164 Page If thou indeed derive thy Light from Heaven 154 Written in a Blank Leaf of Macpherson's Ossian 155 To the Lady ~, on the Foundation of - A Fact and an Imagination; Canute and Alfred 173 A little onward lend thy guiding Hand • View from the top of Black Comb . O Nightingale! thou surely art ONA 237 249 207 Gipsies 234 Resolution and Independence The Thorn . 241 Hartleap Well. Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle : 255 The Echo To a Skylark. It is no spirit who from heaven haih towa : 261 The Pass of Kirkstone. Evening Ode. Lines written a few Miles above Tintern Abbey 273 To the Daisy . 275 The Hailstorm The Green Linnet The Contrast To the small Celandine To the same Flower The Waterfall and the Eglant The Oak and the Broom 286 Song for the Spinning Wheel The Redbreast and Butterfly 290 The Kitten and the Falling Leav 291 To the Daisy 295 To the same Flower 297 To a Sexton . 298 The Seven Sisters; or The Solitude of Binnorie 299 A Fragment . 301 Pilgrim's Dream; The Star and the Glowworm 303 Stray Pleasures To my Infant Daughter 290 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD. THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled inacelestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore, Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more. The rainbow comes and goes, The moon doth with delight Waters on a starry night But yet I know, where'er I go, Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, As to the tabor's sound, And I again am strong: And all the earth is gay ; Land and sea And with the heart of May Thou child of joy, shepherd boy! Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make ; I see My head hath its coronal, Oh evil day! if I were sullen This sweet May-morning, On every side, Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm ; I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! A single field which I have looked upon, The pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat: Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar : And not in utter nakedness, From God, who is our home : Upon the growing boy, He sees it in his joy ; Must travel, still is nature's priest, Is on his way attended ; Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came. |