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The budding groves appear'd as if in haste
To spur the steps of June ; as if their shades
Of various green were hind'rances that stood
Between them and their object : yet, meanwhile,
There was such deep contentment in the air
That every naked ash, and shady tree
Yet leafless, seem'd as though the countenance
With which it look'd on this delightful day
Were native to the summer. Up the brook
I roam'd in the confusion of my heart,
Alive to all things and forgetting all.
At length I to a sudden turning came
In this continuous glen, where down a rock
The stream, so ardent in its course before,
Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all
Which I till then had heard, appear'd the voice
Of common pleasure : beast and bird, the lamb,
The shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush,
Vied with this waterfall, and made a song
Which, while I listen’d, seem'd like the wild growth
Or like some natural produce of the air,
That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here ;
But 'twas the foliage of the rocks, the birch,
The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn,
With hanging islands of resplendent furze :
And on a summit, distant a short space,
By any who should look beyond the dell,
A single mountain cottage might be seen.
I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said,

Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook,
My Emma, I will dedicate to thee.'

- Soon did the spot become my other home,
My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode.
And, of the shepherds who have seen me there,
To whom I sometimes in our idle talk
Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps,
Years after we are gone and in our graves,
When they have cause to speak of this wild place,
May call it by the name of" Emma's Dell.'


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To Joanna.

AMID the smoke of cities did you pass
Your time of early youth; and there you learn'd,
From years of quiet industry, to love
The living beings by your own fireside
With such a strong devotion, that your heart
Is slow towards the sympathies of them
Who look upon the hills with tenderness,
And make dear friendships with the streams and groves.
Yet we, who are transgressors in this kind,
Dwelling, retired in our simplicity,
Among the woods and fields, we love you well
Joanna ! and I guess, since you have been
So distant from us now for two long years,
That you will gladly listen to discourse
However trivial, if you thence are taught
That they, with whom you once were happy, talk
Familiarly of you and of old times.

While I was seated, now some ten days past,
Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop
Their ancient neighbour the old steeple tower,
The vicar from his gloomy house hard by
Came forth to greet me; and when he had ask'd,
'How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted maid !
And when will she return to us ?' he paused;
And, after short exchange of village news,
He with grave looks demanded, for what cause,
Reviving obsolete idolatry,
I like a Runic priest, in characters
Of formidable size, had chisell’d out
Some uncouth name upon the native rock,
Above the Rotha, by the forest side.
-- Now, by those dear immunities of heart
Engender'd betwixt malice and true love,
I was not loth to be so catechised,

And this was my reply:- 'As it befel,
One summer morning we had walk'd abroad
At break of day, Joanna and myself.
'Twas that delightful season, when the broom,
Full-flowered, and visible on every steep,
Along the copses runs in veins of gold.
Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks :
And when we came in front of that tall rock
Which looks towards the east, I there stopp'd short,
And traced the lofty barrier with my eye
From base to summit ; such delight I found
To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower,
That intermixture of delicate hues,
Along so vast a surface, all at once,
In one impression, by connecting force
Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart.
- When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' space,
Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld
That ravishment of mine, and laugh'd aloud.
The rock, like something starting from a sleep,
Took up the lady's voice, and laugh'd again :
That ancient woman seated on Helm Crag
Was ready with her cavern : Hammar Scar,
And the tall steep of Silver How, sent forth
A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard,
And Fairfield answer'd with a mountain tone :
Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky
Carried the lady's voice ; old Skiddaw blew
His speaking trumpet ; back out of the clouds
Of Glaramara southward came the voice;
And Kirkstone toss'd it from his misty head.

Now whether,' said I to our cordial friend,
Who in the hey-day of astonishment
Smiled in my face, this were in simple truth
A work accomplish'd by the brotherhood
Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touch'd
With dreams and visionary impulses,
Is not for me to tell ; but sure I am
That there was a loud uproar in the hills :
And, while we both were listening, to my side


Composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey, on revisit

ing the banks of the Wye during a tour.

Five years have pass'd; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters ! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain springs
With a sweet inland murmur.* — Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
Which 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
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard tufts,
Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
Among the woods and copses, nor disturb
The wild green landscape. Once again I see
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild ; these pastoral farms
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees !
With some uncertain notice, as might seem,
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire
The hermit sits alone.

Though absent long,
These forms of beauty 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, sensation sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ;
And passing even into my purer mind,

* The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above Tintern.

With tranquil restoration :- feelings too
Of unremember'd pleasure ; such, perhaps,
As may have had no trivial influence,
On that best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, unremember'd acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime ; that blessèd mood,
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world
Is lighten'd;that serene and blessèd mood,
In which th' 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
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 wand'rer through the woods,
How often has my spirit turn'd to thee!
And now, with gleams of half-extinguish'd thought,
With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
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
I came among these hills ; when like a roe
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides

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