Romantic Midterm

Blake, A Poison Tree, E

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Clare, An Invite to Eternity

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Colerdige, the rime of the ancient mariner

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Wordsworth, ode: intimations of immortality

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Wordsworth, a slumber did my spirit seal

A slumber did my spirit seal; I had no human fears: She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years. No motion has she now, no force; She neither hears nor sees; Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, With rocks, and stones, and trees.

Blake, A Divine Image, E

Cruelty has a human heart, And Jealousy a human face; Terror the human form divine, And Secrecy the human dress. The human dress is forged iron, The human form a fiery forge, The human face a furnace sealed, The human heart its hungry gorge.

Wordsworth, Lines written a few miles above Tintern Abbey

Five years have past; five summers, with the length Of five long winters! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs With a sweet inland murmur.*—Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, Which on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 10 These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits, Among the woods and copses lose themselves, Nor, with their green and simple hue, disturb The wild green landscape. Once again I see These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms, Green to the very door; and wreathes of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees, With some uncertain notice, as might seem, 20 Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire The hermit sits alone. Though absent long, These forms of beauty have not been to me, 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 30 With tranquil restoration:—feelings too Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps, As may have had no 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 40 Of all this unintelligible world Is lighten'd:—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. 50 If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft, In darkness, and amid the many shapes Of joyless day-light; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart, How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the wood How often has my spirit turned to thee! And now, with gleams of half-extinguish'd though[t,] With many recognitions dim and faint, 60 And somewhat of a sad perplexity, The picture of the mind revives again: While here I stand, not only with the 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 Though changed, no doubt, from what I was, when first I came among these hills; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, 70 Wherever nature led; more like a man 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 What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to me 80 An appetite: a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, or 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 Have followed, for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompence. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour 90 Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean, and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man, 100 A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye and ear, both what they half-create,* And what perceive; well pleased to recognize In nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, 110 The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being. Nor, perchance, If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay: For thou art with me, here, upon the banks Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend, My dear, dear Friend, and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while 120 May I behold in thee what I was once, My dear, dear Sister! And this prayer I make, Knowing that Nature never did betray The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy: for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 130 Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our chearful faith that all which we behold Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty mountain winds be free To blow against thee: and in after years, When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind 140 Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, Thy memory be as a dwelling-place For all sweet sounds and harmonies; Oh! then, If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance, If I should be, where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence, wilt thou then forget 150 That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came, Unwearied in that service: rather say With warmer love, oh! with far deeper zeal Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake.

Thomson, "Winter"

SEE! WINTER comes, to rule the varied Year, Sullen, and sad; with all his rising Train, Vapours, and Clouds, and Storms: Be these my Theme, These, that exalt the Soul to solemn Thought, And heavenly musing. Welcome kindred Glooms! [5] Wish'd, wint'ry, Horrors, hail! — With frequent Foot, Pleas'd, have I, in my cheerful Morn of Life, When, nurs'd by careless Solitude, I liv'd, And sung of Nature with unceasing Joy, Pleas'd, have I wander'd thro' your rough Domains; [10] Trod the pure, virgin, Snows, my self as pure: Heard the Winds roar, and the big Torrent burst: Or seen the deep, fermenting, Tempest brew'd, In the red, evening, Sky. — Thus pass'd the Time, Till, thro' the opening Chambers of the South, [15] Look'd out the joyous Spring, look'd out, and smil'd. THEE too, Inspirer of the toiling Swain! Fair AUTUMN, yellow rob'd! I'll sing of thee, Of thy last, temper'd, Days, and sunny Calms; When all the golden Hours are on the Wing, [20] Attending thy Retreat, and round thy Wain, Slow-rolling, onward to the Southern Sky. BEHOLD! the well-pois'd Hornet, hovering, hangs, With quivering Pinions, in the genial Blaze; Flys off, in airy Circles: then returns, [25] And hums, and dances to the beating Ray. Nor shall the Man, that, musing, walks alone, And, heedless, strays within his radiant Lists, Go unchastis'd away. — Sometimes, a Fleece Of Clouds, wide-scattering, with a lucid Veil, [30] Soft, shadow o'er th'unruffled Face of Heaven; And, thro' their dewy Sluices, shed the Sun, With temper'd Influence down. Then is the Time, For those, whom Wisdom, and whom Nature charm, To steal themselves from the degenerate Croud, [35] And soar above this little Scene of Things: To tread low-thoughted Vice beneath their Feet: To lay their Passions in a gentle Calm, And woo lone Quiet, in her silent Walks. NOW, solitary, and in pensive Guise, [40] Oft, let me wander o'er the russet Mead, Or thro' the pining Grove; where scarce is heard One dying Strain, to chear the Woodman's Toil: Sad Philomel, perchance, pours forth her Plaint, Far, thro' the withering Copse. Mean while, the Leaves, [45] That, late, the Forest clad with lively Green, Nipt by the drizzly Night, and Sallow-hu'd, Fall, wavering, thro' the Air; or shower amain, Urg'd by the Breeze, that sobs amid the Boughs. Then list'ning Hares forsake the rusling Woods, [50] And, starting at the frequent Noise, escape To the rough Stubble, and the rushy Fen. Then Woodcocks, o'er the fluctuating Main, That glimmers to the Glimpses of the Moon, Stretch their long Voyage to the woodland Glade: [55] Where, wheeling with uncertain Flight, they mock The nimble Fowler's Aim. — Now Nature droops; Languish the living Herbs, with pale Decay: And all the various Family of Flowers Their sunny Robes resign. The falling Fruits, [60] Thro' the still Night, forsake the Parent-Bough, That, in the first, grey, Glances of the Dawn, Looks wild, and wonders at the wintry Waste. THE Year, yet pleasing, but declining fast, Soft, o'er the secret Soul, in gentle Gales, [65] A Philosophic Melancholly breathes, And bears the swelling Thought aloft to Heaven. Then forming Fancy rouses to conceive, What never mingled with the Vulgar's Dream: Then wake the tender Pang, the pitying Tear, [70] The Sigh for suffering Worth, the Wish prefer'd For Humankind, the Joy to see them bless'd, And all the Social Off-spring of the Heart! OH! bear me then to high, embowering, Shades; To twilight Groves, and visionary Vales; [75] To weeping Grottos, and to hoary Caves; Where Angel-Forms are seen, and Voices heard, Sigh'd in low Whispers, that abstract the Soul, From outward Sense, far into Worlds remote. NOW, when the Western Sun withdraws the Day, [80] And humid Evening, gliding o'er the Sky, In her chill Progress, checks the straggling Beams, And robs them of their gather'd, vapoury, Prey, Where Marshes stagnate, and where Rivers wind, Cluster the rolling Fogs, and swim along [85] The dusky-mantled Lawn: then slow descend, Once more to mingle with their Watry Friends. The vivid Stars shine out, in radiant Files; And boundless Ether glows, till the fair Moon Shows her broad Visage, in the crimson'd East; [90] Now, stooping, seems to kiss the passing Cloud: Now, o'er the pure Cerulean, rides sublime. Wide the pale Deluge floats, with silver Waves, O'er the sky'd Mountain, to the low-laid Vale; From the white Rocks, with dim Reflexion, gleams, [95] And faintly glitters thro' the waving Shades. ALL Night, abundant Dews, unnoted, fall, And, at Return of Morning, silver o'er The Face of Mother-Earth; from every Branch Depending, tremble the translucent Gems, [100] And, quivering, seem to fall away, yet cling, And sparkle in the Sun, whose rising Eye, With Fogs bedim'd, portends a beauteous Day. NOW, giddy Youth, whom headlong Passions fire, Rouse the wild Game, and stain the guiltless Grove, [105] With Violence, and Death; yet call it Sport, To scatter Ruin thro' the Realms of Love, And Peace, that thinks no Ill: But These, the Muse, Whose Charity, unlimited, extends As wide as Nature works, disdains to sing, [110] Returning to her nobler Theme in view — FOR, see! where Winter comes, himself, confest, Striding the gloomy Blast. First Rains obscure Drive thro' the mingling Skies, with Tempest foul; Beat on the Mountain's Brow, and shake the Woods, [115] That, sounding, wave below. The dreary Plain Lies overwhelm'd, and lost. The bellying Clouds Combine, and deepening into Night, shut up The Day's fair Face. The Wanderers of Heaven, Each to his Home, retire; save those that love [120] To take their Pastime in the troubled Air, And, skimming, flutter round the dimply Flood. The Cattle, from th'untasted Fields, return, And ask, with Meaning low, their wonted Stalls; Or ruminate in the contiguous Shade: [125] Thither, the houshold, feathery, People croud, The crested Cock, with all his female Train, Pensive, and wet. Mean while, the Cottage-Swain Hangs o'er th'enlivening Blaze, and, taleful, there, Recounts his simple Frolic: Much he talks, [130] And much he laughs, nor recks the Storm that blows Without, and rattles on his humble Roof. AT last, the muddy Deluge pours along, Resistless, roaring; dreadful down it comes From the chapt Mountain, and the mossy Wild, [135] Tumbling thro' Rocks abrupt, and sounding far: Then o'er the sanded Valley, floating, spreads, Calm, sluggish, silent; till again constrain'd, Betwixt two meeting Hills, it bursts a Way, Where Rocks, and Woods o'erhang the turbid Stream. [140] There gathering triple Force, rapid, and deep, It boils, and wheels, and foams, and thunders thro'. NATURE! great Parent! whose directing Hand Rolls round the Seasons of the changeful Year, How mighty! how majestick are thy Works! [145] With what a pleasing Dread they swell the Soul, That sees, astonish'd! and, astonish'd sings! You too, ye Winds! that now begin to blow, With boisterous Sweep, I raise my Voice to you. Where are your Stores, ye viewless Beings! say? [150] Where your aerial Magazines reserv'd, Against the Day of Tempest perilous? In what untravel'd Country of the Air, Hush'd in still Silence, sleep you, when 'tis calm? LATE, in the louring Sky, red, fiery, Streaks [155] Begin to flush about; the reeling Clouds Stagger with dizzy Aim, as doubting yet Which Master to obey: while rising, slow, Sad, in the Leaden-colour'd East, the Moon Wears a bleak Circle round her sully'd Orb. [160] Then issues forth the Storm, with loud Control, And the thin Fabrick of the pillar'd Air O'erturns, at once. Prone, on th'uncertain Main, Descends th'Etherial Force, and plows its Waves, With dreadful Rift: from the mid-Deep, appears, [165] Surge after Surge, the rising, wat'ry, War. Whitening, the angry Billows rowl immense, And roar their Terrors, thro' the shuddering Soul Of feeble Man, amidst their Fury caught, And, dash'd upon his Fate: Then, o'er the Cliff, [170] Where dwells the Sea-Mew, unconfin'd, they fly, And, hurrying, swallow up the steril Shore. THE Mountain growls; and all its sturdy Sons Stoop to the Bottom of the Rocks they shade: Lone, on its Midnight-Side, and all aghast, [175] The dark, way-faring, Stranger, breathless, toils, And climbs against the Blast — Low, waves the rooted Forest, vex'd, and sheds What of its leafy Honours yet remains. Thus, struggling thro' the dissipated Grove, [180] The whirling Tempest raves along the Plain; And, on the Cottage thacht, or lordly Dome, Keen-fastening, shakes 'em to the solid Base. Sleep, frighted, flies; the hollow Chimney howls, The Windows rattle, and the Hinges creak. [185] THEN, too, they say, thro' all the burthen'd Air, Long Groans are heard, shrill Sounds, and distant Sighs, That, murmur'd by the Demon of the Night, Warn the devoted Wretch of Woe, and Death! Wild Uproar lords it wide: the Clouds commixt, [190] With Stars, swift-gliding, sweep along the Sky. All Nature reels. — But hark! the Almighty speaks: Instant, the chidden Storm begins to pant, And dies, at once, into a noiseless Calm. AS yet, 'tis Midnight's Reign; the weary Clouds, [195] Slow-meeting, mingle into solid Gloom: Now, while the drousy World lies lost in Sleep, Let me associate with the low-brow'd Night, And Contemplation, her sedate Compeer; Let me shake off th'intrusive Cares of Day, [200] And lay the medling Senses all aside. AND now, ye lying Vanities of Life! You ever-tempting, ever-cheating Train! Where are you now? and what is your Amount? Vexation, Disappointment, and Remorse. [205] Sad, sickening, Thought! and yet, deluded Man, A Scene of wild, disjointed, Visions past, And broken Slumbers, rises, still resolv'd, With new-flush'd Hopes, to run your giddy Round. FATHER of Light, and Life! Thou Good Supreme! [210] O! teach me what is Good! teach me thy self! Save me from Folly, Vanity and Vice, From every low Pursuit! and feed my Soul, With Knowledge, conscious Peace, and Vertue pure, Sacred, substantial, never-fading Bliss! [215] LO! from the livid East, or piercing North, Thick Clouds ascend, in whose capacious Womb, A vapoury Deluge lies, to Snow congeal'd: Heavy, they roll their fleecy World along; And the Sky saddens with th'impending Storm. [220] Thro' the hush'd Air, the whitening Shower descends, At first, thin-wavering; till, at last, the Flakes Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the Day, With a continual Flow. See! sudden, hoar'd, The Woods beneath the stainless Burden bow, [225] Blackning, along the mazy Stream it melts; Earth's universal Face, deep-hid, and chill, Is all one, dazzling, Waste. The Labourer-Ox Stands cover'd o'er with Snow, and then demands The Fruit of all his Toil. The Fowls of Heaven, [230] Tam'd by the cruel Season, croud around The winnowing Store, and claim the little Boon, That Providence allows. The foodless Wilds Pour forth their brown Inhabitants; the Hare, Tho' timorous of Heart, and hard beset [235] By Death, in various Forms, dark Snares, and Dogs, And more unpitying Men, the Garden seeks, Urg'd on by fearless Want. The bleating Kind Eye the bleak Heavens, and next, the glistening Earth, With Looks of dumb Despair; then sad, dispers'd, [240] Dig, for the wither'd Herb, thro' Heaps of Snow. NOW, Shepherds, to your helpless Charge be kind; Baffle the raging Year, and fill their Penns With Food, at will: lodge them below the Blast, And watch them strict; for from the bellowing East, [245] In this dire Season, oft the Whirlwind's Wing Sweeps up the Burthen of whole wintry Plains, In one fierce Blast, and o'er th'unhappy Flocks, Lodg'd in the Hollow of two neighbouring Hills, The billowy Tempest whelms; till, upwards urg'd, [250] The Valley to a shining Mountain swells, That curls its Wreaths amid the freezing Sky. NOW, all amid the Rigours of the Year, In the wild Depth of Winter, while without The ceaseless Winds blow keen, be my Retreat [255] A rural, shelter'd, solitary, Scene; Where ruddy Fire, and beaming Tapers join To chase the chearless Gloom: there let me sit, And hold high Converse with the mighty Dead, Sages of ancient Time, as Gods rever'd, [260] As Gods beneficent, who blest Mankind, With Arts, and Arms, and humaniz'd a World, Rous'd at th'inspiring Thought — I throw aside The long-liv'd Volume, and, deep-musing, hail The sacred Shades, that, slowly-rising, pass [265] Before my wondering Eyes — First, Socrates, Truth's early Champion, Martyr for his God: Solon, the next, who built his Commonweal, On Equity's firm Base: Lycurgus, then, Severely good, and him of rugged Rome, [270] Numa, who soften'd her rapacious Sons. Cimon sweet-soul'd, and Aristides just. Unconquer'd Cato, virtuous in Extreme; With that attemper'd Heroe, mild, and firm, Who wept the Brother, while the Tyrant bled. [275] Scipio, the humane Warriour, gently brave, Fair Learning's Friend; who early sought the Shade, To dwell, with Innocence, and Truth, retir'd. And, equal to the best, the Theban, He Who, single, rais'd his Country into Fame. [280] Thousands behind, the Boast of Greece and Rome, Whom Vertue owns, the Tribute of a Verse Demand, but who can count the Stars of Heaven? Who sing their Influence on this lower World? But see who yonder comes! nor comes alone, [285] With sober State, and of majestic Mien, The Sister-Muses in his Train — 'Tis He! Maro! the best of Poets, and of Men! Great Homer too appears, of daring Wing! Parent of Song! and, equal, by his Side, [290] The British Muse, join'd Hand in Hand, they walk, Darkling, nor miss their Way to Fame's Ascent. Society divine! Immortal Minds! Still visit thus my Nights, for you reserv'd, And mount my soaring Soul to Deeds like yours. [295] Silence! thou lonely Power! the Door be thine: See, on the hallow'd Hour, that none intrude, Save Lycidas, the Friend, with Sense refin'd, Learning digested well, exalted Faith, Unstudy'd Wit, and Humour ever gay. [300] CLEAR Frost succeeds, and thro' the blew Serene, For Sight too fine, th'Ætherial Nitre flies, To bake the Glebe, and bind the slip'ry Flood. This of the wintry Season is the Prime; Pure are the Days, and lustrous are the Nights, [305] Brighten'd with starry Worlds, till then unseen. Mean while, the Orient, darkly red, breathes forth An Icy Gale, that, in its mid Career, Arrests the bickering Stream. The nightly Sky, And all her glowing Constellations pour [310] Their rigid Influence down: It freezes on Till Morn, late-rising, o'er the drooping World, Lifts her pale Eye, unjoyous: then appears The various Labour of the silent Night, The pendant Isicle, the Frost-Work fair, [315] Where thousand Figures rise, the crusted Snow, Tho' white, made whiter, by the fining North. On blithsome Frolics bent, the youthful Swains, While every Work of Man is laid at Rest, Rush o'er the watry Plains, and, shuddering, view [320] The fearful Deeps below: or with the Gun, And faithful Spaniel, range the ravag'd Fields, And, adding to the Ruins of the Year, Distress the Feathery, or the Footed Game. BUT hark! the nightly Winds, with hollow Voice, [325] Blow, blustering, from the South — the Frost subdu'd, Gradual, resolves into a weeping Thaw. Spotted, the Mountains shine: loose Sleet descends, And floods the Country round: the Rivers swell, Impatient for the Day. — Those sullen Seas, [330] That wash th'ungenial Pole, will rest no more, Beneath the Shackles of the mighty North; But, rousing all their Waves, resistless heave, — And hark! — the length'ning Roar, continuous, runs Athwart the rifted Main; at once, it bursts, [335] And piles a thousand Mountains to the Clouds! Ill fares the Bark, the Wretches' last Resort, That, lost amid the floating Fragments, moors Beneath the Shelter of an Icy Isle; While Night o'erwhelms the Sea, and Horror looks [340] More horrible. Can human Hearts endure Th'assembled Mischiefs, that besiege them round: Unlist'ning Hunger, fainting Weariness, The Roar of Winds, and Waves, the Crush of Ice, Now, ceasing, now, renew'd, with louder Rage, [345] And bellowing round the Main: Nations remote, Shook from their Midnight-Slumbers, deem they hear Portentous Thunder, in the troubled Sky. More to embroil the Deep, Leviathan, And his unweildy Train, in horrid Sport, [350] Tempest the loosen'd Brine; while, thro' the Gloom, Far, from the dire, unhospitable Shore, The Lyon's Rage, the Wolf's sad Howl is heard, And all the fell Society of Night. Yet, Providence, that ever-waking Eye [355] Looks down, with Pity, on the fruitless Toil Of Mortals, lost to Hope, and lights them safe, Thro' all this dreary Labyrinth of Fate. 'TIS done! — Dread WINTER has subdu'd the Year, And reigns, tremenduous, o'er the desart Plains! [360] How dead the Vegetable Kingdom lies! How dumb the Tuneful! Horror wide extends His solitary Empire — Now, fond Man! Behold thy pictur'd Life: pass some few Years, Thy flow'ring SPRING, thy short-liv'd SUMMER's Strength, [365] Thy sober AUTUMN, fading into Age, And pale, concluding, WINTER shuts thy Scene, And shrouds Thee in the Grave — where now, are fled Those Dreams of Greatness? those unsolid Hopes Of Happiness? those Longings after Fame? [370] Those restless Cares? those busy, bustling Days? Those Nights of secret Guilt? those veering Thoughts, Flutt'ring 'twixt Good, and Ill, that shar'd thy Life? All, now, are vanish'd! Vertue, sole, survives, Immortal, Mankind's never-failing Friend, [375] His Guide to Happiness on high — and see! 'Tis come, the Glorious Morn! the second Birth Of Heaven, and Earth! — awakening Nature hears Th'Almighty Trumpet's Voice, and starts to Life, Renew'd, unfading. Now, th'Eternal Scheme, [380] That Dark Perplexity, that Mystic Maze, Which Sight cou'd never trace, nor Heart conceive, To Reason's Eye, refin'd, clears up apace. Angels, and Men, astonish'd, pause — and dread To travel thro' the Depths of Providence, [385] Untry'd, unbounded. Ye vain Learned! see, And, prostrate in the Dust, adore that Power, And Goodness, oft arraign'd. See now the Cause, Why conscious Worth, oppress'd, in secret long Mourn'd, unregarded: Why the Good Man's Share [390] In Life, was Gall, and Bitterness of Soul: Why the lone Widow, and her Orphans, pin'd, In starving Solitude; while Luxury, In Palaces, lay prompting her low Thought, To form unreal Wants: why Heaven-born Faith, [395] And Charity, prime Grace! wore the red Marks Of Persecution's Scourge: why licens'd Pain, That cruel Spoiler, that embosom'd Foe, Imbitter'd all our Bliss. Ye Good Distrest! Ye Noble Few! that, here, unbending, stand [400] Beneath Life's Pressures — yet a little while, And all your Woes are past. Time swiftly fleets, And wish'd Eternity, approaching, brings Life undecaying, Love without Allay, Pure flowing Joy, and Happiness sincere. [405]

