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Till his eye streamed with tears. In this

deep vale He died, — this seat his only monument. If thou be one whose heart the holy

forms Of young imagination have kept pure, Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride,

50 Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, Is littleness; that he, who feels contempt For any living thing, hath faculties Which he has never used; that thought

with him Is in its infancy. The man whose eye 55 Is ever on himself doth look on one, The least of Nature's works, one who

might move The wise man to that scorn which wis

dom holds Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, thou! Instructed that true knowledge leads to

love: True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward

thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart.

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“Their graves are green, they may be

seen,” The little maid replied, "Twelve steps or more from my mother's

door, And they are side by side.

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“My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.

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WE ARE SEVEN

(1798)

A simple child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?
I met a little cottage girl:

5 She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad: Her eyes were fair, and very fair; - Her beauty made me glad. "Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?” “How many? Seven in all,” she said, 15 And wondering looked at me.

“And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

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“The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

"So in the church-yard she was laid; And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I.

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For when the chiming hounds are out,
He dearly loves their voices!
But, oh the heavy change! — bereft 25
Of health, strength, friends, and kindred,

see!
Old Simon to the world is left
In liveried poverty.
His master's dead, — and no one now
Dwells in the Hall of Ivor;
Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
He is the sole survivor.
And he is lean and he is sick;
His body, dwindled and awry,
Rests upon ankles swoln and thick;
His legs are thin and dry.
One prop he has, and only one,
His wife, an agèd woman,
Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village common.
Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
Not twenty paces from the door,
A scrap of land they have, but they
Are poorest of the poor.
This scrap of land he from the heath 45
Enclosed when he was stronger;
But what to them avails the land
Which he can till no longer?
Oft, working by her husband's side,
Ruth does what Simon cannot do;
For she, with scanty cause for pride,
Is stouter of the two.
And, though you with your utmost skill
From labor could not wean them,
'Tis little, very little — all
That they can do between them.

SIMON LEE

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No man like him the horn could sound,
And hill and valley rang with glee
When Echo bandied, round and round,
The halloo of Simon Lee.
In those proud days, he little cared
For husbandry or tillage;
To blither tasks did Simon rouse
The sleepers of the village.

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He all the country could outrun,
Could leave both man and horse behind:
And often, ere the chase was done,
He reeled and was stone-blind. 20
And still there's something in the world
At which his heart rejoices;

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O gentle reader! you would find
A tale in every thing.
What more I have to say is short,
And you must kindly take it:
It is no tale; but, should you think,
Perhaps a tale you'll make it.

Through primrose tufts, in that green

bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

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One summer-day I chanced to see
This old man doing all he could
To unearth the root of an old tree,
A stump of rotten wood.
The mattock tottered in his hand;
So vain was his endeavor,
That at the root of the old tree
He might have worked for ever.
"You're overtasked, good Simon Lee,
Give me your tool,” to him I said;
And at the word right gladly he
Received my proffered aid.
I struck, and with a single blow
The tangled root I severed,
At which the poor old man so long
And vainly had endeavored.

If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?

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EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY

(1798)

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LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES THE TABLES TURNED

ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON (1798)

REVISITING THE BANKS OF

THE WYE DURING A TOUR AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME

July 13, 1798
SUBJECT

Five years have past; five summers, with
Up, up! my friend, and quit your books; the length
Or surely you'll grow double:

Of five long winters! and again I hear
Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks; | These waters, rolling from their moun-
Why all this toil and trouble?

tain-springs
With a soft inland murmur.

- Once again The sun, above the mountain's head, Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, A freshening lustre mellow

That on a wild secluded scene impress Through all the long green fields has Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and conspread,

nect His first sweet evening yellow.

The landscape with the quiet of the sky.

The day is come when I again repose Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:

Here, under this dark sycamore, and Come, hear the woodland linnet,

view How sweet his music! on my life

These plots of cottage-ground, these orThere's more of wisdom in it.

chard-tufts, And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!

Which at this season, with their unripe

fruits, He, too, is no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things,

Are clad in one green hue, and lose them

selves Let Nature be your teacher.

'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see She has a world of ready wealth,

These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, Our minds and hearts to bless -

little lines Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

farms,

Green to the very door; and wreaths of One impulse from a vernal wood

smoke May teach you more of man,

Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!

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LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY

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With some uncertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,

20 Or of some hermit's cave, where by his

fire The hermit sits alone.

These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to

How oft, in spirit, have I turned to

thee, O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the

woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee! And now, with gleams of half-extin

guished 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

me

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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,

65 Though changed, no doubt, from what I

was when first I came among these hills; when like a

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As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din

25 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, With tranquil restoration: — feelings

too Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered, acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, 1

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 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.

If this 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

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I bounded o'er the mountains, by the

sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wherever nature led: more like a man 70 Flying from something that he dreads,

than one Who sought the thing he loved. For

nature then (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, And their glad animal movements all gone

by) To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 75 What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy

wood, Their colors and their forms, were then

to me An appetite; a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye. That time is

past, And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures,

Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other

gifts

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