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 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 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, per chance 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 for get, Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me The passions that build up our human soul; Not with the mean and vulgar works of Man, But with high objects, with enduring things, With life and nature; purifying thus me With stinted kindness. In November days, When vapors rolling down the valleys made A lonely scene more lonesome; among woods At noon; and 'mid the calm of summer nights, When by the margin of the trembling lake, Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I went In solitude. such intercourse was mine: Mine was it in the fields both day and night, And by the waters, all the summer long. I heeded not the summons: happy time Proud and exulting like an untired horse That cares not for his home.-All shod with steel We hissed along the polished ice, in Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west The orange sky of evening died away. To cut across the reflex of a star; gleamed Upon the glassy plain: and oftentimes, When we had given our bodies to the wind, And all the shadowy banks on either side Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still The rapid line of motion, then at once Have I, reclining back upon my heels, Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs Wheeled by me-even as if the earth had rolled With visible motion her diurnal round! Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. 1799. 1809. THERE WAS A BOY Written in Germany. This is an extract from the poem on my own poetical education. (Wordsworth. The poem referred to is The Prelude.) THERE was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs And islands of Winander!-many a time, At evening, when the earliest stars began To move along the edges of the hills, Rising or setting, would he stand alone, Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake; And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, That they might answer him.--And they would shout Across the watery vale, and shout again, Responsive to his call,-with quivering peals, And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild Of jocund din! And, when there came a pause Of silence such as baffled his best skill, Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise Has carried far into his heart the voice Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene Would enter unawares into his mind With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received Into the bosom of the steady lake. This boy was taken from his mates, and died In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale Where he was born and bred: the churchyard hangs Upon a slope above the village-school; And through that church-yard when my way has led On summer-evenings, I believe, that there A long half-hour together I have stood Mute-looking at the grave in which he lies! 1798. 1800. NUTTING Written in Germany; ntended as part of a poem on my own life. out struck out as not being wanted there... (Wordsworth). IT seems a day (I speak of one from many singled out) One of those heavenly days that cannot die; When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my steps Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint, Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds Which for that service had been hus banded, By exhortation of my frugal Dame— Motley accoutrement, of power to smile At thorns, and brakes, and brambles-and, in truth, More ragged than need was! O'er pathless rocks. 14 sate Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played; A temper known to those, who, after long And weary expectation, have been blest With sudden happiness beyond all hope. Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves The violets of five seasons re-appear And fade, unseen by any human eye; Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on For ever; and I saw the sparkling foam. And-with my cheek on one of those green stones That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees, Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep- I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound, In that sweet mood when pleasure loves The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky.- Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand Touch-for there is a spirit in the woods. 1799. 1800. STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HAVE I KNOWN The next three poems were written in STRANGE fits of passion have I known : But in the Lover's ear alone, When she I loved looked every day I to her cottage bent my way, Upon the moon I fixed my eye, With quickening pace my horse drew nigh Those paths so dear to me. And now we reached the orchard-plot; In one of those sweet dreams I slept, My horse moved on; hoof after hoof What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a Lover's head! 66 O mercy!" to myself I cried, "If Lucy should be dead!" 1799. 1800. SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love: |