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
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, 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
The elements of feeling and of thought,
And sanctifying by such discipline
Both pain and fear,-until we recognize
A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.
Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to

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.
And in the frosty season, when the sun
Was set, and, visible for many a mile,
The cottage-windows through the twi-
light blazed,

I heeded not the summons: happy time
It was indeed for all of us; for me
It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud
The village-clock tolled six-I wheeled
about,

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.
Not seldom from the uproar I retired
Into a silent bay, or sportively
Glanced sideway, leaving the tumult-
uous throng,

To cut across the reflex of a star;
Image, that, flying still before me,

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
Germany. (Wordsworth.)

STRANGE fits of passion have I known :
And I will dare to tell,

But in the Lover's ear alone,
What once to me befell.

When she I loved looked every day
Fresh as a rose in June,

I to her cottage bent my way,
Beneath an evening-moon.

Upon the moon I fixed my eye,
All over the wide lea;

With quickening pace my horse drew nigh

Those paths so dear to me.

And now we reached the orchard-plot;
And, as we climbed the hill,
The sinking moon to Lucy's cot
Came near, and nearer still.

In one of those sweet dreams I slept,
Kind Nature's gentlest boon!
And all the while my eyes I kept
On the descending moon.

My horse moved on; hoof after hoof
He raised, and never stopped:
When down behind the cottage roof,
At once, the bright moon dropped.

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: