He touched; what followed who shall tell?
The soft touch snapped the thread

Of slumber-shrieking back she fell,
And the Stream whirled her down the dell
Along its foaming bed.

In plunged the Knight!-when on firm ground
The rescued Maiden lay,

Her eyes grew bright with blissful light,
Confusion passed away;

She heard, ere to the throne of grace
Her faithful Spirit flew,

His voice-beheld his speaking face;
And, dying, from his own embrace
She felt that he was true.

So was he reconciled to life:

Brief words may speak the rest;
Within the dell he built a cell,

And there was Sorrow's guest;
In hermits' weeds repose he found,
From vain temptations free;
Beside the torrent dwelling-bound
By one deep heart-controlling sound,
And awed to piety.

Wild stream of Aira, hold thy course,
Nor fear memorial lays,

Where clouds that spread in solemn shade,
Are edged with golden rays!

Dear art thou to the light of heaven,
Though minister of sorrow;

Sweet is thy voice at pensive even ;
And thou, in lovers' hearts forgiven,
Shalt take thy place with Yarrow!

Probably before 1833

XLVII

TO CORDELIA M

Hallsteads, Ullswater

OT in the mines beyond the western main,

N°

You say, Cordelia, was the metal sought, Which a fine skill, of Indian growth, has wrought Into this flexible yet faithful Chain;

140

150

160

Nor is it silver of romantic Spain;

But from our loved Helvellyn's depths was brought,
Our own domestic mountain. Thing and thought
Mix strangely; trifles light, and partly vain,
Can prop, as you have learnt, our nobler being:
Yes, Lady, while about your neck is wound
(Your casual glance oft meeting) this bright cord,
What witchery, for pure gifts of inward seeing,
Lurks in it, Memory's Helper, Fancy's Lord,
For precious tremblings in your bosom found!

M

XLVIII

OST sweet it is with unuplifted eyes

ΤΟ

To pace the ground, if path be there or none,

While a fair region round the traveller lies
Which he forbears again to look upon;
Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,
The work of Fancy, or some happy tone
Of meditation, slipping in between
The beauty coming and the beauty gone.

If Thought and Love desert us, from that day
Let us break off all commerce with the Muse:
With Thought and Love companions of our way,
Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,

The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews
Of inspiration on the humblest lay.

IO

'Where are your books?—that light bequeathed
To Beings else forlorn and blind!

Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed
From dead men to their kind.

"You look round on your Mother Earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you;
As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before you !'

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet, I knew not why,
To me my good friend Matthew spake,
And thus I made reply:

'The eye-it cannot choose but see;
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
Against or with our will.

'Nor less I deem that there are Powers

Which of themselves our minds impress;
That we can feed this mind of ours

In a wise passiveness.

'Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum
Of things for ever speaking,
That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking?

ΤΟ

20

Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, Conversing as I may,

I sit upon this old grey stone,

And dream my time away.'

1798

II

THE TABLES TURNED

AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT

[P! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you'll grow double:

UP

Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble?

The sun, above the mountain's head,

A freshening lustre mellow

Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:

Come, hear the woodland linnet,

How sweet his music! on my life,

There's more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!

He, too, is no mean preacher:

Come forth into the light of things,

Let Nature be your Teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth,

Our minds and hearts to bless

Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,

Of moral evil and of good,

Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect

Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:-
We murder to dissect.

30

ΙΟ

20

I

HEARD a thousand blended notes,

While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link

The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:-
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

1798

IV

A CHARACTER

MARVEL how Nature could ever find space For so many strange contrasts in one human face: There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloom

And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.