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The eagle soars high in the element,

There doth the reaper bind the yellow sheaf, The maiden spread the haycock in the sun, While Winter like a well-tamed lion walks, Descending from the mountain to make sport

Among the cottages by beds of flowers.

Whate'er in this wide circuit we beheld, Or heard, was fitted to our unripe state Of intellect and heart. With such a book Before our eyes, we could not choose but read

Lessons of genuine brotherhood, the plain And universal reason of mankind,

The truths of young and old. Nor, side by side

Pacing, two social pilgrims, or alone

Each with his humor, could we fail to abound
In dreams and fictions, pensively composed :
Dejection taken up for pleasure's sake,
And gilded sympathies, the willow wreath,

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And sober posies of funereal flowers, Gathered among those solitudes sublime From formal gardens of the lady Sorrow, Did sweeten many a meditative hour.

Yet still in me with those soft luxuries Mixed something of stern mood, an underthirst

Of vigor seldom utterly allayed:

And from that source how different a sadness Would issue, let one incident make known. When from the Vallais we had turned, and clomb

Along the Simplon's steep and rugged road, Following a band of muleteers, we reached' A halting-place, where all together took Their noon-tide meal. Hastily rose our

guide, Leaving us at the board; awhile we lingered, Then paced the beaten downward way that

led

Right to a rough stream's edge, and there

broke off;

The only track now visible was one That from the torrent's further brink held forth

Conspicuous invitation to ascend

A lofty mountain. After brief delay Crossing the unbridged stream, that road we took,

And clomb with eagerness, till anxious fears

Intruded, for we failed to overtake Our comrades gone before. By fortunate While every moment added doubt to doubt, chance, A peasant met us, from whose mouth we That to the spot which had perplexed us learned

first,

We must descend, and there should find the road,

Which in the stony channel of the stream Lay a few steps, and then along its banks: And that our future course, all plain to sight. Was downwards, with the current of that stream.

Loth to believe what we so grieved to hear, For still we had hopes that pointed to the clouds,

We questioned him again, and yet again; But every word that from the peasant's lips Came in reply, translated by our feelings, Ended in this,-that we had crossed the Alps.

Imagination-here the Power so-called Through sad incompetence of human speech,

That awful Power rose from the mind's Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree;

abyss Like an unfathered vapor that enwraps, At once, some lonely traveller. I was lost; Halted without an effort to break through; But to my conscious soul I now can say"I recognize thy glory;" in such strength Of usurpation, when the light of sense Goes out, but with a flash that has revealed The invisible world, doth greatness make abode,

There harbors; whether we be young or old,
Our destiny, our being's heart and home.
Is with infinitude, and only there;
With hope it is, hope that can never die,
Effort, and expectation, and desire,
And something evermore about to be.
Under such banners militant, the soul
Seeks for no trophies, struggles for no spoils
That may attest her prowess, blest in
thoughts

That are their own perfection and reward,
Strong in herself and in beatitude

That hides her, like the mighty flood of

Nile

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And, with the half-shaped road which we had missed,

Entered a narrow chasm. The brook and road

Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy strait,
And with them did we journey several hours
At a slow pace.
The immeasurable height
Of woods decaying, never to be decayed,
The stationary blasts of waterfalls,
And in the narrow rent at every turn
Winds thwarting winds, bewildered and for-
lorn,

The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky,

The rocks that muttered close upon our ears, Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside

As if a voice were in them, the sick sight And giddy prospect of the raving stream, The unfettered clouds and region of the Heavens,

Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light

Were all like workings of one mind, the features

Characters of the great Apocalypse,
The types and symbols of Eternity,

Of first, and last, and midst, and without end.

That night our lodging was a house that
stood

Alone within the valley, at a point
Where, tumbling from aloft, a torrent swelled
The rapid stream whose margin we had trod;
A dreary mansion, large beyond all need,
With high and spacious rooms, deafened and
stunned

By noise of waters, making innocent sleep
Lie melancholy among weary bones.

Uprisen betimes, our journey we renewed,
Led by the stream, ere noon-day magnified
Into a lordly river, broad and deep,
Dimpling along in silent majesty,
With mountains for its neighbors, and in
view

Of distant mountains and their snowy tops,
And thus proceeding to Locarno's Lake,
Fit resting-place for such a visitant.
Locarno spreading out in width like Heaven,
How dost thou cleave to the poetic heart,
Bask in the sunshine of the memory;
And Como! thou, a treasure whom the earth
Keeps to herself, confined as in a depth
Of Abyssinian privacy. I spake

Of thee, thy chestnut woods, and garden plots

Of Indian corn tended by dark-eyed maids; Thy lofty steeps, and pathways roofed with vines,

Winding from house to house, from town to town,

Sole link that binds them to each other; walks,

League after league, and cloistral avenues, Where silence dwells if music be not there: While yet a youth undisciplined in verse, Through fond ambition of that hour I strove To chant your praise; nor can approach you

now

Ungreeted by a more melodious Song,
Where tones of Nature smoothed by learned
Art

May flow in lasting current. Like a breeze
Or sunbeam over your domain I passed
In motion without pause; but ye have left
Your beauty with me, a serene accord
Of forms and colors, passive, yet endowed
In their submissiveness with power as sweet
And gracious, almost might I dare to say,
As virtue is, or goodness; sweet as love,

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Oh, most beloved Friend! a glorious time, A happy time that was; triumphant looks Were then the common language of all eyes; As if awaked from sleep, the Nations hailed Their great expectancy: the fife of war Was then a spirit-stirring sound indeed, A blackbird's whistle in a budding grove. We left the Swiss exulting in the fate Of their near neighbors; and, when shortening fast

Our pilgrimage, nor distant far from home,
We crossed the Brabant armies on the fret
For battle in the cause of Liberty.

