Our chearful faith that all which we behold

To look on nature, not as in the hour

Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms

Not harsh nor grating, though of ample power

Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon

Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes

Suffer my genial spirits to decay:

My dear, dear Sister! And this prayer I make,

These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,

Of ?ve long winters! and again I hear

The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,

In body, and become a living soul:

That after many wanderings, many years

Five years have passed; ?ve summers, with the length

The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul

Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,

OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR, July 13, 1798.

I bounded oer the mountains, by the sides

The mind that is within us, so impress

Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,

The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,

Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,

Through all the years of this our life, to lead

The still, sad music of humanity,

When these wild ecstasies shall be matured

The wild green landscape. Once again I see

Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,

Tintern.

The languagrｅaｄ.99ｃｓw.come of my former heart, and read

And all its aching joys are now no more,

Though changed, no doubt, from what I was, when ?rst

More dear, both for themselves, and for thy sake.

And now, with gleams of half-extinguishd thought,

Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect

A lover of the meadows and the woods,

And this green pastoral landscape, were to me

Flying from something that he dreads, than one

Sent up, in silence, from among the trees,

If I were not thus taught, should I the more

And the round ocean, and the living air,

Have followed, for such loss, I would believe,

Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft,

While with an eye made quiet by the power

Of joyless day-light; when the fretful stir

With a sweet inland murmur.[4]--Once again

As may have had no trivial in?uence

Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then

(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,

Which on a wild secluded scene impress

And let the misty mountain winds be free

Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,

How often has my spirit turned to thee!

And passing even into my purer mind

Aｈttｐｓ://reａｄ•９9ｃｓｗ•ｃoｍ worshipper of Nature, hither came,

And somewhat of a sad perplexity,

These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs

Here, under this dark sycamore, and view

Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;

For all sweet sounds and harmonies; Oh! then,

The hermit sits alone.

And mountains; and of all that we behold

With tranquil restoration:--feelings too

With many recognitions dim and faint,

Wherever nature led; more like a man

Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend,

Though absent long,

Abundant recompence. For I have learned

In which the burthen of the mystery,

Among the woods and copses lose themselves,

Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams

How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee

Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,

The dreary intercourse of daily life,

But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din

In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,

All thinking things, all objects of all thought,

Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps,

My former pleasures in the shooting lights

Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all

Of past existence, wilt thou then forget

Their colours and their forms, were then to me

With lofty thoughts, that neither e九九藏書vil tongues,

In which the heavy and the weary weight

Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,

As is a landscape to a blind mans eye:

Knowing that Nature never did betray

Of something far more deeply interfused,

Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,

An appetite: a feeling and a love,

I came among these hills; when like a roe

If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,

To me was all in all.--I cannot paint

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,

Have hung upon the beatings of my heart,

In which the affections gently lead us on,

If this

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man,

Or of some hermits cave, where by his ?re

Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while

While here I stand, not only with the sense

On that best portion of a good mans life;

For thou art with me, here, upon the banks

Nor, with their green and simple hue, disturb

Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind

Shall eer prevail against us, or disturb

If I should be, where I no more can hear

By thought supplied, or any interest

These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines

The landscape with the quiet of the sky.

Of eye and ear, both what they half-create,[5]

We stood together; and that I, so long

And what pe九_九_藏_書rceive; well pleased to recognize

May I behold in thee what I was once,

Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,

And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this

O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the woods,

To them I may have owed another gift,

Thy memory be as a dwelling-place

Rash judgments, nor the sneers of sel?sh men,

That on the banks of this delightful stream

Almost suspended, we are laid asleep

To chasten and subdue. And I have felt

And even the motion of our human blood

[4] The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above

Unpro?table, and the fever of the world,

Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,

A presence that disturbs me with the joy

The picture of the mind revives again:

Of all my moral being.

Of all this unintelligible world

[5] This line has a close resemblance to an admirable line of

What then I was. The sounding cataract

That in this moment there is life and food

Until, the breath of this corporeal frame,

The heart that loved her; tis her privilege,

And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance,

Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime

In nature and the language of the sense,

We see into the life of things.

Which, at this season, with their unrip九*九*藏*書e fruits,

Unwearied in that service: rather say

And their glad animal movements all gone by,)

Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart,

To blow against thee: and in after years,

From joy to joy: for she can so inform

Nor, perchance,

Green to the very door; and wreathes of smoke

His little, nameless, unremembered acts

Unborrowed from the eye.--That time is past,

Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur: other gifts

And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still

That had no need of a remoter charm,

Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,

Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,

The day is come when I again repose

Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts

END.

For future years. And so I dare to hope

With warmer love, oh! with far deeper zeal

Is lightend:--that serene and blessed mood,

With quietness and beauty, and so feed

These forms of beauty have not been to me,

From this green earth; of all the mighty world

My dear, dear Friend, and in thy voice I catch

Young, the exact expression of which I cannot recollect.

With some uncertain notice, as might seem,

Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts

A motion and a spirit, that impels

In darkness, and amid the many shapes