Coleridge, This Lime-tree bower my prison

Well, they are gone, and here must I remain, This lime-tree bower my prison! I have lost Beauties and feelings, such as would have been Most sweet to my remembrance even when age Had dimm'd mine eyes to blindness! They, meanwhile, Friends, whom I never more may meet again, On springy heath, along the hill-top edge, Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance, To that still roaring dell, of which I told; The roaring dell, o'erwooded, narrow, deep, And only speckled by the mid-day sun; Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rock Flings arching like a bridge;—that branchless ash, Unsunn'd and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still, Fann'd by the water-fall! and there my friends Behold the dark green file of long lank weeds, That all at once (a most fantastic sight!) Still nod and drip beneath the dripping edge Of the blue clay-stone. Now, my friends emerge Beneath the wide wide Heaven—and view again The many-steepled tract magnificent Of hilly fields and meadows, and the sea, With some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light up The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two Isles Of purple shadow! Yes! they wander on In gladness all; but thou, methinks, most glad, My gentle-hearted Charles! for thou hast pined And hunger'd after Nature, many a year, In the great City pent, winning thy way With sad yet patient soul, through evil and pain And strange calamity! Ah! slowly sink Behind the western ridge, thou glorious Sun! Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb, Ye purple heath-flowers! richlier burn, ye clouds! Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves! And kindle, thou blue Ocean! So my friend Struck with deep joy may stand, as I have stood, Silent with swimming sense; yea, gazing round On the wide landscape, gaze till all doth seem Less gross than bodily; and of such hues As veil the Almighty Spirit, when yet he makes Spirits perceive his presence. A delight Comes sudden on my heart, and I am glad As I myself were there! Nor in this bower, This little lime-tree bower, have I not mark'd Much that has sooth'd me. Pale beneath the blaze Hung the transparent foliage; and I watch'd Some broad and sunny leaf, and lov'd to see The shadow of the leaf and stem above Dappling its sunshine! And that walnut-tree Was richly ting'd, and a deep radiance lay Full on the ancient ivy, which usurps Those fronting elms, and now, with blackest mass Makes their dark branches gleam a lighter hue Through the late twilight: and though now the bat Wheels silent by, and not a swallow twitters, Yet still the solitary humble-bee Sings in the bean-flower! Henceforth I shall know That Nature ne'er deserts the wise and pure; No plot so narrow, be but Nature there, No waste so vacant, but may well employ Each faculty of sense, and keep the heart Awake to Love and Beauty! and sometimes 'Tis well to be bereft of promis'd good, That we may lift the soul, and contemplate With lively joy the joys we cannot share. My gentle-hearted Charles! when the last rook Beat its straight path along the dusky air Homewards, I blest it! deeming its black wing (Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light) Had cross'd the mighty Orb's dilated glory, While thou stood'st gazing; or, when all was still, Flew creeking o'er thy head, and had a charm For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom No sound is dissonant which tells of Life.

Burns, Tam o'Shanter

When chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neebors neebors meet, As market-days are wearing late, And folk begin to tak the gate; While we sit bousin, at the nappy, And gettin fou and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, That lie between us and our hame, Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter: (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, For honest men and bonie lasses.) O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A bletherin, blusterin, drunken blellum; That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou was na sober; That ilka melder wi' the miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roarin fou on; That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. She prophesied, that, late or soon, Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon; Ot catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthen'd sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises! But to our tale:—Ae market night, Tam had got planted unco right, Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats that drank divinely; And at his elbow, Souter Johnie, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony: Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither; They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter; And ay the ale was growing better: The landlady and Tam grew gracious Wi' secret favours, sweet, and precious: The souter tauld his queerest stories; The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: The storm without might rair and rustle, Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy: As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure; Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious! But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white—then melts forever; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether time or tide: The hour approaches Tam maun ride,— That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; And sic a night he taks the road in, As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; The rattling show'rs rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd; Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd: That night, a child might understand, The Deil had business on his hand. Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg,— A better never lifted leg,— Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, Despising wind and rain and fire; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet, Whiles glowrin round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares. Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. By this time he was cross the ford, Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd; And past the birks and meikle stane, Whare drucken Charlie brak's neckbane: And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel. Before him Doon pours all his floods; The doubling storm roars thro' the woods; The lightnings flash from pole to pole, Near and more near the thunders roll; When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze: Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing. Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! What dangers thou can'st make us scorn! Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil; Wi' usquebae we'll face the devil! The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle. But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventur'd forward on the light; And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight! Warlocks and witches in a dance; Nae cotillion brent-new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels Put life and mettle in their heels. A winnock bunker in the east, There sat Auld Nick in shape o' beast: A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, To gie them music was his charge; He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl, Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.— Coffins stood round like open presses, That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses; And by some devilish cantraip sleight Each in its cauld hand held a light, By which heroic Tam was able To note upon the haly table A murderer's banes in gibbet airns; Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns; A thief, new-cutted frae the rape— Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted; Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted; A garter, which a babe had strangled; A knife, a father's throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o' life bereft— The grey hairs yet stack to the heft; Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: The piper loud and louder blew, The dancers quick and quicker flew; They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit Till ilka carlin swat and reekit And coost her duddies to the wark And linket at it in her sark! Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans, A' plump and strapping in their teens! Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!— Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair, I wad hae gien them aff y hurdies, For ae blink o' the bonie burdies! But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, Lowping and flinging on a crummock. I wonder didna turn thy stomach. But Tam ken'd what was what fu' brawlie; There was ae winsom wench and walie, That night enlisted in the core (Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore. For mony a beast to dead she shot, And perish'd mony a bonie boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear, And kept the country-side in fear); Her cutty sark o' Paisley harn, That while a lassie she had worn, In longitude tho' sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie. Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie, That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches! But here my Muse her wing maun cow'r, Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r; To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jad she was and strang), And how Tam stood like ane bewitch'd, And thought his very een enrich'd; Even Satan glowr'd and fidg'd fu' fain, And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main: Till first ae caper, syne anither, Tam tint his reason a' thegither, And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!" And in an instant all was dark: And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, When plundering herds assail their byke; As open pussie's mortal foes, When, pop! she starts before their nose; As eager runs the market-crowd, When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' mony an eldritch skriech and hollo. Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane of the brig: There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they dare na cross. But ere the key-stane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake! For Nannie far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; But little wist she Maggie's mettle— Ae spring brought aff her master hale But left behind her ain grey tail: The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, Ilk man and mother's son, take heed, Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear, Remember Tam o' Shanter's mear

Blake, "The Lamb"

lil lamb

Wordsworth, The Thorn

"There is a Thorn—it looks so old, In truth, you'd find it hard to say How it could ever have been young, It looks so old and grey. Not higher than a two years' child It stands erect, this aged Thorn; No leaves it has, no prickly points; It is a mass of knotted joints, A wretched thing forlorn. It stands erect, and like a stone With lichens is it overgrown. II "Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown, With lichens to the very top, And hung with heavy tufts of moss, A melancholy crop: Up from the earth these mosses creep, And this poor Thorn they clasp it round So close, you'd say that they are bent With plain and manifest intent To drag it to the ground; And all have joined in one endeavour To bury this poor Thorn for ever. III "High on a mountain's highest ridge, Where oft the stormy winter gale Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds It sweeps from vale to vale; Not five yards from the mountain path, This Thorn you on your left espy; And to the left, three yards beyond, You see a little muddy pond Of water—never dry, Though but of compass small, and bare To thirsty suns and parching air. IV "And, close beside this aged Thorn, There is a fresh and lovely sight, A beauteous heap, a hill of moss, Just half a foot in height. All lovely colours there you see, All colours that were ever seen; And mossy network too is there, As if by hand of lady fair The work had woven been; And cups, the darlings of the eye, So deep is their vermilion dye. V "Ah me! what lovely tints are there Of olive green and scarlet bright, In spikes, in branches, and in stars, Green, red, and pearly white! This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss, Which close beside the Thorn you see, So fresh in all its beauteous dyes, Is like an infant's grave in size, As like as like can be: But never, never any where, An infant's grave was half so fair. VI "Now would you see this aged Thorn, This pond, and beauteous hill of moss, You must take care and choose your time The mountain when to cross. For oft there sits between the heap, So like an infant's grave in size, And that same pond of which I spoke, A Woman in a scarlet cloak, And to herself she cries, 'Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!' VII "At all times of the day and night This wretched Woman thither goes; And she is known to every star, And every wind that blows; And there, beside the Thorn, she sits When the blue daylight's in the skies, And when the whirlwind's on the hill, Or frosty air is keen and still, And to herself she cries, 'Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!' " VIII "Now wherefore, thus, by day and night, In rain, in tempest, and in snow, Thus to the dreary mountain-top Does this poor Woman go? And why sits she beside the Thorn When the blue daylight's in the sky Or when the whirlwind's on the hill, Or frosty air is keen and still, And wherefore does she cry?— O wherefore? wherefore? tell me why Does she repeat that doleful cry?" IX "I cannot tell; I wish I could; For the true reason no one knows: But would you gladly view the spot, The spot to which she goes; The hillock like an infant's grave, The pond—and Thorn, so old and grey; Pass by her door—'tis seldom shut— And if you see her in her hut— Then to the spot away! I never heard of such as dare Approach the spot when she is there." X "But wherefore to the mountain-top Can this unhappy Woman go, Whatever star is in the skies, Whatever wind may blow?" "Full twenty years are past and gone Since she (her name is Martha Ray) Gave with a maiden's true good-will Her company to Stephen Hill; And she was blithe and gay, While friends and kindred all approved Of him whom tenderly she loved. XI "And they had fixed the wedding day, The morning that must wed them both; But Stephen to another Maid Had sworn another oath; And, with this other Maid, to church Unthinking Stephen went— Poor Martha! on that woeful day A pang of pitiless dismay Into her soul was sent; A fire was kindled in her breast, Which might not burn itself to rest. XII "They say, full six months after this, While yet the summer leaves were green, She to the mountain-top would go, And there was often seen. What could she seek?—or wish to hide? Her state to any eye was plain; She was with child, and she was mad; Yet often was she sober sad From her exceeding pain. O guilty Father—would that death Had saved him from that breach of faith! XIII "Sad case for such a brain to hold Communion with a stirring child! Sad case, as you may think, for one Who had a brain so wild! Last Christmas-eve we talked of this, And grey-haired Wilfred of the glen Held that the unborn infant wrought About its mother's heart, and brought Her senses back again: And, when at last her time drew near, Her looks were calm, her senses clear. XIV "More know I not, I wish I did, And it should all be told to you; For what became of this poor child No mortal ever knew; Nay—if a child to her was born No earthly tongue could ever tell; And if 'twas born alive or dead, Far less could this with proof be said; But some remember well, That Martha Ray about this time Would up the mountain often climb. XV "And all that winter, when at night The wind blew from the mountain-peak, 'Twas worth your while, though in the dark, The churchyard path to seek: For many a time and oft were heard Cries coming from the mountain head: Some plainly living voices were; And others, I've heard many swear, Were voices of the dead: I cannot think, whate'er they say, They had to do with Martha Ray. XVI "But that she goes to this old Thorn, The Thorn which I described to you, And there sits in a scarlet cloak, I will be sworn is true. For one day with my telescope, To view the ocean wide and bright, When to this country first I came, Ere I had heard of Martha's name, I climbed the mountain's height:— A storm came on, and I could see No object higher than my knee. XVII " 'Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain: No screen, no fence could I discover; And then the wind! in sooth, it was A wind full ten times over. I looked around, I thought I saw A jutting crag,—and off I ran, Head-foremost, through the driving rain, The shelter of the crag to gain; And, as I am a man, Instead of jutting crag, I found A Woman seated on the ground. XVIII "I did not speak—I saw her face; Her face!—it was enough for me; I turned about and heard her cry, 'Oh misery! oh misery!' And there she sits, until the moon Through half the clear blue sky will go; And when the little breezes make The waters of the pond to shake, As all the country know, She shudders, and you hear her cry, 'Oh misery! oh misery!' " XIX "But what's the Thorn? and what the pond? And what the hill of moss to her? And what the creeping breeze that comes The little pond to stir?" "I cannot tell; but some will say She hanged her baby on the tree; Some say she drowned it in the pond, Which is a little step beyond: But all and each agree, The little Babe was buried there, Beneath that hill of moss so fair. XX "I've heard, the moss is spotted red With drops of that poor infant's blood; But kill a new-born infant thus, I do not think she could! Some say, if to the pond you go, And fix on it a steady view, The shadow of a babe you trace, A baby and a baby's face, And that it looks at you; Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain The baby looks at you again. XXI "And some had sworn an oath that she Should be to public justice brought; And for the little infant's bones With spades they would have sought. But instantly the hill of moss Before their eyes began to stir! And, for full fifty yards around, The grass—it shook upon the ground! Yet all do still aver The little Babe lies buried there, Beneath that hill of moss so fair. XXII "I cannot tell how this may be, But plain it is the Thorn is bound With heavy tufts of moss that strive To drag it to the ground; And this I know, full many a time, When she was on the mountain high, By day, and in the silent night, When all the stars shone clear and bright, That I have heard her cry, 'Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!' "

Blake, A Little Boy lost, E

'NOUGHT 1 loves another as itself, Nor venerates another so, Nor is it possible to Thought A greater than itself to know: 'And, Father, how can I love you 5 Or any of my brothers more? I love you like the little bird That picks up crumbs around the door.' The Priest sat by and heard the child, In trembling zeal he seiz'd his hair: 10 He led him by his little coat, And all admir'd the priestly care. And standing on the altar high, Lo! what a fiend is here,' said he, 'One who sets reason up for judge 15 Of our most holy Mystery.' The weeping child could not be heard, The weeping parents wept in vain; They stripp'd him to his little shirt, And bound him in an iron chain; 20 And burn'd him in a holy place, Where many had been burn'd before: The weeping parents wept in vain. Are such things done on Albion's shore?

Blake, "Holy Thursday" (I)

'Twas on a holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, The children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green: Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow, Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames waters flow. O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town! Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own. The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands. Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song, Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among: Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor. Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.

Wordsworth, we are seven

--------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: 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: 10 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 And wondering looked at me. "And where are they? I pray you tell." She answered, "Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea. 20 "Two of us in the church-yard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the church-yard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother." "You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven!--I pray you tell, Sweet Maid, how this may be." Then did the little Maid reply, "Seven boys and girls are we; 30 Two of us in the church-yard lie, Beneath the church-yard tree." "You run about, my little Maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the church-yard laid, Then ye are only five." "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. 40 "My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit, And sing a song to them. "And often after sunset, Sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there. "The first that died was sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay, 50 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. "And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." 60 "How many are you, then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?" Quick was the little Maid's reply, "O Master! we are seven." "But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!" 'Twas throwing words away; for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

Blake, The Chimney Sweeper, E

A LITTLE 1 black thing among the snow, Crying ''weep! 'weep!' in notes of woe! 'Where are thy father and mother, say?'— 'They are both gone up to the Church to pray. 'Because I was happy upon the heath, 5 And smil'd among the winter's snow, They clothèd me in the clothes of death, And taught me to sing the notes of woe. 'And because I am happy and dance and sing, They think they have done me no injury, 10 And are gone to praise God and His Priest and King, Who make up a Heaven of our misery.'

Coleridge, the pang more sharp than all: an allegory

AH! 1 he is gone, and yet will not depart!— Is with me still, yet I from him exiled! For still there lives within my secret heart The magic image of the magic Child, Which there he made up-grow by his strong art, 5 As in that crystal orb—wise Merlin's feat,— The wondrous 'World of Glass', wherein inisled All long'd for things their beings did repeat;— And there he left it, like a Sylph beguiled, To live and yearn and languish incomplete!

Warton, "To the River London"

AH! what a weary race my feet have run, Since first I trod thy banks with alders crown'd, And thought my way was all through fairy ground, Beneath thy azure sky, and golden sun: Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun! 5 While pensive Memory traces back the round, Which fills the varied interval between; Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene. Sweet native stream! those skies and suns so pure No more return, to cheer my evening road! 10 Yet still one, joy remains: that nor obscure, Nor useless, all my vacant days have flow'd, From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime mature; Nor with the Muse's laurel unbestow'd.

Blake, The LIttle Girl Found, E

ALL the night in woe Lyca's parents go Over valleys deep, While the deserts weep. Tired and woe-begone, 5 Hoarse with making moan, Arm in arm seven days They trac'd the desert ways. Seven nights they sleep Among shadows deep, 10 And dream they see their child Starv'd in desert wild. Pale, thro' pathless ways The fancied image strays Famish'd, weeping, weak, 15 With hollow piteous shriek. Rising from unrest, The trembling woman prest With feet of weary woe: She could no further go. 20 In his arms he bore Her, arm'd with sorrow sore; Till before their way A couching lion lay. Turning back was vain: 25 Soon his heavy mane Bore them to the ground. Then he stalk'd around, Smelling to his prey; But their fears allay 30 When he licks their hands, And silent by them stands. They look upon his eyes Fill'd with deep surprise; And wondering behold 35 A spirit arm'd in gold. On his head a crown; On his shoulders down Flow'd his golden hair. Gone was all their care. 40 'Follow me,' he said; 'Weep not for the maid; In my palace deep Lyca lies asleep.' Then they followèd 45 Where the vision led, And saw their sleeping child Among tigers wild. To this day they dwell In a lonely dell; 50 Nor fear the wolfish howl Nor the lions' growl.

Coleridge, work without hope

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair— The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing— And Winter slumbering in the open air, Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring! And I the while, the sole unbusy thing, Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow, Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow. Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may, For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away! With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll: And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul? Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve, And Hope without an object cannot live.

Collins, "Ode on the Poetical Character"

As once, if not with light regard I read aright that gifted bard (Him whose school above the rest His loveliest Elfin Queen has blest), One, only one unrivaled fair Might hope the magic girdle wear, At solemn tourney hung on high, The wish of each love-darting eye; Lo! to each other nymph in turn applied, As if, in air unseen, some hov'ring hand, Some chaste and angel-friend to virgin-fame, With whispered spell had burst the starting band, It left unblessed her loathed dishonoured side; Happier, hopeless fair, if never Her baffled hand with vain endeavour Had touched that fatal zone to her denied! Young Fancy thus, to me divinest name, To whom, prepared and bathed in Heav'n, The cest of amplest power is giv'n, To few the godlike gift assigns, To gird their blessed, prophetic loins, And gaze her visions wild, and feel unmixed her flame! II The band, as fairy legends say, Was wove on that creating day, When He, who called with thought to birth Yon tented sky, this laughing earth, And dressed with springs, and forests tall, And poured the main engirting all, Long by the loved enthusiast wooed, Himself in some diviner mood, Retiring, sate with her alone, And placed her on his sapphire throne; The whiles, the vaulted shrine around, Seraphic wires were heard to sound; Now sublimest triumph swelling, Now on love and mercy dwelling; And she, from out the veiling cloud, Breathed her magic notes aloud: And thou, thou rich-haired youth of morn, And all thy subject life was born! The dang'rous Passions kept aloof, Far from the sainted growing woof; But near it sate ecstatic Wonder, List'ning the deep applauding thunder; And Truth, in sunny vest arrayed, By whose the tarsel's eyes were made; All the shad'wy tribes of Mind, In braided dance their murmurs joined; And all the bright uncounted powers Who feed on Heav'n's ambrosial flowers. Where is the bard, whose soul can now Its high presuming hopes avow? Where he who thinks, with rapture blind, This hallowed work for him designed? III High on some cliff, to Heav'n up-piled, Of rude access, of prospect wild, Where, tangled round the jealous steep, Strange shades o'erbrow the valleys deep, And holy Genii guard the rock, Its glooms embrown, its springs unlock, While on its rich ambitious head, An Eden, like his own, lies spread: I view that oak the fancied glades among, By which as Milton lay, his evening ear, From many a cloud that dropped ethereal dew, Nigh sphered in Heav'n its native strains could hear: On which that ancient trump he reached was hung; Thither oft, his glory greeting, From Waller's myrtle shades retreating, With many a vow from Hope's aspiring tongue, My trembling feet his guiding steps pursue; In vain— such bliss to one alone Of all the sons of soul was known, And Heav'n and Fancy, kindred powers, Have now o'erturn'd th'inspiring bowers, Or curtained close such scene from every future view.

Wordsworth, The Complaint of a Forsaken Indian Woman

Before I see another day, Oh let my body die away! In sleep I heard the northern gleams; The stars they were among my dreams; In sleep did I behold the skies, I saw the crackling flashes drive; And yet they are upon my eyes, And yet I am alive. Before I see another day, Oh let my body die away! My fire is dead: it knew no pain; Yet is it dead, and I remain. All stiff with ice the ashes lie; And they are dead, and I will die. When I was well, I wished to live, For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire; But they to me no joy can give, No pleasure now, and no desire. Then here contented will I lie; Alone I cannot fear to die. Alas! you might have dragged me on Another day, a single one! Too soon despair o'er me prevailed; Too soon my heartless spirit failed; When you were gone my limbs were stronger, And Oh how grievously I rue, That, afterwards, a little longer, My friends, I did not follow you! For strong and without pain I lay, My friends, when you were gone away. My child! they gave thee to another, A woman who was not thy mother. When from my arms my babe they took, On me how strangely did he look! Through his whole body something ran, A most strange something did I see; --As if he strove to be a man, That he might pull the sledge for me. And then he stretched his arms, how wild! Oh mercy! like a little child. My little joy! my little pride! In two days more I must have died. Then do not weep and grieve for me; I feel I must have died with thee. Oh wind that o'er my head art flying, The way my friends their course did bend, I should not feel the pain of dying, Could I with thee a message send. Too soon, my friends, you went away; For I had many things to say. I'll follow you across the snow, You travel heavily and slow: In spite of all my weary pain, I'll look upon your tents again. My fire is dead, and snowy white The water which beside it stood; The wolf has come to me to-night, And he has stolen away my food. For ever left alone am I, Then wherefore should I fear to die? My journey will be shortly run, I shall not see another sun, I cannot lift my limbs to know If they have any life or no. My poor forsaken child! if I For once could have thee close to me, With happy heart I then should die, And my last thoughts would happy be. I feel my body die away, I shall not see another day.

