Still let him prompt the unlettered Villagers To tender offices and pensive thoughts. -Then let him pass, a blessing on his head! And, long as he can wander, let him breathe The freshness of the valleys; let his blood Struggle with frosty air and winter snows; And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath Beat his gray locks against his withered face. Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness Gives the last human interest to his heart! May never HOUSE, misnamed of INDUSTRY, Make him a captive! for that pent-up din, Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air, Be his the natural silence of old age! Let him be free of mountain solitudes; And have around him, whether heard or not, The pleasant melody of woodland birds. Few are his pleasures: if his eyes have now Been doomed so long to settle on the earth That not without some effort they behold The countenance of the horizontal sun, Rising or setting, let the light at least Find a free entrance to their languid orbs. And let him, where and when he will, sit down Beneath the trees, or by the grassy bank Of highway side, and with the little birds Share his chance-gathered meal; and, finally,
As in the eye of Nature he has lived, So in the eye of Nature let him die!
ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY.
THE little hedgerow birds,
That peck along the road, regard him not. He travels on, and in his face, his step, His gait, is one expression; every limb, His look and bending figure, all bespeak
A man who does not move with pain, but moves With thought. He is insensibly subdued To settled quiet: he is one by whom All effort seems forgotten; one to whom Long patience hath such mild composure given, That patience now doth seem a thing of which He hath no need. He is by nature led To peace so perfect, that the young behold With envy, what the Old Man hardly feels.
(I speak of one from many singled out) One of those heavenly days which cannot die; When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, I left our Cottage-threshold, sallying forth With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, A nutting-crook in hand, and turned my steps Toward the distant woods, a Figure quaint, Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds Which for that service had been husbanded, By exhortation of my frugal Dame;
Motley accoutrement, of power to smile
At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,—and, in truth, More ragged than need was! Among the woods, And o'er the pathless rocks, I forced my way Until, at length, I came to one dear nook Unvisited, where not a broken bough
Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign Of devastation, but the hazels rose
Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung, A virgin scene!-A little while I stood, Breathing with such suppression of the heart As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed The banquet,- -or beneath the trees I sate Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played; A temper known to those, who, after long
And weary expectation, have been blest With sudden happiness beyond all hope.-- Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves The violets of five seasons re-appear
And fade, unseen by any human eye; Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on For ever,—and I saw the sparkling foam, And with my cheek on one of those green stones That, fleeced with moss, beneath the shady trees, Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep, I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound, In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,
And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash
And merciless ravage; and the shady nook Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up Their quiet being: and, unless I now Confound my present feelings with the past, Even then, when from the bower I turned away Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, I felt a sense of pain when I beheld The silent trees and the intruding sky.— Then, dearest Maiden! move along these shade In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand Touch-for there is a spirit in the woods.
AMID the smoke of cities did you pass
The time of early youth; and there you learned, From years of quiet industry, to love
The living beings by your own fireside, With such a strong devotion, that your heart Is slow toward the sympathies of them
Who look upon the hills with tenderness,
And make dear friendships with the streams and
Yet we, who are transgressors in this kind, Dwelling retired in our simplicity
Among the woods and fields, we love you well, Joanna! and I guess, since you have been So distant from us now for two long years, That you will gladly listen to discourse, However trivial, if you thence are taught That they, with whom you once were happy, talk Familiarly of you and of old times.
While I was seated, now some ten days past, Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop Their ancient neighbour, the old steeple tower, The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by Came forth to greet me; and when he had asked, "How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid! And when will she return to us?" he paused: And, after short exchange of village news, He with grave looks demanded, for what cause, Reviving obsolete idolatry,
I, like a Runic Priest, in characters
Of formidable size had chiselled out
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