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Loud is the Vale! - this inland depth
In peace is roaring like the sea ;
Yon star upon the mountain-top
Is listening quietly.
Sad was I, even to pain depress’d,
Importunate and heavy load !
The comforter hath found me here,
Upon this lonely road;
And many thousands now are sad -
Wait the fulfilment of their fear ;
For he must die who is their stay,
Their glory disappear.
A power is passing from the earth
To breathless Nature's dark abyss ;
And when the mighty pass away,
What is it more than this -
That man, who is from God sent forth,
Doth yet again to God return ?
Such ebb and flow must ever be ;
Then wherefore should we mourn ?
THE FORCE OF PRAYER; OR, THE FOUNDING OF
What is good for a bootless bene ?' With these dark words begins my tale ; And their meaning is, “Whence can comfort spring, When prayer is of no avail ?'
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 chisellid 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,
Now there is stillness in the vale,
And long unspeaking sorrow :
Wharf shall be, to pitying hearts,
A name more sad than Yarrow.
If for a lover the lady wept,
A solace she might borrow
From death, and from the passion of death ;
Old Wharf might heal her sorrow.
She weeps not for the wedding-day
Which was to be to-morrow :
Her hope was a farther-looking hope,
And hers is a mother's sorrow.
He was a tree that stood alone,
And proudly did its branches wave ;
And the root of this delightful tree
Was in her husband's grave !
Long, long in darkness did she sit,
And her first words were, ' Let there be
In Bolton, on the field of Wharf,
A stately priory!'
The stately priory was rear'd,
And Wharf, as he moved along,
To matins join'd a mournful voice,
Nor fail'd at evensong.
And the lady pray'd in heaviness
That look'd not for relief :
And slowly did her succour come,
And a patience to her grief.
Oh! there is never a sorrow of heart
That shall lack a timely end,
If but to God we turn and ask
Of Him to be our friend !
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.*.
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.
I WANDER'd lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils ;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretch'd in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay :
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves besides them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee :-
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company :
I gazed — and gazed – but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought :
For oft when on my couch I lie,
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
UP with me! up with me, into the clouds !
For thy song, Lark, is strong ;
Up with me, up with me into the clouds !
With all the heavens about thee ringing.
Lift me, guide me till I find
That spot which seems so to thy mind !