Poems in Two Volumes, Volume 2

SONNET

A PROPHECYFeb. 1807  High deeds, O Germans, are to come from you!  Thus in your Books the record shall be found,  "A Watchword was pronounced, a potent sound,  ARMINIUS! – all the people quaked like dew  Stirr'd by the breeze – they rose, a Nation, true,  True to itself – the mighty Germany,  She of the Danube and the Northern sea,  She rose, – and off at once the yoke she threw.  All power was given her in the dreadful trance —  Those new-born Kings she wither'd like a flame."  – Woe to them all! but heaviest woe and shame  To that Bavarian, who did first advance  His banner in accursed league with France,  First open Traitor to her sacred name!

SONNET,

TO THOMAS CLARKSON,On the final passing of the Bill for the Abolition of the SlaveTrade, March, 1807  Clarkson! it was an obstinate Hill to climb;  How toilsome, nay how dire it was, by Thee  Is known, – by none, perhaps, so feelingly;  But Thou, who, starting in thy fervent prime,  Didst first lead forth this pilgrimage sublime,  Hast heard the constant Voice its charge repeat,  Which, out of thy young heart's oracular seat,  First roused thee. – O true yoke-fellow of Time  With unabating effort, see, the palm  Is won, and by all Nations shall be worn!  The bloody Writing is for ever torn,  And Thou henceforth shalt have a good Man's calm,  A great Man's happiness; thy zeal shall find  Repose at length, firm Friend of human kind!* * * * *  Once in a lonely Hamlet I sojourn'd  In which a Lady driv'n from France did dwell;  The big and lesser griefs, with which she mourn'd,  In friendship she to me would often tell.  This Lady, dwelling upon English ground,  Where she was childless, daily did repair  To a poor neighbouring Cottage; as I found,  For sake of a young Child whose home was there.  Once did I see her clasp the Child about,  And take it to herself; and I, next day,  Wish'd in my native tongue to fashion out  Such things as she unto this Child might say:  And thus, from what I knew, had heard, and guess'd,  My song the workings of her heart express'd.  "Dear Babe, thou Daughter of another,  One moment let me be thy Mother!  An Infant's face and looks are thine;  And sure a Mother's heart is mine:  Thy own dear Mother's far away,  At labour in the harvest-field:  Thy little Sister is at play; —  What warmth, what comfort would it yield  To my poor heart, if Thou wouldst be  One little hour a child to me!"  "Across the waters I am come,  And I have left a Babe at home:  A long, long way of land and sea!  Come to me – I'm no enemy:  I am the same who at thy side  Sate yesterday, and made a nest  For thee, sweet Baby! – thou hast tried.  Thou know'st, the pillow of my breast:  Good, good art thou; alas! to me  Far more than I can be to thee."  "Here little Darling dost thou lie;  An Infant Thou, a Mother I!  Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears;  Mine art thou – spite of these my tears.  Alas! before I left the spot,  My Baby and its dwelling-place;  The Nurse said to me, 'Tears should not  Be shed upon an Infant's face,  It was unlucky' – no, no, no;  No truth is in them who say so!"  "My own dear Little-one will sigh,  Sweet Babe! and they will let him die.  'He pines,' they'll say, 'it is his doom,  And you may see his hour is come.'  Oh! had he but thy chearful smiles,  Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay,  Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles,  And countenance like a summer's day,  They would have hopes of him – and then  I should behold his face again!"  "'Tis gone – forgotten – let me do  My best – there was a smile or two,  I can remember them, I see  The smiles, worth all the world to me.  Dear Baby! I must lay thee down;  Thou troublest me with strange alarms;  Smiles hast Thou, sweet ones of thy own;  I cannot keep thee in my arms,  For they confound me: as it is,  I have forgot those smiles of his."  "Oh! how I love thee! we will stay  Together here this one half day.  My Sister's Child, who bears my name,  From France across the Ocean came;  She with her Mother cross'd the sea;  The Babe and Mother near me dwell:  My Darling, she is not to me  What thou art! though I love her well:  Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here;  Never was any Child more dear!"  " – I cannot help it – ill intent  I've none, my pretty Innocent!  I weep – I know they do thee wrong,  These tears – and my poor idle tongue.  Oh what a kiss was that! my cheek  How cold it is! but thou art good;  Thine eyes are on me – they would speak,  I think, to help me if they could.  Blessings upon that quiet face,  My heart again is in its place!"  "While thou art mine, my little Love,  This cannot be a sorrowful grove;  Contentment, hope, and Mother's glee.  I seem to find them all in thee:  Here's grass to play with, here are flowers;  I'll call thee by my Darling's name;  Thou hast, I think, a look of ours,  Thy features seem to me the same;  His little Sister thou shalt be;  And, when once more my home I see,  I'll tell him many tales of Thee."

FORESIGHT

Or the Charge of a Child to his younger Companion  That is work which I am rueing —  Do as Charles and I are doing!  Strawberry-blossoms, one and all,  We must spare them – here are many:  Look at it – the Flower is small,  Small and low, though fair as any:  Do not touch it! summers two  I am older, Anne, than you.  Pull the Primrose, Sister Anne!  Pull as many as you can.  – Here are Daisies, take your fill;  Pansies, and the Cuckow-flower:  Of the lofty Daffodil  Make your bed, and make your bower;  Fill your lap, and fill your bosom;  Only spare the Strawberry-blossom!  Primroses, the Spring may love them —  Summer knows but little of them:  Violets, do what they will,  Wither'd on the ground must lie;  Daisies will be daisies still;  Daisies they must live and die:  Fill your lap, and fill your bosom,  Only spare the Strawberry-blossom!

A COMPLAINT

  There is a change – and I am poor;  Your Love hath been, nor long ago,  A Fountain at my fond Heart's door,  Whose only business was to flow;  And flow it did; not taking heed  Of its own bounty, or my need.  What happy moments did I count!  Bless'd was I then all bliss above!  Now, for this consecrated Fount  Of murmuring, sparkling, living love,  What have I? shall I dare to tell?  A comfortless, and hidden WELL.  A Well of love – it may be deep —  I trust it is, and never dry:  What matter? if the Waters sleep  In silence and obscurity.  – Such change, and at the very door  Of my fond Heart, hath made me poor.* * * * *  I am not One who much or oft delight  To season my fireside with personal talk,  About Friends, who live within an easy walk,  Or Neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight:  And, for my chance-acquaintance, Ladies bright,  Sons, Mothers, Maidens withering on the stalk,  These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk  Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night.  Better than such discourse doth silence long,  Long, barren silence, square with my desire;  To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,  By my half-kitchen my half-parlour fire,  And listen to the flapping of the flame,  Or kettle, whispering it's faint undersong.  "Yet life," you say, "is life; we have seen and see,  And with a living pleasure we describe;  And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe  The languid mind into activity.  Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee,  Are foster'd by the comment and the gibe."  Even be it so: yet still among your tribe,  Our daily world's true Worldlings, rank not me!  Children are blest, and powerful; their world lies  More justly balanced; partly at their feet,  And part far from them: – sweetest melodies  Are those that are by distance made more sweet;  Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes  He is a Slave; the meanest we can meet!  Wings have we, and as far as we can go  We may find pleasure: wilderness and wood,  Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood  Which with the lofty sanctifies the low:  Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know,  Are a substantial world, both pure and good:  Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,  Our pastime and our happiness will grow.  There do I find a never-failing store  Of personal themes, and such as I love best;  Matter wherein right voluble I am:  Two will I mention, dearer than the rest;  The gentle Lady, married to the Moor;  And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb.  Nor can I not believe but that hereby  Great gains are mine: for thus I live remote  From evil-speaking; rancour, never sought,  Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie.  Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I  Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought:  And thus from day to day my little Boat  Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably.  Blessings be with them, and eternal praise,  Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares,  The Poets, who on earth have made us Heirs  Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays!  Oh! might my name be numbered among theirs,  Then gladly would I end my mortal days.* * * * *  Yes! full surely 'twas the Echo,  Solitary, clear, profound,  Answering to Thee, shouting Cuckoo!  Giving to thee Sound for Sound.  Whence the Voice? from air or earth?  This the Cuckoo cannot tell;  But a startling sound had birth,  As the Bird must know full well;  Like the voice through earth and sky  By the restless Cuckoo sent;  Like her ordinary cry,  Like – but oh how different!  Hears not also mortal Life?  Hear not we, unthinking Creatures!  Slaves of Folly, Love, or Strife,  Voices of two different Natures?  Have not We too? Yes we have  Answers, and we know not whence;  Echoes from beyond the grave,  Recogniz'd intelligence?  Such within ourselves we hear  Oft-times, ours though sent from far;  Listen, ponder, hold them dear;  For of God, of God they are!

TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND, (AN AGRICULTURIST.)

Composed while we were labouring together in his Pleasure-Ground  Spade! with which Wilkinson hath till'd his Lands,  And shap'd these pleasant walks by Emont's side,  Thou art a tool of honour in my hands;  I press thee through the yielding soil with pride.  Rare Master has it been thy lot to know;  Long hast Thou serv'd a Man to reason true;  Whose life combines the best of high and low,  The toiling many and the resting few;  Health, quiet, meekness, ardour, hope secure,  And industry of body and of mind;  And elegant enjoyments, that are pure  As Nature is; too pure to be refined.  Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing  In concord with his River murmuring by;  Or in some silent field, while timid Spring  Is yet uncheer'd by other minstrelsy.  Who shall inherit Thee when Death hath laid  Low in the darksome Cell thine own dear Lord?  That Man will have a trophy, humble, Spade!  More noble than the noblest Warrior's sword.  If he be One that feels, with skill to part  False praise from true, or greater from the less,  Thee will he welcome to his hand and heart,  Thou monument of peaceful happiness!  With Thee he will not dread a toilsome day,  His powerful Servant, his inspiring Mate!  And, when thou art past service, worn away,  Thee a surviving soul shall consecrate.  His thrift thy uselessness will never scorn;  An Heir-loom in his cottage wilt thou be: —  High will he hang thee up, and will adorn  His rustic chimney with the last of Thee!

