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Such hues from their celestial Urn Were wont to stream before my eye, Where'er it wandered in the morn Of blissful infancy.
This glimpse of glory, why renewed?
Nay, rather speak with gratitude;
For, if a vestige of those gleams
Survived, 'twas only in my dreams.
Dread Power! whom peace and calmness serve
No less than Nature's threatening voice,
If aught unworthy be my choice,
From Thee if I would swerve,
Oh, let thy grace remind me of the light,
Full early lost, and fruitlessly deplored;
Which at this moment, on my waking sight
Appears to shine, by miracle restored!
My soul though yet confined to earth,
Rejoices in a second birth;
— 'Tis past, the visionary splendour fades,
And night approaches with her shades.
Note. — The multiplication of mountain-ridges, described, at the commencement of the third stanza of this Ode, as a kind of Jacob's Ladder, leading to Heaven, is produced either by watery vapours, or sunny haze; — in the present instance, by the latter cause. Allusions to the Ode, entitled "Intimations of Immortality," at the conclusion of these volumes, pervade the last stanza of the foregoing Poem.
Composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey, on revisiting the
July 13. 1798.
Five years have passed; five summers, with the length
• The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above Tintern.
Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Though absent long,
His little, nameless, unremembered acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
In which the burthen of the mystery, .
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world
Is lightened : — that serene and blessed mood,
In which the 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.
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, 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 Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wherever nature led: more like a man Flying from something that he dreads, than one Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, And their glad animal movements all gone by,) To me was all in all. — I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,