LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE...
What if these barren boughs the bee not loves;
At once, with rash disdain he turned away,
Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale
The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds
Can still suspect, and still revere himself,
On the more distant scene; how lovely tis
And big with lofty views, he to the world
Of young imagination have kept pure,
Warm from the labours of benevolence,
Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know, that pride,
That br九*九*藏*书*网eak against the shore, shall lull thy mind
If thou be one whose heart the holy forms
And on these barren rocks, with juniper,
I well remember.--He was one who ownd
Who, in the silent hour of inward thought,
Instructed that true knowledge leads to love,
Unlawful, ever. O, be wiser thou!
Would he forget those beings, to whose minds,
Now wild, to bend its arms in circling shade,
The least of natures works, one who might move
His only visita九_九_藏_书_网nts a straggling sheep,
That piled these stones, and with the mossy sod
Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh
Of dissolute tongues, gainst jealousy, and hate,
No common soul. In youth, by genius nursd,
LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE,
Far from all human dwelling: what if here
Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit,
With mournful joy, to think that others felt
And with the藏书网 food of pride sustained his soul
First covered oer, and taught this aged tree,
The beauty still more beauteous. Nor, that time,
True dignity abides with him alone
ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, YET COMMANDING ABEAUTIFUL PROSPECT.
Went forth, pure in his heart, against the taint
Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves,
Which he has never used; that thought with him
The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper;
Is littleness; that he, who feels九*九*藏*书*网 contempt
Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain
And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled oer,
And lifting up his head, he then would gaze
In lowliness of heart.
On visionary views would fancy feed,
An emblem of his own unfruitful life:
--Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands
A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here
--Who he was
Is in its infancy. The man, whose eye
By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.
And scorn, against all enemie九九藏书s prepared,
For any living thing, hath faculties
Howeer disguised in its own majesty,
The world, and man himself, appeared a scene
Thou seest, and he would gaze till it became
What he must never feel: and so, lost man!
No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb;
In solitude.--Stranger! these gloomy boughs
Fixing his downward eye, he many an hour
He died, this seat his only monument.
Is ever on himself, doth look on one,
All but neglect: and so, his spirit damped