The budding groves appear'd as if in haste To spur the steps of June; as if their shades Of various green were hind'rances that stood Between them and their object: yet, meanwhile, There was such deep contentment in the air That every naked ash, and shady tree Yet leafless, seem'd as though the countenance With which it look'd on this delightful day Were native to the summer. Up the brook I roam'd in the confusion of my heart, Alive to all things and forgetting all. At length I to a sudden turning came In this continuous glen, where down a rock The stream, so ardent in its course before, Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all Which I till then had heard, appear'd the voice Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb, The shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush, Vied with this waterfall, and made a song Which, while I listen'd, seem'd like the wild growth Or like some natural produce of the air,
That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here; But 'twas the foliage of the rocks, the birch, The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn, With hanging islands of resplendent furze : And on a summit, distant a short space, By any who should look beyond the dell, A single mountain cottage might be seen. I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said,
Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook, My Emma, I will dedicate to thee.'
Soon did the spot become my other home,
My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode.
And, of the shepherds who have seen me there, To whom I sometimes in our idle talk
Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps, Years after we are gone and in our graves,
When they have cause to speak of this wild place, May call it by the name of Emma's Dell.'
AMID the smoke of cities did you pass Your time of early youth; and there you learn'd, From years of quiet industry, to love The living beings by your own fireside With such a strong devotion, that your heart Is slow towards the sympathies of them
Who look upon the hills with tenderness,
And make dear friendships with the streams and groves. Yet we, who are transgressors in this kind,
Dwelling, retired in our simplicity,
Among the woods and fields, we love you well Joanna! and I guess, since you have been So distant from us now for two long years, That you will gladly listen to discourse However trivial, if you thence are taught That they, with whom you once were happy, talk Familiarly of you and of old times.
While I was seated, now some ten days past, Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop Their ancient neighbour the old steeple tower, The vicar from his gloomy house hard by Came forth to greet me; and when he had ask'd, 'How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted maid! And when will she return to us?' he paused; And, after short exchange of village news, He with grave looks demanded, for what cause, Reviving obsolete idolatry,
I like a Runic priest, in characters
Of formidable size, had chisell❜d out Some uncouth name upon the native rock, Above the Rotha, by the forest side.
Now, by those dear immunities of heart Engender'd betwixt malice and true love, I was not loth to be so catechised,
Now there is stillness in the vale, And long unspeaking sorrow : Wharf shall be, to pitying hearts, A name more sad than Yarrow.
If for a lover the lady wept, A solace she might borrow
From death, and from the passion of death Old Wharf might heal her sorrow.
She weeps not for the wedding-day Which was to be to-morrow : Her hope was a farther-looking hope, And hers is a mother's sorrow.
He was a tree that stood alone, And proudly did its branches wave; And the root of this delightful tree Was in her husband's grave!
Long, long in darkness did she sit, And her first words were, 'Let there be In Bolton, on the field of Wharf, A stately priory !'
The stately priory was rear'd, And Wharf, as he moved along, To matins join'd a mournful voice, Nor fail'd at evensong.
And the lady pray'd in heaviness
That look'd not for relief :
And slowly did her succour come,
And a patience to her grief.
Oh there is never a sorrow of heart
That shall lack a timely end,
If but to God we turn and ask Of Him to be our friend!
Composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey, on revisiting the banks of the Wye during a tour.
FIVE years have pass'd; 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 hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, 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, sensation sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind,
*The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above Tintern.
With tranquil restoration :— feelings too Of unremember'd pleasure; such, perhaps, As may have had no trivial influence, On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremember'd 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 burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world
Is lighten'd; that serene and blessed mood, In which th' 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.
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft, In darkness, and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart, How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
O sylvan Wye! Thou wand'rer through the woods, How often has my spirit turn'd to thee!
And now, with gleams of half-extinguish'd thought, With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives again :
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food
For future years. And so I dare to hope,
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first I came among these hills; when like a roe
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
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