105 From this green earth; of all the mighty world Nor perchance, If I were not thus taught, should I the more For thou art with me here upon the banks Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb And let the misty mountain-winds be free For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then, If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts 145 Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance 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 Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Within my mind, should e'er have borne a part, n 100 104 10 The calm existence that is mine when I Am worthy of myself! Praise to the end! Thanks to the means which Nature deigned to employ; Whether her fearless visitings, or those That came with soft alarm, like hurtless light 15 Opening the peaceful clouds; or she may use Severer interventions, ministry More palpable, as best might suit her aim. 20 Within a rocky cave, its usual home. Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows, The horizon's utmost boundary; far above 35 I dipped my oars into the silent lake, And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat Went heaving through the water like a swan; When, from behind that craggy steep till then The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and huge, 40 As if with voluntary power instinct Upreared its head. I struck and struck again, And growing still in stature the grim shape Towered up between me and the stars, and still, For so it seemed, with purpose of its own 45 And measured motion like a living thing, Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned, And through the silent water stole my way Back to the covert of the willow tree; There in her mooring-place I left my bark, 50 And through the meadows homeward went, in grave And serious mood; but after I had seen That spectacle, for many days, my brain Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Of unknown modes of being; o'er my thoughts 55 There hung a darkness, call it solitude Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes Remained, no pleasant images of trees, Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields; But huge and mighty forms, that do not live TO THE CUCKOO. O blithe New-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice. O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, 4 Or but a wandering Voice? While I am lying on the grass Though babbling only to the Vale, 12 Of visionary hours. The same whom in my schoolboy days I listened to; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky. To seek thee did I often rove And I can listen to thee yet; Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! O blessed Bird! the earth we pace Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, 16 A voice, a mystery; Again appears to be An unsubstantial, faery place; That is fit home for Thee! 20 24 28 82 |