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She had a rustic, woodland air,
Her eyes were fair, and very fair ;
"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
"How many? Seven in all," she said And wondering looked at me.
"And where are they? I pray you tell."
"Two of us in the church-yard lie,
And in the church-yard cottage, I
"You say that two at Conway dwell,
"You run about, my little Maid,
If two are in the church-yard laid,
"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little Maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.
My stockings there I often knit,
"The first that died was sister Jane;
Till God released her of her pain;
WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED.
This old man had been huntsman to the squires of Alfoxden. The fact was as mentioned in the poem; and I have, after an interval of fortyfive years, the image of the old man as fresh before my eyes as if I had seen him yesterday. The expression when the hounds were out, dearly love their voice," was word for word from his own lips. (Wordsworth.)
IN the sweet shire of Cardigan,
An old Man dwells, a little man,-
Full five and thirty years he lived
No man like him the horn could sound,
In those proud days, he little cared
To blither tasks did Simon rouse
The sleepers of the village.
He all the country could outrun,
But, oh the heavy change !-bereft
Old Simon to the world is left
His Master's dead,-and no one now
Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
And he is lean and he is sick;
Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
Oft, working by her Husband's side,
And, though you with your utmost skill
To her fair works did Nature link
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
The birds around me hopped and played,
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
If this belief from heaven be sent,
TO MY SISTER
IT is the first mild day of March:
There is a blessing in the air,
My sister! ('tis a wish of mine)
Edward will come with you ;--and, pray,
No joyless forms shall regulate
We from to-day, my Friend, will date
Love, now a universal birth,
From heart to heart is stealing,
From earth to man, from man to earth: -It is the hour of feeling.
One moment now may give us more
Some silent laws our hearts will make,
And from the blessed power that rolls About, below, above,
We'll frame the measure of our souls: They shall be tuned to love.
Then come, my Sister! come, I pray, With speed put on your woodiand dress; And bring no book: for this one day 1798. We'll give to idleness. 1798.
A WHIRL-BLAST FROM BEHIND THE HILL
A WHIRL-BLAST from behind the hill Rushed o'er the wood with starting sound;
Then--all at once the air was still,
And showers of hailstones pattered round.
Where leafless oaks towered high above,
Of tallest hollies, tall and green;
COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR. JULY 13, 1798.
No poem of mine was composed under circumstances more pleasant for me to remember than this. I began it upon leaving Tintern, after crossing the Wye, and concluded it just as I was entering Bristol in the evening, after a ramble of four or five days, with my sister. Not a line of it was altered, and not any part of it written down till I reached Bristol. It was published almost immediately after in the little volume of which so much has been said in these Notes. (Wordsworth. The volume referred to is The Lyrical Ballads, as first published at Bristol by Cottle.)
FIVE years have past; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur.1-Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, That on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose
1 The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above Tintern. (Wordsworth, 1798.)
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oftIn 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,