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The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith that all which we behold
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
And let the misty mountain-winds be free
To blow against thee: and, in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance—
If I should be where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
Of past existence—wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream
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!
Lines Written In Early Spring.
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sat reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts'
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
The birds around me hopped and played,
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
If this belief from heaven be sent,
A Poet's Epitaph.
Art thou a Statist in the van
A Lawyer art thou ?—draw not nigh!
Art thou a Man of purple cheer?
Or art thou one of gallant pride,
Physician art thou? one all eyes,
Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece,
A Moralist perchance appears;
One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling
Shut close the door; press down the latch;
But who is He, with modest looks,
He is retired as noontide dew,
The outward shows of sky and earth,
In common things that round us lie
But he is weak; both Man and Boy,
—Come hither in thy hour of strength;
(1799) Lucy Gray; Or, Solitude.
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:
No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
You yet may spy the fawn at play,
1 To-night will be a stormy night—.
'That, Father! will I gladly do:
At this the Father raised his hook,
Not blither is the mountain roe:
The storm came on before its time: