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And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves,

Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions, The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves!

And then I felt thee! on that sea-cliff's verge,

Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above,

Had made one murmur with the distant surge!

Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare,

And shot my being through earth, sea, and air,

Possessing all things with intensest love, O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there.

DEJECTION: AN ODE

Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon
With the old Moon in her arms;
And I fear, I fear, my Master dear!
We shall have a deadly storm.
Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence.

I

Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made

The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,

This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence

Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,

Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes

Upon the strings of this Eolian lute, Which better far were mute; For lo! the new-moon winter bright! And overspread with phantom light, (With swimming phantom light o'erspread

But rimmed and circled by a silver thread)

I see the old moon in her lap, foretelling

The coming-on of rain and squally blast. And oh that even now the gust were swelling,

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And the slant night shower driving O Lady, we receive but what we give,

loud and fast!

And in our life alone does Nature live:

Ours is her wedding garment, ours her shroud!

And what we ought behold, of higher worth,

Than that inanimate cold world allowed To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,

Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud

Enveloping the earth —

And from the soul itself must there be sent A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,

Of all sweet sounds the life and element !

V

O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me What this strong music in the soul may be! What, and wherein it doth exist,

This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,

This beautiful and beauty-making power. Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given,

Save to the pure, and in their purest hour, Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower,

Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power, Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower,

A new earth and new heaven, Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud

Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud

We in ourselves rejoice!

And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,

All melodies the echoes of that voice, All colours a suffusion from that light.

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But now afflictions bow me down to earth:
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;
But oh! each visitation
Suspends what Nature gave me at my
birth,

My shaping spirit of Imagination.
For not to think of what I needs must feel,
But to be still and patient, all I can;
And haply by abstruse research to steal
From my own nature all the natural

man

This was my sole resource, my only plan:

Till that which suits a part infects the whole,

And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.

VII

Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,

Reality's dark dream!

I turn from you, and listen to the wind, Which long has raved unnoticed.

What a scream

Of agony by torture lengthened out
That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that

ravest without,

Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree,

Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,

Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,

Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,

Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers,

Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,

Makest Devils' yule, with worse than

wintry song,

The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves

among.

Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds! Thou mighty Poet, even to frenzy bold! What tell'st thou now about?

'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout, With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds

At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold!

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It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud!

A tale of less affright,

And tempered with delight,

These waters, rolling from their mountainsprings Once again

With a soft inland murmur.

Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, That on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and con

nect

The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose

As Otway's self had framed the tender lay; Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 'Tis of a little child

Upon a lonesome wild,

Not far from home, but she hath lost her way:

And now moans low in bitter grief and fear, And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.

VIII

'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:

Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!

Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing,

And may this storm be but a mountain birth,

May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,

Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth!

With light heart may she rise,
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,

Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice; To her may all things live, from pole to pole,

Their life the eddying of her living soul!

O simple spirit, guided from above, Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice, Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR

FIVE years have past; five summers, with the length

Of five long winters! and again I hear

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

Which at this season, with their unripe

fruits,

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

that serene and blessèd

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