SONG, AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE,

Upon the RESTORATION OF LORD CLIFFORD, the SHEPHERD,to the Estates and Honours of his Ancestors  High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate.  And Emont's murmur mingled with the Song. —  The words of ancient time I thus translate,  A festal Strain that hath been silent long.  From Town to Town, from Tower to Tower,  The Red Rose is a gladsome Flower.  Her thirty years of Winter past;  The Red Rose is revived at last;  She lifts her head for endless spring,  For everlasting blossoming!  Both Roses flourish, Red and White.  In love and sisterly delight  The two that were at strife are blended,  And all old sorrows now are ended. —  Joy! joy to both! but most to her  Who is the Flower of Lancaster!  Behold her how She smiles to day  On this great throng, this bright array!  Fair greeting doth she send to all  From every corner of the Hall;  But, chiefly, from above the Board  Where sits in state our rightful Lord,  A Clifford to his own restored.  They came with banner, spear, and shield;  And it was proved in Bosworth-field.  Not long the Avenger was withstood,  Earth help'd him with the cry of blood:  St. George was for us, and the might  Of blessed Angels crown'd the right.  Loud voice the Land hath utter'd forth,  We loudest in the faithful North:  Our Fields rejoice, our Mountains ring,  Our Streams proclaim a welcoming;  Our Strong-abodes and Castles see  The glory of their loyalty.  How glad is Skipton at this hour  Though she is but a lonely Tower!  Silent, deserted of her best,  Without an Inmate or a Guest,  Knight, Squire, or Yeoman, Page, or Groom;  We have them at the Feast of Brough'm.  How glad Pendragon though the sleep  Of years be on her! – She shall reap  A taste of this great pleasure, viewing  As in a dream her own renewing.  Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem  Beside her little humble Stream;  And she that keepeth watch and ward  Her statelier Eden's course to guard;  They both are happy at this hour,  Though each is but a lonely Tower: —  But here is perfect joy and pride  For one fair House by Emont's side,  This day distinguished without peer  To see her Master and to cheer;  Him, and his Lady Mother dear.  Oh! it was a time forlorn  When the Fatherless was born —  Give her wings that she may fly,  Or she sees her Infant die!  Swords that are with slaughter wild  Hunt the Mother and the Child.  Who will take them from the light?  – Yonder is a Man in sight —  Yonder is a House – but where?  No, they must not enter there.  To the Caves, and to the Brooks,  To the Clouds of Heaven she looks;  She is speechless, but her eyes  Pray in ghostly agonies.  Blissful Mary, Mother mild,  Maid and Mother undefiled,  Save a Mother and her Child!  Now Who is he that bounds with joy  On Carrock's side, a Shepherd Boy?  No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass  Light as the wind along the grass.  Can this be He who hither came  In secret, like a smothered flame?  O'er whom such thankful tears were shed  For shelter, and a poor Man's bread?  God loves the Child; and God hath will'd  That those dear words should be fulfill'd,  The Lady's words, when forc'd away,  The last she to her Babe did say,  "My own, my own, thy Fellow-guest  I may not be; but rest thee, rest,  For lowly Shepherd's life is best!"  Alas! when evil men are strong  No life is good, no pleasure long.  The Boy must part from Mosedale's Groves,  And leave Blencathara's rugged Coves,  And quit the Flowers that Summer brings  To Glenderamakin's lofty springs;  Must vanish, and his careless cheer  Be turned to heaviness and fear.  – Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise!  Hear it, good Man, old in days!  Thou Tree of covert and of rest  For this young Bird that is distrest,  Among thy branches safe he lay,  And he was free to sport and play,  When Falcons were abroad for prey.  A recreant Harp, that sings of fear  And heaviness in Clifford's ear!  I said, when evil Men are strong,  No life is good, no pleasure long,  A weak and cowardly untruth!  Our Clifford was a happy Youth,  And thankful through a weary time,  That brought him up to manhood's prime.  – Again he wanders forth at will,  And tends a Flock from hill to hill:  His garb is humble; ne'er was seen  Such garb with such a noble mien;  Among the Shepherd-grooms no Mate  Hath he, a Child of strength and state!  Yet lacks not friends for solemn glee,  And a chearful company,  That learn'd of him submissive ways;  And comforted his private days.  To his side the Fallow-deer  Came, and rested without fear;  The Eagle, Lord of land and sea,  Stoop'd down to pay him fealty;  And both the undying Fish that swim  Through Bowscale-Tarn did wait on him,  The pair were Servants of his eye  In their immortality,  They moved about in open sight,  To and fro, for his delight.  He knew the Rocks which Angels haunt  On the Mountains visitant;  He hath kenn'd them taking wing:  And the Caves where Faeries sing  He hath entered; and been told  By Voices how Men liv'd of old.  Among the Heavens his eye can see  Face of thing that is to be;  And, if Men report him right,  He can whisper words of might.  – Now another day is come,  Fitter hope, and nobler doom:  He hath thrown aside his Crook,  And hath buried deep his Book;  Armour rusting in his Halls  On the blood of Clifford calls; —  "Quell the Scot," exclaims the Lance,  "Bear me to the heart of France,  Is the longing of the Shield —  Tell thy name, thou trembling Field;  Field of death, where'er thou be,  Groan thou with our victory!  Happy day, and mighty hour,  When our Shepherd, in his power,  Mail'd and hors'd, with lance and sword,  To his Ancestors restored,  Like a reappearing Star,  Like a glory from afar,  First shall head the Flock of War!"  Alas! the fervent Harper did not know  That for a tranquil Soul the Lay was framed,  Who, long compell'd in humble walks to go,  Was softened into feeling, sooth'd, and tamed.  Love had he found in huts where poor Men lie,  His daily Teachers had been Woods and Rills,  The silence that is in the starry sky,  The sleep that is among the lonely hills.  In him the savage Virtue of the Race,  Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead:  Nor did he change; but kept in lofty place  The wisdom which adversity had bred.  Glad were the Vales, and every cottage hearth;  The Shepherd Lord was honour'd more and more:  And, ages after he was laid in earth,  "The Good Lord Clifford" was the name he bore.

