Those many records of my childish years, Remembrance of myself and of my peers Will press me down to think of what is gone

Will be an awful thought, if life have one."

But, when into the Vale I came, no fears Distressed me; from mine eyes escaped no tears;

Deep thought, or dread remembrance, had I none.

By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost I stood, of simple shame the blushing Thrall;

So narrow seemed the brooks, the fields so small!

A Juggler's balls old Time about him tossed;

I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed; and all

The weight of sadness was in wonder lost. 1806.

The crowd beneath her. Verily I think, Such place to me is sometimes like a dream Or map of the whole world: thoughts, link by link,

Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam

Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink, And leap at once from the delicious stream. 1806.

"THOSE WORDS WERE UTTERED AS IN PENSIVE MOOD"

-they are of the sky,

And from our earthly memory fade away."

THOSE words were uttered as in pensive mood

We turned, departing from that solemn sight:

A contrast and reproach to gross delight, And life's unspiritual pleasures daily wooed! But now upon this thought I cannot brood; It is unstable as a dream of night;

Nor will I praise a cloud, however bright, Disparaging Man's gifts, and proper food. Grove, isle, with every shape of sky-built dome,

Though clad in colours beautiful and pure, Find in the heart of man no natural home: The immortal Mind craves objects that endure:

These cleave to it; from these it cannot roam,

Nor they from it: their fellowship is secure. 1806.

COMPOSED BY THE SIDE OF

GRASMERE LAKE

1806.

Opening to view the abyss in which she feeds Her own calm fires?-But list! a voice is near;

Great Pan himself low-whispering through the reeds,

"Be thankful, thou; for, if unholy deeds Ravage the world, tranquillity is here!"

"WITH HOW SAD STEPS, O MOON, THOU CLIMB'ST THE SKY"

WITH how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the sky,

"How silently, and with how wan a face!" Where art thou? Thou so often seen on high

Running among the clouds a Woodnymph's race!

Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath's a sigh

Which they would stifle, move at such a pace!

The northern Wind, to call thee to the chase,

Must blow to-night his bugle horn. Had I The power of Merlin, Goddess! this should be:

And all the stars, fast as the clouds were riven,

Should sally forth, to keep thee company, Hurrying and sparkling through the clear blue heaven.

But, Cynthia! should to thee the palm be given,

Queen both for beauty and for majesty.

1806.

"THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US; LATE AND SOON" THE world is too much with us; late and soon,

CLOUDS, lingering yet, extend in solid

bars

FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL

ANGELO

Translations from Michael Angelo, done at the request of Mr. Duppa, whose acquaintance I made through Mr. Southey. Mr. Duppa was engaged in writing the life of Michael Angelo, and applied to Mr. Southey and myself to furnish some specimens of his poetic genius.

I

YES! hope may with my strong desire keep pace,

And I be undeluded, unbetrayed;

For if of our affections none finds grace
In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath
God made

The world which we inhabit? Better plea
Love cannot have, than that in loving thee
Glory to that eternal Peace is paid,
Who such divinity to thee imparts

As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts. His hope is treacherous only whose love dies

With beauty, which is varying every hour; But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power

Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower,

That breathes on earth the air of paradise. 1806.

FROM THE SAME

II

No mortal object did these eyes behold When first they met the placid light of thine,

And my Soul felt her destiny divine,
And hope of endless peace in me grew bold:
Heaven-born, the Soul a heaven-ward
course must hold;

Beyond the visible world she soars to seek
(For what delights the sense is false and
weak)

Ideal Form, the universal mould.

The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest
In that which perishes: nor will he lend
His heart to aught which doth on time
depend.

art,

Come share my couch, nor speedily depart; How sweet thus living without life to lie, Thus without death how sweet it is to die.

That kills the soul: love betters what is best,

Even here below, but more in heaven above. 1806.

Composed at Grasmere, during a walk one Evening, after a stormy day, the Author having just read in a Newspaper that the dissolution of Mr. Fox was hourly expected.

LOUD is the Vale! the Voice is up

With which she speaks when storms are gone,

A mighty unison of streams!

Of all her Voices, One!

Loud is the Vale;-this inland Depth
In peace is roaring like the Sea
Yon star upon the mountain-top
Is listening quietly.

Sad was I, even to pain deprest,
Importunate and heavy load! 1
The Comforter hath found me here,
Upon this lonely road;

And many thousands now are sad—
Wait the fulfilment of their fear;
For he must die who is their stay,
Their glory disappear.

A Power is passing from the earth
To breathless Nature's dark abyss;
But when the great and good depart
What is it more than this-