VII. Behold the child among his new-born blisses, See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, A mourning or a funeral, And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song; To dialogues of business, love, or strife; Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his “humorous stage Were endless imitation. VIII. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep On whom those truths do rest Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? IX. O joy! that in our embers The thought of our past years in me doth breed For that which is most worthy to be blest; Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; Of sense and outward things, Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realised, High instincts before which our mortal nature Those shadowy recollections, Are yet the fountain light of all our day, Are yet a master light of all our seeing; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence: truths that wake, To perish never; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence, in a season of calm weather, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Can in a moment travel thither, And see the children sport upon the shore, X. Then sing, ye birds! sing, sing a joyous song! We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day What though the radiance which was once so bright Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; Which, having been, must ever be, In the faith that looks through death, XI. And O, ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; I only have relinquished one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the brooks which down their channels fret, Is lovely yet; The clouds that gather round the setting sun 1803-1806. COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING OF EXTRAORDINARY SPLENDOUR AND BEAUTY. . HAD this effulgence disappeared But 'tis endued with power to stay, What is ?-ah no, but what can be! While choirs of fervent Angels sang Their vespers in the grove; Or, crowning, star-like, each some sovereign height, Warbled, for heaven above and earth below, Strains suitable to both. Such holy rite, Methinks, if audibly repeated now From hill or valley, could not move Sublimer transport, purer love, Than doth this silent spectacle-the gleam The shadow-and the peace supreme! No sound is uttered, but a deep Called forth by wondrous potency Of beamy radiance, that imbues, Whate'er it strikes, with gem-like hues! In vision exquisitely clear, Herds range along the mountain side; And glistening antlers are descried; And gilded flocks appear. Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve! But long as god-like wish, or hope divine, Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe That this magnificence is wholly thine! An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is spread And, if there be whom broken ties Yon hazy ridges to their eyes Climbing suffused with sunny air, On those bright steps that heavenward raise Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad, Hath slept since noon-tide on the grassy ground, Ye Genii! to his covert speed; And wake him with such gentle heed As may attune his soul to meet the dower Such hues from their celestial urn This glimpse of glory, why renewed? Dread Power! whom peace and calmness serve No less than Nature's threatening voice, If aught unworthy be my choice, From THEE if I would swerve; Oh! let thy grace remind me of the light Which, at this moment, on my waking sight –’Tis past, the visionary splendour fades; |