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, or the west bank of the River Wye, which forms the boundary between the counties of Monmouth and loucester, 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.
Nor, perchance, 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.
296. To A SKYLARK.
Up with me! up with me into the clouds! For thy song, Lark, is strong;
Up with me, up with me into the clouds! Singing, singing,
With clouds and sky about thee ringing, Lift me, guide me till I find
That spot which seems so to thy mind!
I have walked through wildernesses dreary, And to-day my heart is weary;
Had I now the wings of a Faery,
Up to thee would I fly.
There's madness about thee, and joy divine
In that song of thine;
Lift me, guide me high and high To thy banqueting-place in the sky.
Joyous as morning,
Thou art laughing and scorning;
Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest, And, though little troubled with sloth,
Drunken Lark! thou wouldst be loath
To be such a Traveller as I.
Happy, happy Liver,
With a soul as strong as a mountain River Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver, Joy and jollity be with us both!
Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven, Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind; But hearing thee, or others of thy kind,
As full of gladness and as free of heaven,
I, with my fate contented, will plod on,
And hope for higher raptures, when Life's day is done.
She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair.
But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startie, and waylay.
I saw her, upon nearer view, A spirit, yet a woman too!
Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller 'twixt life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill, A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a spirit still, and bright With something of an angel light.
Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour; England hath need of thee; she is a fen
Of stagnant waters; altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; O! raise us up, return to us again; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart; Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea; Pure as the naked heavens-majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
« ForrigeFortsæt » |