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This Height a ministering Angel might select:
For from the summit of Black Comb (dread name
Derived from clouds and storms!) the amplest range
Of unobstructed prospect may be seen
That British ground commands: —low dusky tracts,
Where Trent is nursed, far southward! Cambrian Hills

To the south-west, a multitudinous show;
And, in a line of eye-sight linked with these,
The hoary Peaks of Scotland that give birth
To Tiviot's Stream, to Annan, Tweed, and Clyde;—
Crowding the quarter whence the sun comes forth
Gigantic Mountains rough with crags; beneath,
Right at the imperial Station's western base,
Main Ocean, breaking audibly, and stretched

Far into silent regions blue and pale;—

And visibly engirding Mona's Isle

That, as we left the Plain, before our sight

Stood like a lofty Mount, uplifting slowly,

(Above the convex of the watery globe)

Into clear view the cultured fields that streak

Its habitable shores; but now appears

A dwindled object, and submits to lie

At the Spectator's feet.—Yon azure Ridge,

Is it a perishable cloud? Or there

Do we behold the frame of Erin's Coast?

Land sometimes by the roving shepherd swain

(Like the bright confines of another world)

Not doubtfully perceived. — Look homeward now!

In depth, in height, in circuit, how serene

The spectacle, how pure! — Of Nature's works,

In earth, and air, and earth-embracing sea,

A revelation infinite it seems;

Display august of man's inheritance,

Of Britain's calm felicity and power.



It seems a day, (I speak of one from many singled out) One of those heavenly days which cannot die;When forth I sallied from our Cottage-door. With a huge wallet o'er my shoulder slung, A nutting-crook in hand, and turn'd my steps Towards the distant woods, a Figure quaint, Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds Which for that service had been husbanded, 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. Among the woods, And o'er the pathless rocks, I forced my way

Until, at length, I came to one dear nook Unvisited, where not a broken bough Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign Of devastation, but the hazels rose Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung, A virgin scene! — A little while I stood, Breathing with such suppression of the heart As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed The banquet, — or beneath the trees I sate Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played;A temper known to those, who, after long And weary expectation, have been blessed 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, beneath 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 to pay

Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air. Then up I rose, And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash

And merciless ravage; and the shady nook
Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower,
Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up
Their quiet being: and, unless I now
Confound my present feelings with the past,
Even then, when from the bower I turned away
Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,
I felt a sense of pain when I beheld The silent trees and 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.

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