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A constant influence, a peculiar grace; But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined

Great issues, good or bad for human kind,

Is happy as a Lover; and attired

With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired;

And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law

In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw;

Or if an unexpected call succeed,
Come when it will, is equal to the need:
-He who, though thus endued as with

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YES, IT WAS THE MOUNTAIN ECHO

YES, it was the mountain Echo, Solitary, clear, profound, Answering to the shouting Cuckoo, Giving to her sound for sound!

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To a babbling wanderer 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,
Recognized intelligence!

Such rebounds our inward ear
Catches sometimes from afar-
Listen, ponder, hold them dear;
For of God,-of God they are.

1806. 1807.

NUNS FRET NOT AT THEIR CONVENT'S NARROW ROOM

In the cottage, Town-end, Grasmere, one afternoon in 1801, my sister read to me the Sonnets of Milton. I had long been well acquainted with them, but I was particularly struck on that occa sion with the dignified simplicity and majestic harmony that runs through most of them,-in character so totally different from the Italian, and still more so from Shakspeare's fine Sonnets. I took fire, if I may be allowed to say so, and produced three Sonnets the same afternoon, the first I ever wrote except an irregular one at school. Of these three, the only one I distinctly remember is-"I grieved for Buonaparté." One was never written down: the third, which was, I believe, preserved, I cannot particularize. (Wordsworth.)

NUNS fret not at their convent's narrow

room;

And hermits are contented with their cells;

And students with their pensive citadels; Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his

loom,

Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,

High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells, Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:

In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for

me,

In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be

bound

Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground;

Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)

Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,

Should find brief solace there, as I have found. 1806? 1807.

PERSONAL TALK

I

I AM not One who much or oft delight To season my fireside with personal talk

Of friends, who live within an easy walk, Or neighbors, 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,
In the loved presence of my cottage-fire,
And listen to the flapping of the flame,
Or kettle whispering its faint undersong.

II

"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 fostered 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 !

III

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 find I personal themes, a plenteous store,

Matter wherein right voluble I am,
To which I listen with a ready ear;
Two shall be named, pre-eminently
dear,-

The gentle Lady married to the Moor;
And heavenly Úna with her milk-white
Lamb.

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THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US

THE world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:

Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;

The winds that will be howling at all hours,

And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;

For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

It moves us not.-Great God! I'd rather be

A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant

lea,

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NOVEMBER, 1806

ANOTHER year!-another deadly blow! Another mighty Empire overthrown! And We are left, or shall be left, alone; The last that dare to struggle with the Foe.

'Tis well! from this day forward we shall know

That in ourselves our safety must be sought;

That by our own right hands it must be wrought;

That we must stand unpropped, or be laid low.

O dastard whom such foretaste doth not cheer!

We shall exult, if they who rule the land

Be men who hold its many blessings dear,

Wise, upright, valiant; not a servile band,

Who are to judge of danger which they fear,

And honor which they do not understand. 1806. 1807.

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Written at Rydal Mount. The incident of the trees growing and withering put the subject into my thoughts, and I wrote with the hope of giving it a loftier tone than, so far as I know, has been given to it by any of the Ancients who have treated of it. It cost me more trouble than almost anything of equal length I have ever written. (Wordsworth.)

"Laodamia is a very original poem; I mean original with reference to your own manner. You have nothing like it. I should have seen it in a strange place, and greatly admired it, but not suspected its derivation..." (Lamb to Wordsworth. Talfourd, Final Memories of Charles Lamb, p. 151.)

"WITH sacrifice before the rising morn Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired;

And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlorn

Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I

required:

Celestial pity I again implore ;—
Restore him to my sight-great Jove,

restore!"

So speaking, and by fervent love endowed

With faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts her hands;

While, like the sun emerging from a cloud.

Her countenance brightens-and her eye expands ;

Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows;

And she expects the issue in repose.

O terror! what hath she perceived?-O joy!

What doth she look on ?-whom doth she behold?

Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy? His vital presence? his corporeal mould! It is if sense deceive her not-'tis He? And a God leads him, wingéd Mercury!

Mild Hermes spake--and touched her with his wand That calms all fear; "Such grace hath crowned thy prayer,

Laodamia! that at Jove's command Thy Husband walks the paths of upper air:

He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space;

Accept the gift, behold him face to face!

Forth sprang the impassioned Queen her Lord to clasp;

Again that consummation she essayed; But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp As often as that eager grasp was made, The Phantom parts--but parts to re-unite, And re-assume his place before her sight.

"Protesilaus, lo! thy guide is gone! Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice:

This is our palace,-yonder is thy throne; Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice.

Not to appal me have the gods bestowed This precious boon; and blest a sad abode."

"Great Jove, Laodamía! doth not leave His gifts imperfect :--Spectre though I be,

I am not sent to scare thee or deceive;
But in reward of thy fidelity.
And something also did my worth obtain ;
For fearless virtue bringeth boundless
gain.

"Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold

That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand

Should die: but me the threat could not withhold;

A generous cause a victim did demand; And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain A self-devoted chief--by Hector slain.'

"Supreme of Heroes-bravest, noblest, best!

Thy matchless courage I bewail no more, Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest

By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore ;

Thou found'st--and I forgive thee-here thou art

A nobler counsellor than my poor heart.

"But thou, though capable of sternest deed,

Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave:

And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed

Thou should'st elude the malice of the

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66

Ah, wherefore ?-Did not Hercules by force

Wrest from the guardian Monster of the tomb

Alcestis, a reanimated corse,

Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom?

Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years,

And son stood a youth 'mid youthful peers.

"The Gods to us are merciful-and they Yet further may relent: for mightier far

Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway

Of magic potent over sun and star,
Is love, though oft to agony distrest,
And though his favorite seat be feeble
woman's breast.

"But if thou goest, I follow-""Peace!" he said ;

She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered;

The ghastly color from his lips had fled; In his deportment, shape, and mien, appeared

Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.

He spake of love, such love as Spirits feel

In worlds whose course is equable and

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