"Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few, shall part where many meet! The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
WORDSWORTH, COLERIdge, southEY, AND OTHER MODERN POETS.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 1770-1850. (Manual, pp. 420-424.)
FROM "THE EXCURSION."
294. THE GREEK MYTHOLOGY.
In that fair clime, the lonely herdsman, stretched On the soft grass, through half a summer's day, With music lulled his indolent repose:
And, in some fit of weariness, if he,
When his own breath was silent, chanced to hear A distant strain, far sweeter than the sounds Which his poor skill could make, his fancy fetched, Even from the blazing chariot of the sun, A beardless youth,' who touched a golden lute, And filled th' illumined groves with ravishment. The nightly hunter, lifting up his eyes Towards the crescent moon, with grateful heart Called on the lovely wanderer who bestowed That timely light, to share his joyous sport: And hence, a beaming goddess" with her nymphs, Across the lawn and through the darksome grove (Not unaccompanied with tuneful notes,
By echo multiplied from rock or cave),
Swept in the storm of chase, as moon and stars
Glance rapidly along the clouded heaven,
When winds are blowing strong. The traveller slaked His thirst from rill or gushing fount, and thanked
The Naiad.3-Sunbeams, upon distant hills Gliding apace, with shadows in their train, Might, with small help from fancy, be transformed Into fleet Oreads sporting visibly.
The Zephyrs, fanning, as they passed, their wings, Lacked not, for love, fair objects, whom they wooed With gentle whisper. Withered boughs grotesque,
8 Naiads, the nymphs of the springs; Oreads, those of the mountains.
Stripped of their leaves and ́twigs by hoary age, From depth of shaggy covert peeping forth, In the low vale, or on steep mountain-side; And sometimes intermixed with stirring horns Of the live deer, or goat's depending beard, These were the lurking Satyrs; a wild brood Of gamesome deities; or Pan himself, The simple shepherd's awe-inspiring god!
Five years have passed; five summers with the length Of five long winters; and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain springs With a sweet inland murmur. Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, Which on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion, and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage ground, these orchard tufts, Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves Among the woods and copses, nor disturb The wild green landscape. Once again I see These hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Sent up in silence from among the trees, With some uncertain notice, as might seem, Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some hermit's cave, where, by his fire, The hermit sits alone.
Though absent long, These forms of beauty have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart, And passing even into my purer mind
1 This abbey was founded by the Cistercian monks, in 1131. It is now a celebrated ruin, on the west bank of the River Wye, which forms the boundary between the counties of Monmouth and Gloucester, England. It is about five miles above the junction of the Wye and Severn, and eighteen miles north of Bristol.
With tranquil restoration - feelings, too, Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps, As may have had no trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, 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 burden 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.
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes The still sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh, nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean, and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;
A motion and a spirit that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods
And mountains, and of all that we behold
From this green earth: of all the mighty world Of eye and ear, both what they half create And what perceive; well pleased to recognize In nature, and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being.
If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
For thou art with me here, upon the banks Of this fair river; thou, my dearest friend, My dear, dear friend, and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. O! yet a little while May I behold in thee what I was once, My dear, dear sister! And this prayer I make, Knowing that nature never did betray The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, Through all the years of this our life to lead, From joy to joy; for she can so inform 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; O! 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, O! 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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