ting Wood-nymph, wearied with the chase. Lady! fairer in thy Poet's sight Than fairest spiritual creature of the groves, Approach; - and, thus invited, crown with rest The noon-tide hour though truly some there are Whose footsteps superstitiously avoid This venerable Tree; for, when the wind Blows keenly, it sends forth a creaking sound (Above the general roar of woods and crags) Distinctly heard from far - a doleful note! As if (so Grecian shepherds would have deemed) The Hamadryad, pent within, bewailed Some bitter wrong. Nor is it unbelieved, By ruder fancy, that a troubled ghost Haunts the old trunk; lamenting deeds of which The flowery ground is conscious. But no wind Sweeps now along this elevated ridge; Not even a zephyr stirs; - the obnoxious Tree Is mute; and, in his silence, would look down, lovely Wanderer of the trackless hills, On thy reclining form with more delight Than his coevals in the sheltered vale Seem to participate, the while they view Their own far-stretching arms and leafy heads Vividly pictured in some glassy pool, That, for a brief space, checks the hurrying stream!   , , , . , , , , . , , , . -. , , , , . , , , , , , - . , , , . , , . , , , . , , , , , . From "Ecclesiastical Sonnets" " " MUTABILITY From low to high doth dissolution climb, And sink from high to low, along a scale Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail; A musical but melancholy chime. Which they can hear who meddle not with crime, Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care. Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear The longest dale do melt like frosty rime, That in the morning whitened hill and plain And is no more; drop like the tower sublime Of yesterday, which royally did wear His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain Some casual shout that broke the silent air, Or the unimaginable touch of Time.  , ; , - , . ; , . , , ; , , , - . INSIDE OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned - Albeit labouring for a scanty band Of white-robed Scholars only - this immense And glorious Work of fine intelligence! Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore Of nicely-calculated less or more; So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells, Where light and shade repose, where music dwells Lingering - and wandering on as loth to die; Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof That they were born for immortality.   , , - , - , - ! ; , ; , , , , , - , . From "The Poetical Works" " " LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE EVE OF A NEW YEAR I Smile of the Moon! - for so I name That silent greeting from above; A gentle flash of light that came From her whom drooping captives love; Or art thou of still higher birth? Thou that didst part the clouds of earth, My torpor to reprove! II Bright boon of pitying Heaven! - alas, I may not trust thy placid cheer! Pondering that Time to-night will pass The threshold of another year; For years to me are sad and dull; My very moments are too full Of hopelessness and fear. III And yet, the soul-awakening gleam, That struck perchance the farthest cone Of Scotland's rocky wilds, did seem To visit me, and me alone; Me, unapproached by any friend, Save those who to my sorrows lend Tears due unto their own. IV To-night the church-tower bells will ring Through these wild realms a festive peal; To the new year a welcoming; A tuneful offering for the weal Of happy millions lulled in sleep; While I am forced to watch and weep, By wounds that may not heal. V Born all too high, by wedlock raised Still higher - to be cast thus low! Would that mine eyes had never gazed On aught of more ambitious show Than the sweet flowerets of the fields - It is my royal state that yields This bitterness of woe. VI Yet how? - for I, if there be truth In the world's voice, was passing fair; And beauty, for confiding youth, Those shocks of passion can prepare That kill the bloom before its time; And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair. VII Unblest distinction! showered on me To bind a lingering life in chains: All that could quit my grasp, or flee, Is gone; - but not the subtle stains Fixed in the spirit; for even here Can I be proud that jealous fear, Of what I was remains. VIII A Woman rules my prison's key; A sister Queen, against the bent Of law and holiest sympathy, Detains me, doubtful of the event; Great God, who feel'st for my distress, My thoughts are all that I possess, keep them innocent! IX Farewell desire of human aid, Which abject mortals vainly court! By friends deceived, by foes betrayed, Of fears the prey, of hopes the sport; Nought but the world-redeeming Cross Is able to supply my loss, My burthen to support. X Hark! the death-note of the year Sounded by the castle-clock! From her sunk eyes a stagnant tear Stole forth, unsettled by the shock; But oft the woods renewed their green, Ere the tired head of Scotland's Queen Reposed upon the block!  , ,  I ! , , , . ! II , , , , , , . ? . , . III , , , , , , , , , . IV . , , . V ! ... , , , - , , ! VI , , , , , , . VII , , . , , - , . , , . VIII , , . , , - , , . IX , , . , . X ! , . , , , . TO -- Let other bards of angels sing, Bright suns without a spot; But thou art no such perfect thing: Rejoice that thou art not! Heed not tho' none should call thee fair; So, Mary, let it be If nought in loveliness compare With what thou art to me. True beauty dwells in deep retreats, Whose veil is unremoved Till heart with heart in concord beats, And the lover is beloved. x x x , , . "" , . , , , , , , : , , - , . TO A SKY-LARK Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, Those quivering wings composed, that music still! Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; A privacy of glorious light is thine; Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood Of harmony, with instinct more divine; Type of the wise who soar, but never roam; True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!  ! ? , , ? , , ! , , ! , ! , . ; - ; , . , ! x x x Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound; A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound; With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief; The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp, It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew Soul-animating strains - alas, too few! x x x , , ! , ; , ; ; ; , , , ; , , , , ; , ; , ! TO THE TORRENT AT THE DEVIL'S BRIDGE, NORTH WALES, 1824 How art thou named? In search of what strange land, From what huge height, descending? Can such force Of waters issue from a British source, Or hath not Pindus fed thee, where the band Of Patriots scoop their freedom out, with hand Desperate as thine? Or come the incessant shocks From that young Stream, that smites the throbbing rocks. Of Viamala? There I seem to stand, As in life's morn; permitted to behold, From the dread chasm, woods climbing above woods, In pomp that fades not; everlasting snows; And skies that ne'er relinquish their repose; Such power possess the family of floods Over the minds of Poets, young or old!  , , , , , , , . ! , , - , . , , , . From "Yarrow Revisited, and Other Poems" " " THE TROSACHS There's not a nook within this solemn Pass, But were an apt confessional for One Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, That Life is but a tale of morning grass Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities, Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest, If from a golden perch of aspen spray (October's workmanship to rival May) The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, Lulling the year, wih all its cares, to rest!  , , , - , , , . , , , , , . , ( - ). , , . x x x Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to lose Day's grateful warmth, tho' moist with falling dews, Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none; Look up a second time, and, one by one, You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, And wonder how they could elude the sight! The birds, of late so noisy in their bowers, Warbled a while with faint and fainter powers, But now are silent as the dim-seen flowers: Nor does the village Church-clock's iron tone The time's and season's influence disown; Nine beats distinctly to each other bound In drowsy sequence - how unlike the sound That, in rough winter, oft inflicts a fear On fireside listeners, doubting what they hear! The shepherd, bent on rising with the sun, Had closed his door before the day was done, And now with thankful heart to bed doth creep, And joins his little children in their sleep. The bat, lured forth where trees the lane o'ershade, Flits and reflits along the close arcade; The busy dor-hawk chases the white moth With burring note, which Industry and Sloth Might both be pleased with, for it suits them both. A stream is heard - I see it not, but know By its soft music whence the waters flow: Wheels and the tread of hoofs are heard no more; One boat there was, but it will touch the shore With the next dipping of its slackened oar; Faint sound, that, for the gayest of the gay, Might give to serious thought a moment's sway, As a last token of man's toilsome day!   . - , - , , , . , ; . . . , , . , - , - . ; , , - , . , , , - . , , . A WREN'S NEST Among the dwellings framed by birds In field or forest with nice care, Is none that with the Jittle Wren's In snugness may compare. No door the tenement requires, And seldom needs a laboured roof: Yet is it to the fiercest sun Impervious, and storm-proof. So warm, so beautiful withal, In perfect fitness for its aim, That to the Kind by special grace; Their instinct surely came. And when for their abodes they seek An opportune recess, The hermit has no finer eye For shadowy quietness. These find, 'mid ivied abbey-walls, A canopy in some still nook; Others are pent-housed by a brae That overhangs a brook. There to the brooding bird her mate Warbles by fits his low clear song; And by the busy streamlet both Are sung to all day long. Or in sequestered lanes they build, Where, till the flitting bird's return, Her eggs within the nest repose, Like relics in an urn. But still, where general choice is good, There is a better and a best; And, among fairest objects, some Are fairer than the rest; This, one of those small builders proved In a green covert, where, from out The forehead of a pollard oak, The leafy antlers sprout; For She who planned the mossy lodge, Mistrusting her evasive skill, Had to a Primrose looked for aid Her wishes to fulfil. High on the trunk's projecting brow, And fixed an infant's span above The budding flowers, peeped forth the nest The prettiest of the grove! The treasure proudly did I show To some whose minds without disdain Can turn to little things; but once Looked up for it in vain: 'Tis gone - a ruthless spoiler's prey, Who heeds not beauty, love, or song, Tis gone! (so seemed it) and we grieved Indignant at the wrong. Just three days after, passing by In clearer light the moss-built cell I saw, espied its shaded mouth; And felt that all was well. The Primrose for a veil had spread The largest of her upright leaves; And thus, for purposes benign, A simple flower deceives. Concealed from friends who might disturb Thy quiet with no ill intent, Secure from evil eyes and hands On barbarous plunder bent, Rest, Mother-bird! and when thy young Take flight, and thou art free to roam, When withered is the guardian Flower, And empty thy late home, Think how ye prospered, thou and thine, Amid the unviolated grove Housed near the growing Primrose-tuft In foresight, or in love.   , , , . , ; , . , , , , , , . , ; , , , , ; , , , , . , - . - , , , , . , , : , - , , , . , , , . , - ! ! , , , , ! , , - - ! , , . - , , , - , ! , , . , , , , , . x x x If this great world of joy and pain Revolve in one sure track; If freedom, set, will rise again, And virtue, flown, come back; Woe to the purblind' crew who fill The heart with each day's care; Nor gain, from past or future, skill To bear, and to forbear! x x x , , . , . , , . , . x x x Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes To pace the ground, if path be there or none, While a fair region round the traveller lies Which he forbears again to look upon; Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene, The work of Fancy, or some happy tone Of meditation, slipping in between The beauty coming and the beauty gone. If Thought and Love desert us, from that day Let us break off all commerce with the Muse: With Thought and Love companions of our way, Whate'er the senses take or may refuse, The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews Of inspiration on the humblest lay.   , , , . : , , - . , , - . - , . x x x Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plant Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air Of absence withers what was once so fair? Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant? Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant - Bound to thy service with unceasing care, The mind's least generous wish a mendicant For nought but what thy happiness could spare. Speak-through this soft warm heart, once free to hold A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, Be left more desolate, more dreary cold That a forsaken bird's nest filled with snow 'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine - Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know! x x x ! , , , . , - ! , , , . ! - , , , , , - , , , . , , ! From "Sonnets" "" COMPOSED ON A MAY MORNING, 1838 Life with yon Lambs, like day, is just begun, Yet Nature seems to them a heavenly guide. Does joy approach? they meet the coming tide; And sullenness avoid, as now they shun Pale twilight's lingering glooms, - and in the sun Couch near their dams, with quiet satisfied; Or gambol-each with his shadow at his side, Varying its shape wherever he may run. As they from turf yet hoar with sleepy dew All turn, and court the shining and the green, Where herbs look up, and opening flowers are seen; Why to God's goodness cannot We be true, And so, His gifts and promises between, Feed to the last on pleasures ever new?  , 1838 . . , , , , . , , ! ! - ? ? From "Poems" (1845) "" (1845) THE SIMPLON PASS -----Brook and road Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass, And with them did we journey several hours At a slow step. The immeasurable height