Blake, "On Another's Sorrow" (I)

CAN I see another's woe, And not be in sorrow too? Can I see another's grief, And not seek for kind relief? Can I see a falling tear, 5 And not feel my sorrow's share? Can a father see his child Weep, nor be with sorrow fill'd? Can a mother sit and hear An infant groan, an infant fear? 10 No, no! never can it be! Never, never can it be! And can He who smiles on all Hear the wren with sorrows small, Hear the small bird's grief and care, 15 Hear the woes that infants bear, And not sit beside the nest, Pouring pity in their breast; And not sit the cradle near, Weeping tear on infant's tear; 20 And not sit both night and day, Wiping all our tears away? O, no! never can it be! Never, never can it be! He doth give His joy to all; 25 He becomes an infant small; He becomes a man of woe; He doth feel the sorrow too. Think not thou canst sigh a sigh, And thy Maker is not by; 30 Think not thou canst weep a tear, And thy Maker is not near. O! He gives to us His joy That our grief He may destroy; Till our grief is fled and gone 35 He doth sit by us and moan.

Blake, A LIttle Girl Lost, E

Children of the future age, Reading this indignant page, Know that in a former time, Love, sweet Love, was thought a crime! In the Age of Gold, 5 Free from winter's cold, Youth and maiden bright To the holy light, Naked in the sunny beams delight. Once a youthful pair, 10 Fill'd with softest care, Met in garden bright Where the holy light Had just remov'd the curtains of the night. There, in rising day, 15 On the grass they play; Parents were afar, Strangers came not near, And the maiden soon forgot her fear. Tired with kisses sweet, 20 They agree to meet When the silent sleep Waves o'er heaven's deep, And the weary tired wanderers weep. To her father white 25 Came the maiden bright; But his loving look, Like the holy book, All her tender limbs with terror shook. 'Ona! pale and weak! 30 To thy father speak: O! the trembling fear. O! the dismal care, That shakes the blossoms of my hoary hair!'

Wordsworth, mary queen of scots

DEAR to the Loves, and to the Graces vowed, The Queen drew back the wimple that she wore; And to the throng, that on the Cumbrian shore Her landing hailed, how touchingly she bowed! And like a Star (that from a heavy cloud 5 Of pine-tree foliage poised in air, forth darts, When a soft summer gale at even parts The gloom that did its loveliness enshroud) She smiled; but Time, the old Saturnian seer, Sighed on the wing as her foot pressed the strand, 10 With step prelusive to a long array Of woes and degredations hand in hand— Weeping captivity, and shuddering fear Stilled by the ensanguined block of Fotheringay!

Wordsworth, composed upon westminister bridge, 3 september 1802

Earth has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still! - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15877#sthash.UfFduuug.dpuf

Blake, "Introduction" (E)

Hear the voice of the Bard! Who Present, Past, & Future sees Whose ears have heard, The Holy Word, That walk'd among the ancient trees. Calling the lapsed Soul And weeping in the evening dew: That might controll, The starry pole; And fallen fallen light renew! O Earth O Earth return! Arise from out the dewy grass; Night is worn, And the morn Rises from the slumberous mass. Turn away no more: Why wilt thou turn away The starry floor The watry shore Is giv'n thee till the break of day.

Wordsworth, The Mad Mother

Her eyes are wild, her head is bare, The sun has burnt her coal-black hair, Her eye-brows have a rusty stain, And she came far from over the main. She has a baby on her arm, Or else she were alone; And underneath the hay-stack warm, And on the green-wood stone, She talked and sung the woods among; And it was in the English tongue. "Sweet babe! they say that I am mad, But nay, my heart is far too glad; And I am happy when I sing Full many a sad and doleful thing: Then, lovely baby, do not fear! I pray thee have no fear of me, But, safe as in a cradle, here My lovely baby! thou shalt be, To thee I know too much I owe; I cannot work thee any woe." A fire was once within my brain; And in my head a dull, dull pain; And fiendish faces one, two, three, Hung at my breasts, and pulled at me. But then there came a sight of joy; It came at once to do me good; I waked, and saw my little boy, My little boy of flesh and blood; Oh joy for me that sight to see! For he was here, and only he. Suck, little babe, oh suck again! It cools my blood; it cools my brain; Thy lips I feel them, baby! they Draw from my heart the pain away. Oh! press me with thy little hand; It loosens something at my chest; About that tight and deadly band I feel thy little fingers press'd. The breeze I see is in the tree; It comes to cool my babe and me. Oh! love me, love me, little boy! Thou art thy mother's only joy; And do not dread the waves below, When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go; The high crag cannot work me harm, Nor leaping torrents when they howl; The babe I carry on my arm, He saves for me my precious soul; Then happy lie, for blest am I; Without me my sweet babe would die. Then do not fear, my boy! for thee Bold as a lion I will be; And I will always be thy guide, Through hollow snows and rivers wide. I'll build an Indian bower; I know The leaves that make the softest bed: And if from me thou wilt not go. But still be true 'till I am dead, My pretty thing! then thou shalt sing, As merry as the birds in spring. Thy father cares not for my breast, 'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest: 'Tis all thine own! and if its hue Be changed, that was so fair to view, 'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove! My beauty, little child, is flown; But thou will live with me in love, And what if my poor cheek be brown? 'Tis well for me, thou canst not see How pale and wan it else would be. Dread not their taunts, my little life! I am thy father's wedded wife; And underneath the spreading tree We two will live in honesty. If his sweet boy he could forsake, With me he never would have stay'd: From him no harm my babe can take, But he, poor man! is wretched made, And every day we two will pray For him that's gone and far away. I'll teach my boy the sweetest things; I'll teach him how the owlet sings. My little babe! thy lips are still, And thou hast almost suck'd thy fill. --Where art thou gone my own dear child? What wicked looks are those I see? Alas! alas! that look so wild, It never, never came from me: If thou art mad, my pretty lad, Then I must be for ever sad. Oh! smile on me, my little lamb! For I thy own dear mother am. My love for thee has well been tried: I've sought thy father far and wide. I know the poisons of the shade, I know the earth-nuts fit for food; Then, pretty dear, be not afraid; We'll find thy father in the wood. Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away! And there, my babe; we'll live for aye.

Wordsworth, I travelled among unknown men

I TRAVELLED among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea; Nor, England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee. 'Tis past, that melancholy dream! Nor will I quit thy shore A second time; for still I seem To love thee more and more. Among thy mountains did I feel The joy of my desire; 10 And she I cherished turned her wheel Beside an English fire. Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed The bowers where Lucy played; And thine too is the last green field That Lucy's eyes surveyed.

Blake, The Garden of Love, E

I WENT 1 to the Garden of Love, And saw what I never had seen: A Chapel was built in the midst, Where I used to play on the green. And the gates of this Chapel were shut, 5 And 'Thou shalt not' writ over the door; So I turn'd to the Garden of Love That so many sweet flowers bore; And I saw it was fillèd with graves, And tomb-stones where flowers should be; 10 And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds, And binding with briars my joys and desires.

Wordsworth, Lines Written in early spring

I heard a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man. Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure:— But the least motion which they made It seemed a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. 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?

Clare, Silent Love

I ne'er was struck before that hour With love so sudden and so sweet, Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower And stole my heart away complete. My face turned pale as deadly pale, My legs refused to walk away, And when she looked, what could I ail? My life and all seemed turned to clay. And then my blood rushed to my face And took my eyesight quite away, The trees and bushes round the place Seemed midnight at noonday. I could not see a single thing, Words from my eyes did start— They spoke as chords do from the string, And blood burnt round my heart. Are flowers the winter's choice? Is love's bed always snow? She seemed to hear my silent voice, Not love's appeals to know. I never saw so sweet a face As that I stood before. My heart has left its dwelling-place And can return no more.

Wordsworth, conclusion from the river duddon

I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide, As being past away.—Vain sympathies! For, backward, Duddon! as I cast my eyes, I see what was, and is, and will abide; Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide; The Form remains, the Function never dies; While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise, We Men, who in our morn of youth defied The elements, must vanish;—be it so! Enough, if something from our hands have power To live, and act, and serve the future hour; And if, as toward the silent tomb we go, Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, We feel that we are greater than we know.

Blake, London, E

I wander through each chartered street, Near where the chartered Thames does flow, A mark in every face I meet, Marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every man, In every infant's cry of fear, In every voice, in every ban, The mind-forged manacles I hear: How the chimney-sweeper's cry Every blackening church appals, And the hapless soldier's sigh Runs in blood down palace-walls. But most, through midnight streets I hear How the youthful harlot's curse Blasts the new-born infant's tear, And blights with plagues the marriage hearse.

Clare, The Fitting

I've left my own old home of homes, Green fields and every pleasant place; The summer like a stranger comes, I pause and hardly know her face. I miss the hazel's happy green, The blue bell's quiet hanging blooms, Where envy's sneer was never seen, Where staring malice never comes. I miss the heath, its yellow furze, Molehills and rabbit tracks that lead Through beesom, ling, and teazel burrs That spread a wilderness indeed; The woodland oaks and all below That their white powdered branches shield, The mossy paths: the very crow Croaks music in my native field. I sit me in my corner chair That seems to feel itself from home, And hear bird music here and there From hawthorn hedge and orchard come; I hear, but all is strange and new: I sat on my old bench in June, The sailing puddock's shrill 'peelew' On Royce Wood seemed a sweeter tune. I walk adown the narrow lane, The nightingale is singing now, But like to me she seems at loss For Royce Wood and its shielding bough. I lean upon the window sill, The trees and summer happy seem; Green, sunny green they shine, but still My heart goes far away to dream. Of happiness, and thoughts arise With home-bred pictures many a one, Green lanes that shut out burning skies And old crooked stiles to rest upon; Above them hangs the maple tree, Below grass swells a velvet hill, And little footpaths sweet to see Go seeking sweeter places still, With bye and bye a brook to cross Oer which a little arch is thrown: No brook is here, I feel the loss From home and friends and all alone. --The stone pit with its shelvy sides Seemed hanging rocks in my esteem; I miss the prospect far and wide From Langley Bush, and so I seem Alone and in a stranger scene, Far, far from spots my heart esteems, The closen with their ancient green, Heaths, woods, and pastures, sunny streams. The hawthorns here were hung with may, But still they seem in deader green, The sun een seems to lose its way Nor knows the quarter it is in. I dwell in trifles like a child, I feel as ill becomes a man, And still my thoughts like weedlings wild Grow up to blossom where they can. They turn to places known so long I feel that joy was dwelling there, So home-fed pleasure fills the song That has no present joys to hear. I read in books for happiness, But books are like the sea to joy, They change--as well give age the glass To hunt its visage when a boy. For books they follow fashions new And throw all old esteems away, In crowded streets flowers never grew, But many there hath died away. Some sing the pomps of chivalry As legends of the ancient time, Where gold and pearls and mystery Are shadows painted for sublime; But passions of sublimity Belong to plain and simpler things, And David underneath a tree Sought when a shepherd Salem's springs, Where moss did into cushions spring, Forming a seat of velvet hue, A small unnoticed trifling thing To all but heaven's hailing dew. And David's crown hath passed away, Yet poesy breathes his shepherd-skill, His palace lost--and to this day The little moss is blossoming still. Strange scenes mere shadows are to me, Vague impersonifying things; I love with my old haunts to be By quiet woods and gravel springs, Where little pebbles wear as smooth As hermits' beads by gentle floods, Whose noises do my spirits soothe And warm them into singing moods. Here every tree is strange to me, All foreign things where eer I go, There's none where boyhood made a swee Or clambered up to rob a crow. No hollow tree or woodland bower Well known when joy was beating high, Where beauty ran to shun a shower And love took pains to keep her dry, And laid the sheaf upon the ground To keep her from the dripping grass, And ran for stocks and set them round Till scarce a drop of rain could pass Through; where the maidens they reclined And sung sweet ballads now forgot, Which brought sweet memories to the mind, But here no memory knows them not. There have I sat by many a tree And leaned oer many a rural stile, And conned my thoughts as joys to me, Nought heeding who might frown or smile. Twas nature's beauty that inspired My heart with rapture not its own, And she's a fame that never tires; How could I feel myself alone? No, pasture molehills used to lie And talk to me of sunny days, And then the glad sheep resting bye All still in ruminating praise Of summer and the pleasant place And every weed and blossom too Was looking upward in my face With friendship's welcome 'how do ye do?' All tenants of an ancient place And heirs of noble heritage, Coeval they with Adam's race And blest with more substantial age. For when the world first saw the sun These little flowers beheld him too, And when his love for earth begun They were the first his smiles to woo. There little lambtoe bunches springs In red tinged and begolden dye For ever, and like China kings They come but never seem to die. There may-bloom with its little threads Still comes upon the thorny bowers And neer forgets those prickly heads Like fairy pins amid the flowers. And still they bloom as on the day They first crowned wilderness and rock, When Abel haply wreathed with may The firstlings of his little flock, And Eve might from the matted thorn To deck her lone and lovely brow Reach that same rose that heedless scorn Misnames as the dog rosey now. Give me no high-flown fangled things, No haughty pomp in marching chime, Where muses play on golden strings And splendour passes for sublime, Where cities stretch as far as fame And fancy's straining eye can go, And piled until the sky for shame Is stooping far away below. I love the verse that mild and bland Breathes of green fields and open sky, I love the muse that in her hand Bears flowers of native poesy; Who walks nor skips the pasture brook In scorn, but by the drinking horse Leans oer its little brig to look How far the sallows lean across, And feels a rapture in her breast Upon their root-fringed grains to mark A hermit morehen's sedgy nest Just like a naiad's summer bark. She counts the eggs she cannot reach Admires the spot and loves it well, And yearns, so nature's lessons teach, Amid such neighbourhoods to dwell. I love the muse who sits her down Upon the molehill's little lap, Who feels no fear to stain her gown And pauses by the hedgerow gap; Not with that affectation, praise Of song, to sing and never see A field flower grown in all her days Or een a forest's aged tree. Een here my simple feelings nurse A love for every simple weed, And een this little shepherd's purse Grieves me to cut it up; indeed I feel at times a love and joy For every weed and every thing, A feeling kindred from a boy, A feeling brought with every Spring. And why? this shepherd's purse that grows In this strange spot, in days gone bye Grew in the little garden rows Of my old home now left; and I Feel what I never felt before, This weed an ancient neighbour here, And though I own the spot no more Its every trifle makes it dear. The ivy at the parlour end, The woodbine at the garden gate, Are all and each affection's friend That render parting desolate. But times will change and friends must part And nature still can make amends; Their memory lingers round the heart Like life whose essence is its friends. Time looks on pomp with vengeful mood Or killing apathy's disdain; So where old marble cities stood Poor persecuted weeds remain. She feels a love for little things That very few can feel beside, And still the grass eternal springs Where castles stood and grandeur died.

Blake, The LIttle Girl Lost, E

IN 1 futurity I prophetic see That the earth from sleep (Grave the sentence deep) Shall arise and seek 5 For her Maker meek; And the desert wild Become a garden mild. In the southern clime, Where the summer's prime 10 Never fades away, Lovely Lyca lay. Seven summers old Lovely Lyca told; She had wander'd long 15 Hearing wild birds' song. 'Sweet sleep, come to me Underneath this tree. Do father, mother, weep? Where can Lyca sleep? 20 'Lost in desert wild Is your little child. How can Lyca sleep If her mother weep? 'If her heart does ache 25 Then let Lyca wake; If my mother sleep, Lyca shall not weep. 'Frowning, frowning night, O'er this desert bright, 30 Let thy moon arise While I close my eyes.' Sleeping Lyca lay While the beasts of prey, Come from caverns deep, 35 View'd the maid asleep. The kingly lion stood, And the virgin view'd, Then he gamboll'd round O'er the hallow'd ground. 40 Leopards, tigers, play Round her as she lay, While the lion old Bow'd his mane of gold And her bosom lick, 45 And upon her neck From his eyes of flame Ruby tears there came; While the lioness Loos'd her slender dress, 50 And naked they convey'd To caves the sleeping maid.

Wordsworth, it is a beauteous evening, calm and free

IT is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity; The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea: Listen! the mighty Being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder--everlastingly. Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here, If thou appear untouched by solemn thought, Thy nature is not therefore less divine: Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not.

Collins, "Ode to Evening"

If aught of oaten stop, or past'ral song, May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear, Like thy own solemn springs, Thy springs and dying gales, O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, With brede ethereal wove, O'erhang his wavy bed; Now air is hushed, save where the weak-ey'd bat With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path Against the pilgrim, borne in heedless hum: Now teach me, maid composed, To breathe some softened strain, Whose numbers stealing through thy dark'ning vale May not unseemly with its stillness suit, As musing slow, I hail Thy genial loved return. For when thy folding star arising shows His paly circlet, at his warning lamp The fragrant Hours, and elves Who slept in flowers the day, And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge And sheds the fresh'ning dew, and lovelier still, The pensive pleasures sweet Prepare thy shad'wy car. Then lead, calm votress, where some sheety lake Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallowed pile Or upland fallows grey Reflect its last cool gleam. But when chill blust'ring winds, or driving rain, Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut That from the mountain's side Views wilds, and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires, And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual dusky veil. While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve; While Summer loves to sport Beneath thy ling'ring light; While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, Affrights thy shrinking train And rudely rends thy robes; So long, sure-found beneath the sylvan shed, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lipp'd Health, Thy gentlest influence own, And hymn thy fav'rite name!

Coleridge, Kubla Khan

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round; And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced: Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean; And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war! The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 'twould win me, That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Blake, Holy Thursday E

Is this a holy thing to see In a rich and fruitful land, - Babes reduced to misery, Fed with cold and usurous hand? Is that trembling cry a song? Can it be a song of joy? And so many children poor? It is a land of poverty! And their sun does never shine, And their fields are bleak and bare, And their ways are filled with thorns, It is eternal winter there. For where'er the sun does shine, And where'er the rain does fall, Babe can never hunger there, Nor poverty the mind appal.

Coleridge, 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 Æolian 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, And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast! Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed, And sent my soul abroad, Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live! II A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, Which finds no natural outlet, no relief, In word, or sigh, or tear— O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood, To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd, All this long eve, so balmy and serene, Have I been gazing on the western sky, And its peculiar tint of yellow green: And still I gaze—and with how blank an eye! And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars, That give away their motion to the stars; Those stars, that glide behind them or between, Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen: Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue; I see them all so excellently fair, I see, not feel, how beautiful they are! III My genial spirits fail; And what can these avail To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? It were a vain endeavour, Though I should gaze for ever On that green light that lingers in the west: I may not hope from outward forms to win The passion and the life, whose fountains are within. IV O Lady! we receive but what we give, And in our life alone does Nature live: Ours is her wedding garment, ours her shroud! And would we aught 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. VI There was a time when, though my path was rough, This joy within me dallied with distress, And all misfortunes were but as the stuff Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness: For hope grew round me, like the twining vine, And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine. 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 rav'st 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, Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song, The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds! Thou mighty Poet, e'en 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! But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence! And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, With groans, and tremulous shudderings—all is over— It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud! A tale of less affright, And tempered with delight, As Otway's self had framed the tender lay,— 'Tis of a little child Upon a lonesome wild, Nor 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.

Coleridge, love's apparition and evanishment: an allegoric romance

Like a lone Arab, old and blind, Some caravan had left behind, Who sits beside a ruin'd well, Where the shy sand-asps bask and swell; And now he hangs his ag{'e}d head aslant, And listens for a human sound—in vain! And now the aid, which Heaven alone can grant, Upturns his eyeless face from Heaven to gain;— Even thus, in vacant mood, one sultry hour, Resting my eye upon a drooping plant, With brow low-bent, within my garden-bower, I sate upon the couch of camomile; And—whether 'twas a transient sleep, perchance, Flitted across the idle brain, the while I watch'd the sickly calm with aimless scope, In my own heart; or that, indeed a trance, Turn'd my eye inward—thee, O genial Hope, Love's elder sister! thee did I behold Drest as a bridesmaid, but all pale and cold, With roseless cheek, all pale and cold and dim, Lie lifeless at my feet! And then came Love, a sylph in bridal trim, And stood beside my seat; She bent, and kiss'd her sister's lips, As she was wont to do;— Alas! 'twas but a chilling breath Woke just enough of life in death To make Hope die anew.

Wordswroth, london 1802

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; Oh! raise us up, return to us again; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart: Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

Coleridge, The Eolian Harp

My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is To sit beside our Cot, our Cot o'ergrown With white-flowered Jasmin, and the broad-leaved Myrtle, (Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!) And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light, Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve Serenely brilliant (such would Wisdom be) Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents Snatched from yon bean-field! and the world so hushed! The stilly murmur of the distant Sea Tells us of silence. And that simplest Lute, Placed length-ways in the clasping casement, hark! How by the desultory breeze caressed, Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover, It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs Tempt to repeat the wrong! And now, its strings Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes Over delicious surges sink and rise, Such a soft floating witchery of sound As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land, Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers, Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise, Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamed wing! O! the one Life within us and abroad, Which meets all motion and becomes its soul, A light in sound, a sound-like power in light, Rhythm in all thought, and joyance everywhere— Methinks, it should have been impossible Not to love all things in a world so filled; Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air Is Music slumbering on her instrument. And thus, my Love! as on the midway slope Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon, Whilst through my half-closed eyelids I behold The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main, And tranquil muse upon tranquility: Full many a thought uncalled and undetained, And many idle flitting phantasies, Traverse my indolent and passive brain, As wild and various as the random gales That swell and flutter on this subject Lute! And what if all of animated nature Be but organic Harps diversely framed, That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze, At once the Soul of each, and God of all? But thy more serious eye a mild reproof Darts, O beloved Woman! nor such thoughts Dim and unhallowed dost thou not reject, And biddest me walk humbly with my God. Meek Daughter in the family of Christ! Well hast thou said and holily dispraised These shapings of the unregenerate mind; Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break On vain Philosophy's aye-babbling spring. For never guiltless may I speak of him, The Incomprehensible! save when with awe I praise him, and with Faith that inly feels; Who with his saving mercies healèd me, A sinful and most miserable man, Wildered and dark, and gave me to possess Peace, and this Cot, and thee, heart-honored Maid!