LINES,

Composed at GRASMERE, during a walk, one Evening, after a stormy day, the Author having just read in a Newspaper that the dissolution of MR. FOX was hourly expected  Loud is the Vale! the Voice is up  With which she speaks when storms are gone,  A mighty Unison of streams!  Of all her Voices, One!  Loud is the Vale; – this inland Depth  In peace is roaring like the Sea;  Yon Star upon the mountain-top  Is listening quietly.  Sad was I, ev'n to pain depress'd,  Importunate and heavy load!  The Comforter hath found me here,  Upon this lonely road;  And many thousands now are sad,  Wait the fulfilment of their fear;  For He must die who is their Stay,  Their Glory disappear.  A Power is passing from the earth  To breathless Nature's dark abyss;  But when the Mighty pass away  What is it more than this,  That Man, who is from God sent forth,  Doth yet again to God return? —  Such ebb and flow must ever be,  Then wherefore should we mourn?

ELEGIAC STANZAS,

Suggested by a Picture of PEELE CASTLE, in a Storm, painted BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT  I was thy Neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!  Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:  I saw thee every day; and all the while  Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea.  So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!  So like, so very like, was day to day!  Whene'er I look'd, thy Image still was there;  It trembled, but it never pass'd away.  How perfect was the calm! it seem'd no sleep;  No mood, which season takes away, or brings:  I could have fancied that the mighty Deep  Was even the gentlest of all gentle Things.  Ah! THEN, if mine had been the Painter's hand,  To express what then I saw; and add the gleam,  The light that never was, on sea or land,  The consecration, and the Poet's dream;  I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile!  Amid a world how different from this!  Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;  On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss:  Thou shouldst have seem'd a treasure-house, a mine  Of peaceful years; a chronicle of heaven: —  Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine  The very sweetest had to thee been given.  A Picture had it been of lasting ease,  Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;  No motion but the moving tide, a breeze,  Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.  Such, in the fond delusion of my heart,  Such Picture would I at that time have made:  And seen the soul of truth in every part;  A faith, a trust, that could not be betray'd.  So once it would have been, – 'tis so no more;  I have submitted to a new controul:  A power is gone, which nothing can restore;  A deep distress hath humaniz'd my Soul.  Not for a moment could I now behold  A smiling sea and be what I have been:  The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old;  This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.  Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the Friend,  If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore,  This Work of thine I blame not, but commend;  This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.  Oh 'tis a passionate Work! – yet wise and well;  Well chosen is the spirit that is here;  That Hulk which labours in the deadly swell,  This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!  And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,  I love to see the look with which it braves,  Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time,  The light'ning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.  Farewell, farewell the Heart that lives alone,  Hous'd in a dream, at distance from the Kind!  Such happiness, wherever it be known,  Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind.  But welcome fortitude, and patient chear,  And frequent sights of what is to be born!  Such sights, or worse, as are before me here. —  Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.

ODE

Paulo majora canamus.

