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POEMS OF NATURE.
Does thy wounded spirit prove
Pangs of hopeless, severed love! THE World is too much with us; late and soon,
Thee the stream that gushes clear, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers ;
Thee the birds that carol near Little we see in nature that is ours ;
Shall soothe, as silent thou dost lie We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
And dream of their wild lullaby ; This sea that bares her bosom to the nioon;
Come to bless these scenes of peace, The winds that will be howling at all hours,
Where cares and toil and sadness cease. And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ;
WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. For this, for everything, we are out of tune ; It moves us not. — Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn, So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
These waters,* rolling from their mountain-springs
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild, secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion, and counect The bubbling brook doth leap when I come by,
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view The flower that on the lonely hillside grows
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, Expects me there when spring its bloom has given ; And many a tree and bush my wanderings knows,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves And e'en the clouds and silent stars of heaven;
Mid groves and copses. Once again I see For he who with his Maker walks aright,
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild : these pastoral farms, Shall be their lord as Adam was before ; His ear shall catch each sound with new delight,
Green to the very door ; and wreaths of smoke Each object wear the dress that then it wore ;
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees !
With some uncertain notice, as might seem And he, as when erect in soul he stood,
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Hear from his Father's lips that all is good.
Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire
These beauteous fornis,
Through a long absence, have not been to me COME TO THESE SCENES OF PEACE. As is a landscape to a blind man's eye ; Come to these scenes of peace,
But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din Where, to rivers murmuring,
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, The sweet birds all the sunmer sing,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; Where cares and toil and sadness cease!
And passing even into my purer mind,
• The River Wye.
With tranquil restoration : --- feelings too And all its aching joys are now no more,
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur ; other gifts On that best portion of a good man's life, Have followed ; for such loss, I would believe, · His little, nameless, unremembered acts
Abundant recompense. For I have learned Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, To look on nature, not as in the hour To them I may have owed another gift, | Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood, The still, sad music of humanity, In which the burden of the mystery,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power In which the heavy and the weary weight To chasten and subdue. And I have felt Of all this unintelligible world,
A presence that disturbs me with the joy Is lightened, — that serene and blessèd mood, Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime In which the affections gently lead us on, Of something far more deeply interfused, Until, the breath of this corporeal frame Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And even the motion of our human blood And the round ocean, and the living air, Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man : In body, and become a living soul :
A motion and a spirit, that impels While with an eye made quiet by the power All thinking things, all objects of all thought, Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, | And rolls through all things. Therefore am I We see into the life of things.
still If this
A lover of the meadows and the woods, Be but a vain belief, yet, O, how oft
And mountains ; and of all that we behold In darkness and amid the many shapes
From this green earth ; of all the mighty world Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir | Of eye, and ear, - both what they half create, * Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, And what perceive ; well pleased to recognize Have hung upon the beatings of my heart - In nature and the language of the sense, How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, | The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer through the woods, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul How often has my spirit turned to thee ! Of all my moral being.
Nor perchance, And now, with gleams of half-extinguished If I were not thus taught, should I the more thought,
| Suffer my genial spirits to decay : With many recognitions dim and faint,
For thou art with me here upon the banks And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
of this fair river ; thou my dearest friend, The picture of the mind revives again :
My dear, dear friend ; and in thy voice I catch While here I stand, not only with the sense The language of my former heart, and read Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts My former pleasures in the shooting lights That in this moment there is life and food Of thy wild eyes. O, yet a little while For future years. And so I dare to hope, May I behold in thee what I was once, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when My dear, dear sister! and this prayer I make, first
Knowing that Nature never did betray I came among these hills : when like a roe The heart that loved her ; 't is her privilege, I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Through all the years of this our life, to lead Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, From joy to joy : for she can so inform Wherever nature led : more like a man
The mind that is within us, so impress Flying from something that he dreads, than one With quietness and beauty, and so feed Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, And their glad animal movements all gone by) Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all To me was all in all. - I cannot paint
The dreary intercourse of daily life, What then I was. The sounding cataract
| Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock, Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon Their colors and their forms, were then to me
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
And let the misty mountain-winds be free
• "This line has a close resemblance to an adinirable line of
Young's, the exact expression of which I do not recollect." - THE Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is past, "AUTHOR.
The windy forest, rousing from its sleep,
WILLIAM PRESCOTT FOSTER.
From upland slopes I see the cows file by,
Lowing, great-chested, down the homeward trail,
By dusking fields and meadows shining pale With moon-tipped dandelions; Alickering high, A peevish night-hawk in the western sky
Beats up into the lucent solitudes,
Or drops with griding wing; the stilly woods Grow dark and deep, and gloom mysteriously. Cool night-winds creep and whisper in mine ear;
The homely cricket gossips at my feet;
From far-off pools and wastes of reeds I hear
In full Pandean chorus; one by one
To blow against thee : and, in after years,
FROM "THE ESSAY ON MAN."
Look round our world ; behold the chain of love Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
Combining all below and all above,
The single atoms each to other tend,
Formed and impelled its neighbor to embrace. And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance, See matter next, with various life endued, If I should be where I no more can hear
Press to one centre still, the general good. Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these See dying vegetables life sustain, gleams
See life dissolving vegetate again : Of past existence, — wilt thou then forget All forms that perish other forms supply That on the banks of this delightful stream (By turns we catch the vital breath, and die); We stood together ; and that I, so long
Like bubbles on the sea of matter borne, A worshipper of Nature, hither came
They rise, they break, and to that sea return. Unwearied in that service : rather say
Nothing is foreign ; parts relate to whole;
Who for thy table feeds the wanton fawn,
Is it for thee the lark ascends and sings? FOR A COPY OF THEOCRITUS. Joy tunes his voice, joy elevates his wings.
Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat ?
Loves of his own and raptures swell the note.
The bounding steed you pomponsly bestride FROM "ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS OF VERSE."
Shares with his lord the pleasure and the pride. O Singer of the field and fold,
Is thine alone the seed that strews the plain ? Theocritus! Pan's pipe was thine, --
The birds of heaven shall vindicate their grain. Thine was the happier Age of Gold.
Thine the full harvest of the golden year?
Part pays, and justly, the deserving steer : For thee the scent of new-turned mould,
| The hog that ploughs not, nor obeys thy call, The beehives and the murmuring pine,
Lives on the labors of this lord of all. O Singer of the field and fold !
Kuow, Nature's children all divide her care ;
The fur that warnis a monarch warmed a bear. Thou sang'st the simple feasts of old,
While man exclaims, "See all things for my use!" The beechen bowl made glad with wine :
“See man for mine!" replies a pampered goose : Thine was the happier Age of Gold.
And just as short of reason he must fall
Who thinks all maile for one, not one for all. Thou bac'st the rustic loves be told, Thou bad'st the tuneful reeds combine, O Singer of the field and fold !
EACH AND ALL. And round thee, ever laughing, rolled LITTLE thinks, in the field, yon redl-cloaked The blithe and blue Sicilian brine:
clown, Thine was the happier Age of Gold. Of thee from the hill-top looking dcm;
The heifer that lows in the upland farm,
Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm ;
Deems not that great Napoleon
Stops his horse, and lists with delight,