Blake, The Sick Rose, E

O ROSE, thou art sick! The invisible worm, That flies in the night, In the howling storm, Has found out thy bed 5 Of crimson joy; And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.

Clare, O could I be as I have been

O could I be as I have been And ne'er can be no more A harmless thing in meadows green Or on the wild sea shore O could I be what once I was In heaths and valleys green A dweller in the summer grass Green fields and places green A tenant of the happy fields By grounds of wheat and beans By gipsies camps and milking bield Where luscious woodbine leans I wish I was what I have been And what I was could be As when I roved in shadows green And loved my willow tree To gaze upon the starry sky And higher fancies build And make in solitary joy Loves temple in the field

Coleridge, time, real and imaginary: an allegory

ON the wide level of a mountain's head (I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place), Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread, Two lovely children run an endless race, A sister and a brother! 5 This far outstripp'd the other; Yet ever runs she with reverted face, And looks and listens for the boy behind: For he, alas! is blind! O'er rough and smooth with even step he pass'd, 10 And knows not whether he be first or last.

Wordsworth, on the extinction of the venetian republic, 1802

ONCE did she hold the gorgeous East in fee; And was the safeguard of the West: the worth Of Venice did not fall below her birth, Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty. She was a maiden City, bright and free; 5 No guile seduced, no force could violate; And, when she took unto herself a mate, She must espouse the everlasting Sea. And what if she had seen those glories fade, Those titles vanish, and that strength decay; 10 Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid When her long life hath reach'd its final day: Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade Of that which once was great is pass'd away.

Blake, The Human Abstract, E

PITY 1 would be no more If we did not make somebody poor; And Mercy no more could be If all were as happy as we. And mutual fear brings peace, 5 Till the selfish loves increase; Then Cruelty knits a snare, And spreads his baits with care. He sits down with holy fears, And waters the ground with tears; 10 Then Humility takes its root Underneath his foot. Soon spreads the dismal shade Of Mystery over his head; And the caterpillar and fly 15 Feed on the Mystery. And it bears the fruit of Deceit, Ruddy and sweet to eat; And the raven his nest has made In its thickest shade. 20 The Gods of the earth and sea Sought thro' Nature to find this tree; But their search was all in vain: There grows one in the Human brain.

Blake, "Introduction" (I)

Piping down the valleys wild Piping songs of pleasant glee On a cloud I saw a child. And he laughing said to me. Pipe a song about a Lamb: So I piped with merry chear, Piper, pipe that song again-- So I piped, he wept to hear. Drop thy pipe thy happy pipe Sing thy songs of happy chear, So I sung the same again While he wept with joy to hear Piper sit thee down and write In a book that all may read-- So he vanished from my sight And I pluck'd a hollow reed. And I made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs, Every child may joy to hear.

Wordsworth, song

She dwelt among th' untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love. A Violet by a mossy stone Half-hidden from the Eye! --Fair, as a star when only one Is shining in the sky! She _liv'd_ unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceas'd to be; But she is in her Grave, and Oh! The difference to me.

Coleridge, constancy to an ideal object

Since all that beat about in Nature's range, Or veer or vanish; why should'st thou remain The only constant in a world of change, O yearning Thought! that liv'st but in the brain? Call to the Hours, that in the distance play, The faery people of the future day— Fond Thought! not one of all that shining swarm Will breathe on thee with life-enkindling breath, Till when, like strangers shelt'ring from a storm, Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death! Yet still thou haunt'st me; and though well I see, She is not thou, and only thou are she, Still, still as though some dear embodied Good, Some living Love before my eyes there stood With answering look a ready ear to lend, I mourn to thee and say—'Ah! loveliest friend! That this the meed of all my toils might be, To have a home, an English home, and thee!' Vain repetition! Home and Thou are one. The peacefull'st cot, the moon shall shine upon, Lulled by the thrush and wakened by the lark, Without thee were but a becalm{'e}d bark, Whose Helmsman on an ocean waste and wide Sits mute and pale his mouldering helm beside. And art thou nothing? Such thou art, as when The woodman winding westward up the glen At wintry dawn, where o'er the sheep-track's maze The viewless snow-mist weaves a glist'ning haze, Sees full before him, gliding without tread, An image with a glory round its head; The enamoured rustic worships its fair hues, Nor knows he makes the shadow, he pursues! Share this text ...? Twitter Pinterest

Wordsworth, surprised by joy- impatient as the wind

Surprised by joy—impatient as the Wind I turned to share the transport—Oh! with whom But Thee, long buried in the silent Tomb, That spot which no vicissitude can find? Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind— But how could I forget thee?—Through what power, Even for the least division of an hour, Have I been so beguiled as to be blind To my most grievous loss!—That thought's return Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more; That neither present time, nor years unborn Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

Goldsmith, "The Deserted Village"

Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheared the labouring swain, Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed, Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, How often have I loitered o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endeared each scene! How often have I paused on every charm, The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill, The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made! How often have I blest the coming day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labour free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree, While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending as the old surveyed; And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, And slights of art and feats of strength went round; And still as each repeated pleasure tired, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired; The dancing pair that simply sought renown By holding out to tire each other down; The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, While secret laughter tittered round the place; The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love, The matron's glance that would those looks reprove! These were thy charms, sweet village; sports like these, With sweet succession, taught even toil to please; These round thy bowers their chearful influence shed, These were thy charms—But all these charms are fled. Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn; Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green: One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain; No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But, choaked with sedges, works its weedy way; Along thy glades, a solitary guest, The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. Sunk are thy bowers, in shapeless ruin all, And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall; And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, Far, far away, thy children leave the land. Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay: Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade; A breath can make them, as a breath has made; But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroyed, can never be supplied. A time there was, ere England's griefs began, When every rood of ground maintained its man; For him light labour spread her wholesome store, Just gave what life required, but gave no more: His best companions, innocence and health; And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. But times are altered; trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land and dispossess the swain; Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose; And every want to oppulence allied, And every pang that folly pays to pride. Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires that asked but little room, Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, Lived in each look, and brightened all the green; These, far departing seek a kinder shore, And rural mirth and manners are no more. Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour, Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. Here as I take my solitary rounds, Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruined grounds, And, many a year elapsed, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs—and God has given my share— I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose. I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, Amidst the swains to shew my book-learned skill, Around my fire an evening groupe to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; And, as an hare whom hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return—and die at home at last. O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, Retreats from care that never must be mine, How happy he who crowns, in shades like these A youth of labour with an age of ease; Who quits a world where strong temptations try, And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly! For him no wretches, born to work and weep, Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; No surly porter stands in guilty state To spurn imploring famine from the gate, But on he moves to meet his latter end, Angels around befriending virtue's friend; Bends to the grave with unperceived decay, While resignation gently slopes the way; And, all his prospects brightening to the last, His Heaven commences ere the world be past! Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; There, as I past with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came soften'd from below; The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, The sober herd that lowed to meet their young, The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school, The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind, These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And filled each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sounds of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, For all the bloomy flush of life is fled. All but yon widowed, solitary thing That feebly bends beside the plashy spring; She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, To pick her wintry ****** from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; She only left of all the harmless train, The sad historian of the pensive plain. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden-flower grows wild; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was, to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place; Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wanderings but relieved their pain; The long-remembered beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allowed; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sate by his fire, and talked the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch, and shewed how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits, or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And even his failings leaned to Virtue's side; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt, for all. And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies; He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was layed, And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns, dismayed The reverend champion stood. At his control Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last faltering accents whispered praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorned the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. The service past, around the pious man, With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; Even children followed, with endearing wile, And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest, Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest: To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven. As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, The village master taught his little school; A man severe he was, and stern to view, I knew him well, and every truant knew; Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace The day's disasters in his morning face; Full well they laughed, with counterfeited glee, At all his jokes, for many a joke had he: Full well the busy whisper circling round, Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned; Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault; The village all declared how much he knew; 'Twas certain he could write, and cypher too; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And ev'n the story ran that he could gauge. In arguing too, the parson owned his skill, For even tho' vanquished, he could argue still; While words of learned length and thundering sound, Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, That one small head could carry all he knew. But past is all his fame. The very spot Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired, Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlour splendours of that festive place; The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnished clock that clicked behind the door; The chest contrived a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; The pictures placed for ornament and use, The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose; The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay; While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for shew, Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. Vain transitory splendours! Could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall! Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart; Thither no more the peasant shall repair To sweet oblivion of his daily care; No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, These simple blessings of the lowly train; To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloss of art; Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play, The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway; Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed, In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, The toiling pleasure sickens into pain; And, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy, The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy. Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey The rich man's joys encrease, the poor's decay, 'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and a happy land. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, And shouting Folly hails them from her shore; Hoards even beyond the miser's wish abound, And rich men flock from all the world around. Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name That leaves our useful products still the same. Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supplied; Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds: The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth, Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth; His seat, where solitary sports are seen, Indignant spurns the cottage from the green: Around the world each needful product flies, For all the luxuries the world supplies. While thus the land adorned for pleasure, all In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. As some fair female unadorned and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies, Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes. But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, When time advances, and when lovers fail, She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, In all the glaring impotence of dress. Thus fares the land, by luxury betrayed: In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed; But verging to decline, its splendours rise, Its vistas strike, its palaces surprize; While, scourged by famine from the smiling land, The mournful peasant leads his humble band; And while he sinks, without one arm to save, The country blooms—a garden, and a grave. Where then, ah where, shall poverty reside, To scape the pressure of contiguous pride? If to some common's fenceless limits strayed, He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, And ev'n the bare-worn common is denied. If to the city sped—What waits him there? To see profusion that he must not share; To see ten thousand baneful arts combined To pamper luxury, and thin mankind; To see those joys the sons of pleasure know, Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, There the pale artist plies the sickly trade; Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign, Here, richly deckt, admits the gorgeous train; Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy! Sure these denote one universal joy! Are these thy serious thoughts?—Ah, turn thine eyes Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, Has wept at tales of innocence distrest; Her modest looks the cottage might adorn Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn: Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled, Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower, With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour When idly first, ambitious of the town, She left her wheel and robes of country brown. Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train, Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, At proud men's doors they ask a little bread! Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene, Where half the convex world intrudes between, Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. Far different there from all that charm'd before, The various terrors of that horrid shore; Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, And fiercely shed intolerable day; Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned, Where the dark scorpion gathers death around; Where at each step the stranger fears to wake The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, And savage men, more murderous still than they; While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. Far different these from every former scene, The cooling brook, the grassy vested green, The breezy covert of the warbling grove, That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day, That called them from their native walks away; When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, Hung round their bowers, and fondly looked their last, And took a long farewell, and wished in vain For seats like these beyond the western main; And shuddering still to face the distant deep, Returned and wept, and still returned to weep. The good old sire the first prepared to go To new found worlds, and wept for others woe. But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, The fond companion of his helpless years, Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, And left a lover's for a father's arms. With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose; And kist her thoughtless babes with many a tear, And claspt them close, in sorrow doubly dear; Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief In all the silent manliness of grief. O luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree, How ill exchanged are things like these for thee! How do thy potions, with insidious joy, Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy! Kingdoms, by thee, to sickly greatness grown, Boast of a florid vigour not their own; At every draught more large and large they grow, A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe; Till sapped their strength, and every part unsound, Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. Even now the devastation is begun, And half the business of destruction done; Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land: Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, That idly waiting flaps with every gale, Downward they move, a melancholy band, Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. Contented toil, and hospitable care, And kind connubial tenderness, are there; And piety with wishes placed above, And steady loyalty, and faithful love. And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade; Unfit in these degenerate times of shame, To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame; Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, My shame in crowds, my solitary pride; Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so; Thou guide by which the nobler arts excell, Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well! Farewell, and O where'er thy voice be tried, On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, Whether were equinoctial fervours glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, Redress the rigours of the inclement clime; Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain, Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; Teach him, that states of native strength possest, Tho' very poor, may still be very blest; That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away; While self-dependent power can time defy, As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

