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We stood together; and that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, hither came,
Unwearied in that service: rather say
With warmer love, oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake.





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Left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, which stands near the Lake of Esthwaitc,

on a desolate Part of the Shore, commanding a beautiful Prospect.

NAY, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands
Far from all human dwelling : what if here
No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb?
What if these barren boughs the bee not loves?
Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves,
That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind
By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.

-Who he was
That piled these stones, and with the mossy sod
First covered o’er, and taught this aged Tree
With its dark arms to form a circling bower,

( well remember. He was one who owned No common soul. In youth by science nursed, And led by nature into a wild scene Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth A favoured Being, knowing no desire Which Genius did not hallow,-'gainst the taint Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate, And scorn,--against all enemies prepared, All but neglect. The world, for so it thought, Owed him no service: wherefore he at once With indiguation turned himself away, And with the food of pride sustained his soul In solitude. Stranger ! these gloomy boughs Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit, His only visitants a straggling sheep, The stone-chat, or the sand-lark, restless Bird Piping along the margin of the lake;" / And on these barren rocks, with juniper, And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o'er, Fixing his down-cast eye, he many an hour A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here An emblem of his own unfruitful life: And lifting up his head, he then would gaze On the more distant scene,--how lovely 'tis

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