And what the morning brought to light, We lost both WAGONER and WAIN! Accept, O Friend, for praise or blame, I sing of these; - it makes my bliss! But a shy spirit in my heart, That comes and goes, will sometimes leap From hiding-places ten years deep; Or haunts me with familiar face, Returning, like a ghost unlaid, A living almanac had we; We had a speaking diary, That in this uneventful place Gave to the days a mark and name By which we knew them when they came. — Yes, I, and all about me here, Through all the changes of the year, Had seen him through the mountains go, of mist or pomp pomp Majestically huge and slow: snow, Or, with a milder grace adorning The landscape of a summer's morning; Crag, lawn, and wood with rosy light. ― But most of all, thou lordly Wain! I wish to have thee here again, And, sitting by my fire, I see Unworthy successors of thee, Come straggling through the wind and rain : And oft, as they pass slowly on, Thy shelter- and their mother's breast! 1805. POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. I. THERE WAS A BOY. THERE was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs And islands of Winander! many a time, At evening, when the earliest stars began To move along the edges of the hills, Rising or setting, would he stand alone, Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake; And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, That they might answer him. And they would shout Across the watery vale, and shout again, Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received This boy was taken from his mates, and died In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. Preeminent in beauty is the vale Where he was born and bred: the churchyard hangs Upon a slope above the village school; And, thro' that churchyard when my way has led On summer evenings, I believe that there A long half-hour together I have stood Mute, looking at the grave in which he lies! 1799. II. TO THE CUCKOO. O BLITHE New-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice. O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice? While I am lying on the grass. Thy twofold shout I hear, |