A stripling, scarcely of the household then
Of social life, I looked upon these things
As from a distance; heard, and saw, and
felt,

Was touched, but with no intimate concern;
I seemed to move along them, as a bird
Moves through the air, or as a fish pursues
Its sport, or feeds in its proper element;

And the independent spirit of pure youth Called forth, at every season, new delights

I wanted not that joy, I did not need
Such help; the ever-living universe,
Turn where might, was opening out its Spread round my steps like sunshine o'er
glories,

green fields.

BOOK SEVENTH.

RESIDENCE IN LONDON.

Six changeful years have vanished since I first Poured out (saluted by that quickening breeze

Which met me issuing from the City's * walls)

A glad preamble to this Verse: I sang
Aloud, with fervor irresistible

Of short-lived transport, like a torrent burst.

ing,

From a black thunder-cloud, down Scafell's side

To rush and disappear. But soon broke

forth

(So willed the Muse) a less impetuous stream, That flowed awhile with unabating strength, Then stopped for years; not audible again Before last primrose-time. Beloved Friend!

The assurance which then cheered some heavy thoughts

On thy departure to a foreign land

Has failed, too slowly moves the promised work,

Through the whole summer have I been at rest,

Partly from voluntary holiday,

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And part through outward hindrance. But Which we will now resume with lively hope,

I heard.

After the hour of sunset yester-even, Sitting within doors between light and dark, A choir of red-breasts gathered somewhere

near

My threshold,-minstrels from the distant

woods

Sent in on Winter's service, to announce, With preparation artful and benign,

That the rough lord had left the surly
North

On his accustomed journey. The delight,
Due to this timely notice, unawares
Smote me, and, listening, I in whispers
said,

"Ye heartsome Choristers, ye and I will be

The City of Goslar, in Lower Saxony.

Nor checked by aught of tamer argument That lies before us, needful to be told.

Returned from that excursion, soon I bade

Farewell forever to the sheltered seats Of gowned students, quitted hall and bower,

And every comfort of that privileged ground,

Well pleased to pitch a vagrant tent among
The unfenced regions of society.

I should adhere, and seeming to possess
Yet, undetermined to what course of life
At full command, to London first I turned
A little space of intermediate time
In no disturbance of excessive hope,
By personal ambition unenslaved,

Frugal as there was need, and, though self- In a Child's heart as fear itself) conceived willed,

From dangerous passions free. Three years had flown

Since I had felt in heart and soul the shock
Of the huge town's first presence, and had
paced

Her endless streets, a transient visitant:
Now, fixed amid that concourse of mankind
Where Pleasure whirls about incessantly,
And life and labor seem but one, I filled
An idler's place; an idler well content
To have a house (what matter for a home?)
That owned him; living cheerfully abroad
With unchecked fancy ever on the stir,
And all my young affections out of doors.

There was a time when whatsoe'er is
feigned

Of airy palaces, and gardens built

By Genii of romance: or hath in grave
Authentic history been set forth of Rome,
Alcairo, Babylon, or Persepolis;

Or given upon report by pilgrim friars,
Of go.den cities ten months' journey deep
Among Tartarian wilds-fell short, far
short,

Of what my fond simplicity believed
And thought of London-held me by a
chain

Less strong of wonder and obscure delight.
Whether the bolt of childhood's Fancy shot
For me beyond its ordinary mark,
'Twere vain to ask; but in our flock of
boys

Was One, a cripple from his birth, whom

chance

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For my enjoyment. Would that I could

now

Recall what then I pictured to myself,
Of mitred Prelates, Lords in ermine clad,
The King, and the King's Palace, and, not
last,

Nor least, Heaven bless him! the renowned
Lord Mayor:

Dreams not unlike to those which once be-
gat

A change of purpose in young Whittington,
When he, a friendless and a drooping boy,
Sate on a stone, and heard the bells speak

out

Articulate music. Above all, one thought
Baffled my understanding. how men lived
Even next-door neighbors, as we say, yet
still

Strangers, not knowing each the other's

name.

O, wondrous power of words, by simple
faith

Licensed to take the meaning that we love!
Vauxhall and Ranelagh! I then had heard
Of your green groves, and wilderness of
lamps

Dimming the stars, and fireworks magical,
And gorgeous ladies, under splendid domes,
Floating in dance, or warbling high in air
The songs of spirits! Nor had Fancy fed
With less delight upon that other class
Of marvels, broad-day wonders permanent :
The River proudly bridged; the dizzy top
And Whispering Gallery of St. Paul's; the

tombs

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