, I well remember. He was one who own'd
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 favour'd 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 turn'd himself away,
And with the food of pride sustain'd 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 sand-lark, restless bird, Piping along the margin of the lake. And on these barren rocks, with juniper, And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o'er, Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour A morbid pleasure nourish'd, tracing here An emblem of his own unfruitful life: And lifting up his head, he then would gaze On the more distant scene,-how lovely 'tis Thou seest,-and he would gaze till it became Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain The beauty, still more beauteous! Nor, that time, When Nature had subdued him to herself, Would he forget those beings, to whose minds, Warm from the labours of benevolence, The world, and man himself, appear'd a sceno Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh With mournful joy, to think that others felt What he must never feel: and so, lost man! On visionary views would fancy feed,
Till his eye stream'd with tears. In this deep valo He died,-this seat his only monument.
If thou be one whose heart the holy forms
Of young imagination have kept pure,
Stranger! henceforth be warn'd; and know, that pride, Howe'er disguised in his own majesty,
Is littleness; that he who feels contempt
For any living thing, hath faculties
Which he has never used; that thought with him
Is in its infancy. The man whose eye
Is ever on himself, doth look on one,
The least of Nature's works, one who might move The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, thou!
Instructed that true knowledge leads to love, True dignity abides with him alone
Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart.
CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. WHO is the happy warrior? Who is he Whom every man in arms should wish to be?
-It is the generous spirit, who, when brought Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought: Whose high endeavours are an inward light That make the path before him always bright; Who, with a natural instinct to discern
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn ; Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, But makes his moral being his prime care; Who, doom'd to go in company with pain, And fear, and bloodshed, miserable train! Turns his necessity to glorious gain; In face of these doth exercise a power Which is our human nature's highest dower; Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives; By objects which might force the soul to abate Her feeling, render'd more compassionate; Is placable because occasions rise
So often that demand such sacrifice;
More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure, As tempted more; more able to endure, As more exposed to suffering and distress; Thence, also, more alive to tenderness.
'Tis he whose law is reason; who depends Upon that law as on the best of friends; Whence, in a state where men are tempted still To evil for a guard against worse ill, And what in quality or act is best Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, He fixes good on good alone, and owes To virtue every triumph that he knows; -Who, if he rise to station of command, Rises by open means; and there will stand On honourable terms, or else retire, And in himself possess his own desire; Who comprehends his trust, and to the same Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state;
Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall, Like showers of manna, if they come at all;
Whose powers shed round him in the common strife, Or mild concerns of ordinary life,
A constant influence, a peculiar grace;
But who, if he be call'd upon to face
Some awful moment to which Heaven has join'd Great issues, good or bad for human kind, Is happy as a lover; and attired
With sudden brightness, like a man inspired; And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw; Or if an unexpected call succeed,
Come when it will, is equal to the need: -He who, though thus endued as with a sense And faculty for storm and turbulence, Is yet a soul whose master bias leans To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes; Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be, Are at his heart; and such fidelity
It is his darling passion to approve;
More brave for this, that he hath much to love: 'Tis, finally, the man, who, lifted high, Conspicuous object in a nation's eye, Or left unthought of in obscurity,- Who, with a toward or untoward lot, Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not, Plays, in the many games of life, that one Where what he most doth value must be won; Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray; Who, not content that former worth stand fast, Looks forward, persevering to the last, From well to better, daily self-surpass'd:
Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth For ever, and to noble deeds give birth, Or he must go to dust without his fame, And leave a dead, unprofitable name, Finds comfort in himself and in his cause; And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause: This is the happy warrior; this is he Whom every man in arms should wish to be.
The history of Rob Roy is sufficiently known; his grave is near the head of Loch Katrine, in one of those small pinfold-like burial-grounds, of neglected and desolate appearance, which the traveller meets with in the Highlands of Scotland.
A FAMOUS man is Robin Hood, The English ballad singer's joy! And Scotland has a thief as good, An outlaw of as daring mood; She has her brave Rob Roy !
Then clear the weeds from off his grave, And let us chant a passing stave
In honour of that hero brave!
Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart, And wondrous length and strength of arm; Nor craved he more to quell his foes,
Or keep his friends from harm.
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