Coleridge, frost at midnight

The Frost performs its secret ministry, Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry Came loud—and hark, again! loud as before. The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, Have left me to that solitude, which suits Abstruser musings: save that at my side My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs And vexes meditation with its strange And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood, With all the numberless goings-on of life, Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not; Only that film, which fluttered on the grate, Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, Making it a companionable form, Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit By its own moods interprets, every where Echo or mirror seeking of itself, And makes a toy of Thought. But O! how oft, How oft, at school, with most believing mind, Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars, To watch that fluttering stranger ! and as oft With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower, Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear Most like articulate sounds of things to come! So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt, Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams! And so I brooded all the following morn, Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye Fixed with mock study on my swimming book: Save if the door half opened, and I snatched A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up, For still I hoped to see the stranger's face, Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved, My play-mate when we both were clothed alike! Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, Fill up the intersperséd vacancies And momentary pauses of the thought! My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart With tender gladness, thus to look at thee, And think that thou shalt learn far other lore, And in far other scenes! For I was reared In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim, And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars. But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds, Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible Of that eternal language, which thy God Utters, who from eternity doth teach Himself in all, and all things in himself. Great universal Teacher! he shall mould Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, Whether the summer clothe the general earth With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall Heard only in the trances of the blast, Or if the secret ministry of frost Shall hang them up in silent icicles, Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.

Coleridge, psyche

The butterfly the ancient Grecians made The soul's fair emblem, and its only name-- But of the soul, escaped the slavish trade Of mortal life !--For in this earthly frame Ours is the reptile's lot, much toil, much blame, Manifold motions making little speed, And to deform and kill the things whereon we feed.

Gray, "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard"

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 2 The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, 3 The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 4 And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 5 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 6 And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 7 Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 8 And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; 9 Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower 10 The moping owl does to the moon complain 11 Of such, as wandering near her secret bower, 12 Molest her ancient solitary reign. 13 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 14 Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 15 Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 16 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 17 The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 18 The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 19 The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 20 No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 21 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 22 Or busy housewife ply her evening care: 23 No children run to lisp their sire's return, 24 Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 25 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 26 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; 27 How jocund did they drive their team afield! 28 How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 29 Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 30 Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 31 Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, 32 The short and simple annals of the poor. 33 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 34 And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 35 Awaits alike the inevitable hour. 36 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 37 Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault, 38 If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 39 Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 40 The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 41 Can storied urn or animated bust 42 Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 43 Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, 44 Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death? 45 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 46 Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; 47 Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, 48 Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. 49 But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page 50 Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; 51 Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, 52 And froze the genial current of the soul. 53 Full many a gem of purest ray serene, 54 The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear: 55 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 56 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 57 Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast 58 The little tyrant of his fields withstood; 59 Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, 60 Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 61 The applause of listening senates to command, 62 The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 63 To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 64 And read their history in a nation's eyes, 65 Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone 66 Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; 67 Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 68 And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, 69 The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 70 To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 71 Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 72 With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 73 Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 74 Their sober wishes never learned to stray; 75 Along the cool sequestered vale of life 76 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 77 Yet even these bones from insult to protect 78 Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 79 With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, 80 Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 81 Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered muse, 82 The place of fame and elegy supply: 83 And many a holy text around she strews, 84 That teach the rustic moralist to die. 85 For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, 86 This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, 87 Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 88 Nor cast one longing lingering look behind? 89 On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 90 Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 91 Ev'n from the tomb the voice of nature cries, 92 Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires. 93 For thee, who mindful of the unhonoured dead 94 Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; 95 If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, 96 Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, 97 Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 98 'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 99 'Brushing with hasty steps the dews away 100 'To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 101 'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech 102 'That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 103 'His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 104 'And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 105 'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 106 'Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove, 107 'Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, 108 'Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 109 'One morn I missed him on the customed hill, 110 'Along the heath and near his favourite tree; 111 'Another came; nor yet beside the rill, 112 'Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; 113 'The next with dirges due in sad array 114 'Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne. 115 'Approach and read (for thou can'st read) the lay, 116 'Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.' The Epitaph 117 Here rests his head upon the lap of earth 118 A youth to fortune and to fame unknown. 119 Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, 120 And Melancholy marked him for her own. 121 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 122 Heaven did a recompense as largely send: 123 He gave to Misery all he had, a tear, 124 He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend. 125 No farther seek his merits to disclose, 126 Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 127 (There they alike in trembling hope repose) 128 The bosom of his Father and his God.

Blake, "Night" (I)

The sun descending in the west, The evening star does shine; The birds are silent in their nest, And I must seek for mine. The moon like a flower, In heaven's high bower, With silent delight Sits and smiles on the night. Farewell, green fields and happy groves, Where flocks have took delight; Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves The feet of angels bright; Unseen they pour blessing, And joy without ceasing, On each bud and blossom, And each sleeping bosom. They look in every thoughtless nest, Where birds are covered warm; They visit caves of every beast, To keep them all from harm: If they see any weeping That should have been sleeping, They pour sleep on their head, And sit down by their bed. When wolves and tigers howl for prey, They pitying stand and weep, - Seeking to drive their thirst away, And keep them from the sheep. But if they rush dreadful, The angels, most heedful, Receive each mild spirit, New worlds to inherit. And there the lion's ruddy eyes Shall flow with tears of gold, And pitying the tender cries, And walking round the fold, Saying, "Wrath, by his meekness, And, by his health, sickness Is driven away Form our immortal day. "And now beside thee, bleating lamb, I can lie down and sleep; Or think on him who bore thy name, Graze after thee and weep. For, washed in life's river, My bright mane for ever Shall shine like the gold, As I guard o'er the fold."

Wordsworth, 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! This 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, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

Wordsworth, three years she grew in sun and shower

Three years she grew in sun and shower, Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower On earth was never sown; This Child I to myself will take; She shall be mine, and I will make A Lady of my own. "Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse: and with me The Girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain. "She shall be sportive as the fawn That wild with glee across the lawn Or up the mountain springs; And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm Of mute insensate things. "The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend; Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the Storm Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form By silent sympathy. "The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face. "And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell." Thus Nature spake—The work was done— How soon my Lucy's race was run! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm and quiet scene; The memory of what has been, And never more will be.

Blake, "The Divine Image" (I)

To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love All pray in their distress; And to these virtues of delight Return their thankfulness. For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love Is God, our father dear, And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love Is Man, his child and care. For Mercy has a human heart, Pity a human face, And Love, the human form divine, And Peace, the human dress. Then every man, of every clime, That prays in his distress, Prays to the human form divine, Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace. And all must love the human form, In heathen, Turk, or Jew; Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell There God is dwelling too.

Coleridge, Duty surviving self-love: the onlly sure friend of declining life- a soliloquy

Unchanged within, to see all changed without, Is a blank lot and hard to bear, no doubt. Yet why at others' Wanings should'st thou fret? Then only might'st thou feel a just regret, Hadst thou withheld thy love or hid thy light In selfish forethought of neglect and slight. O wiselier then, from feeble yearnings freed, While, and on whom, thou may'st--shine on! nor heed Whether the object by reflected light Return thy radiance or absorb it quite: And tho' thou notest from thy safe recess Old Friends burn dim, like lamps in noisome air, Love them for what they are; nor love them less, Because to thee they are not what they were.

Blake, Nurse's Song, E

WHEN 1 the voices of children are heard on the green And whisp'rings are in the dale, The days of my youth rise fresh in my mind, My face turns green and pale. Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down, 5 And the dews of night arise; Your spring and your day are wasted in play, And your winter and night in disguise.

Blake, "Nurse's Song" (I)

WHEN 1 the voices of children are heard on the green, And laughing is heard on the hill, My heart is at rest within my breast, And everything else is still. 'Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down, 5 And the dews of night arise; Come, come, leave off play, and let us away Till the morning appears in the skies.' 'No, no, let us play, for it is yet day, And we cannot go to sleep; 10 Besides, in the sky the little birds fly, And the hills are all cover'd with sheep.' 'Well, well, go and play till the light fades away, And then go home to bed.' The little ones leapèd and shoutèd and laugh'd 15 And all the hills echoèd.

Wordsworth, Extempore Effusion upon the death of James Hogg

When first, descending from the moorlands, I saw the Stream of Yarrow glide Along a bare and open valley, The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide. When last along its banks I wandered, Through groves that had begun to shed Their golden leaves upon the pathways, My steps the Border-minstrel led. The mighty Minstrel breathes no longer, 'Mid mouldering ruins low he lies; And death upon the braes of Yarrow, Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes: Nor has the rolling year twice measured, From sign to sign, its stedfast course, Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source; The rapt One, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth. Like clouds that rake the mountain-summits, Or waves that own no curbing hand, How fast has brother followed brother, From sunshine to the sunless land! Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber Were earlier raised, remain to hear A timid voice, that asks in whispers, "Who next will drop and disappear?" Our haughty life is crowned with darkness, Like London with its own black wreath, On which with thee, O Crabbe! forth-looking, I gazed from Hampstead's breezy heath. As if but yesterday departed, Thou too art gone before; but why, O'er ripe fruit, seasonably gathered, Should frail survivors heave a sigh? Mourn rather for that holy Spirit, Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep; For Her who, ere her summer faded, Has sunk into a breathless sleep. No more of old romantic sorrows, For slaughtered Youth or love-lorn Maid! With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten, And Ettrick mourns with her their Poet dead.

Blake, "The Chimney Sweeper" (I)

When my mother died I was very young, And my father sold me while yet my tongue Could scarcely cry 'weep! 'weep! 'weep! 'weep! So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep. There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head, That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved: so I said, "Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head's bare, You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair." And so he was quiet; and that very night, As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight, - That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack, Were all of them locked up in coffins of black. And by came an angel who had a bright key, And he opened the coffins and set them all free; Then down a green plain leaping, laughing, they run, And wash in a river, and shine in the sun. Then naked and white, all their bags left behind, They rise upon clouds and sport in the wind; And the angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy, He'd have God for his father, and never want joy. And so Tom awoke; and we rose in the dark, And got with our bags and our brushes to work. Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm; So if all do their duty they need not fear harm.

Coleridge, self-knowledge

Γνῶθι σεαυτόν!—and is this the prime And heaven-sprung adage of the olden time!— Say, canst thou make thyself?—Learn first that trade;— Haply thou mayst know what thyself had made. What hast thou, Man, that thou dar'st call thine own?— What is there in thee, Man, that can be known?— Dark fluxion, all unfixable by thought, A phantom dim of past and future wrought, Vain sister of the worm,—life, death, soul, clod— Ignore thyself, and strive to know thy God!