ODE

  There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,  The earth, and every common sight,              To me did seem          Apparell'd in celestial light,  The glory and the freshness of a dream.  It is not now as it has been of yore; —          Turn wheresoe'er I may,              By night or day,  The things which I have seen I now can see no more.          The Rainbow comes and goes,          And lovely is the Rose,          The Moon doth with delight      Look round her when the heavens are bare;          Waters on a starry night          Are beautiful and fair;      The sunshine is a glorious birth;      But yet I know, where'er I go,  That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.  Now, while the Birds thus sing a joyous song,      And while the young Lambs bound          As to the tabor's sound,  To me alone there came a thought of grief:  A timely utterance gave that thought relief,          And I again am strong.  The Cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,  No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;  I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,  The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,          And all the earth is gay,              Land and sea      Give themselves up to jollity,          And with the heart of May      Doth every Beast keep holiday,          Thou Child of Joy  Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd Boy!  Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call      Ye to each other make; I see  The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;      My heart is at your festival,          My head hath it's coronal,  The fullness of your bliss, I feel – I feel it all.          Oh evil day! if I were sullen          While the Earth herself is adorning,              This sweet May-morning,          And the Children are pulling,              On every side,          In a thousand vallies far and wide,          Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,  And the Babe leaps up on his mother's arm: —          I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!  – But there's a Tree, of many one,  A single Field which I have look'd upon,  Both of them speak of something that is gone:              The Pansy at my feet              Doth the same tale repeat:  Whither is fled the visionary gleam?  Where is it now, the glory and the dream?  Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:  The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,          Hath had elsewhere it's setting,              And cometh from afar:          Not in entire forgetfulness,          And not in utter nakedness,  But trailing clouds of glory do we come              From God, who is our home;  Heaven lies about us in our infancy!  Shades of the prison-house begin to close              Upon the growing Boy,  But He beholds the light, and whence it flows,              He sees it in his joy;  The Youth, who daily farther from the East      Must travel, still is Nature's Priest,          And by the vision splendid          Is on his way attended;  At length the Man perceives it die away,  And fade into the light of common day.  Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;  Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,  And, even with something of a Mother's mind,          And no unworthy aim,      The homely Nurse doth all she can  To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,      Forget the glories he hath known,  And that imperial palace whence he came.  Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,  A four year's Darling of a pigmy size!  See, where mid work of his own hand he lies,  Fretted by sallies of his Mother's kisses,  With light upon him from his Father's eyes!  See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,  Some fragment from his dream of human life,  Shap'd by himself with newly-learned art;          A wedding or a festival,          A mourning or a funeral;              And this hath now his heart,          And unto this he frames his song:              Then will he fit his tongue  To dialogues of business, love, or strife;          But it will not be long          Ere this be thrown aside,          And with new joy and pride  The little Actor cons another part,  Filling from time to time his "humourous stage"  With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,  That Life brings with her in her Equipage;          As if his whole vocation          Were endless imitation.  Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie          Thy Soul's immensity;  Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep  Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind,  That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,  Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, —          Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!          On whom those truths do rest,  Which we are toiling all our lives to find;  Thou, over whom thy Immortality  Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave,  A Presence which is not to be put by;              To whom the grave  Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight          Of day or the warm light,  A place of thought where we in waiting lie;  Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might  Of untam'd pleasures, on thy Being's height,  Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke  The Years to bring the inevitable yoke,  Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?  Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,  And custom lie upon thee with a weight,  Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!          O joy! that in our embers          Is something that doth live,          That nature yet remembers          What was so fugitive!  The thought of our past years in me doth breed  Perpetual benedictions: not indeed  For that which is most worthy to be blest;  Delight and liberty, the simple creed  Of Childhood, whether fluttering or at rest,  With new-born hope for ever in his breast: —              Not for these I raise          The song of thanks and praise;      But for those obstinate questionings      Of sense and outward things,      Fallings from us, vanishings;      Blank misgivings of a Creature  Moving about in worlds not realiz'd,  High instincts, before which our mortal Nature  Did tremble like a guilty Thing surpriz'd:      But for those first affections,      Those shadowy recollections,          Which, be they what they may,  Are yet the fountain light of all our day,  Are yet a master light of all our seeing;          Uphold us, cherish us, and 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 Man nor Boy,  Nor all that is at enmity with joy,  Can utterly abolish or destroy!      Hence, in a season of calm weather,          Though inland far we be,  Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea              Which brought us hither,          Can in a moment travel thither,  And see the Children sport upon the shore,  And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.  Then, sing ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song!          And let the young Lambs bound          As to the tabor's sound!      We in thought will join your throng,          Ye that pipe and ye that play,          Ye that through your hearts to day          Feel the gladness of the May!  What though the radiance which was once so bright  Be now for ever taken from my sight,      Though nothing can bring back the hour  Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;          We will grieve not, rather find          Strength in what remains behind,          In the primal sympathy          Which having been must ever be,          In the soothing thoughts that spring          Out of human suffering,          In the faith that looks through death,  In years that bring the philosophic mind.  And oh ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,  Think not of any severing of our loves!  Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;  I only have relinquish'd one delight  To live beneath your more habitual sway.  I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,  Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they;  The innocent brightness of a new-born Day              Is lovely yet;  The Clouds that gather round the setting sun  Do take a sober colouring from an eye  That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;  Another race hath been, and other palms are won.  Thanks to the human heart by which we live,  Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,  To me the meanest flower that blows can give  Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.