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suits a part infects the whole,

       And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.

      VII

      Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,

       Reality’s dark dream !

       I turn from you, and listen to the wind,

       Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream

       Of agony by torture lengthened out

       That lute sent forth ! Thou Wind, that rav’st without,

       Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree,

       Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,

       Or lonely house, long held the witches’ home,

       Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,

       Mad Lutanist ! who in this month of showers,

       Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,

       Mak’st Devils’ yule, with worse than wintry song,

       The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.

       Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds !

       Thou mighty Poet, e’en to frenzy bold !

       What tell’st thou now about ?

       ‘Tis of the rushing of a host in rout,

       With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds —

       At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold !

       But hush ! there is a pause of deepest silence !

       And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,

       With groans, and tremulous shudderings — all is over —

       It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud !

       A tale of less affright,

       And tempered with delight,

       As Otway’s self had framed the tender lay,

       ‘Tis of a little child

       Upon a lonesome wild,

       Not far from home, but she hath lost her way :

       And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,

       And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.

      VIII

      ‘Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep :

       Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep !

       Visit her, gentle Sleep ! with wings of healing,

       And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,

       May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,

       Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth !

       With light heart may she rise,

       Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,

       Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice ;

       To her may all things live, from the pole to pole,

       Their life the eddying of her living soul !

       O simple spirit, guided from above,

       Dear Lady ! friend devoutest of my choice,

       Thus may’st thou ever, evermore rejoice.

To William Wordsworth

       Table of Contents

      COMPOSED ON THE NIGHT AFTER HIS RECITATION OF A POEM ON THE GROWTH OF AN INDIVIDUAL MIND

      O Friend! O Teacher! God’s great Gift to me!

       Into my Heart have I received that Lay

       More than historic, that prophetic Lay

       Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright)

       Of the foundations and the building up

       Of thine own spirit thou hast loved to tell

       What may be told, by words revealable:

       With heavenly breathings, like the secret soul

       Of vernal growth, oft quickening in the heart

       Thoughts, that obey no mastery of words,

       Pure Self-beholdings! Theme as hard as high,

       Of Smiles spontaneous and mysterious Fear!

       The first born they of Reason and twin birth!

       Of tides obedient to external force,

       And currents self-determin’d, as might seem,

       Or by some inner power! Of moments awful,

       Now in thy hidden life, and now abroad,

       When power stream’d from thee, and thy soul receiv’d

       The light reflected, as a light bestow’d!

       Of fancies fair, and milder hours of youth,

       Hybloean murmurs of poetic thought

       Industrious in its joy, in vales and glens

       Native or outland, Lakes and famous Hills;

       Or on the lonely high-road, when the stars

       Were rising; or by secret mountain streams,

       The guides and the companions of thy way!

       Of more than Fancy—of the Social Sense

       Distending, and of Man belov’d as Man,

       Where France in all her Towns lay vibrating,

       Even as a Bark becalm’d on sultry seas

       Quivers beneath the voice from Heaven, the burst

       Of Heaven’s immediate thunder, when no cloud

       Is visible, or shadow on the main!

       For thou wert there, thy own brows garlanded,

       Amid the tremor of a Realm aglow!

       Amid a mighty nation jubilant!

       When from the general Heart of Human Kind

       Hope sprang forth, like an armed Deity!

       Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck down,

       So summon’d homeward; thenceforth calm and sure,

       As from the Watch-tower of Man’s absolute Self,

       With light unwaning on her eyes, to look

       Far on—herself a Glory to behold,

       The Angel of the Vision! Then (last strain)

       Of Duty, chosen Laws controlling choice,

       Action and Joy!—an Orphic Tale indeed,

       A Tale divine of high and passionate Thoughts,

       To their own Music chaunted!—

      A great Bard!

       Ere yet the last strain dying awed the air,

       With steadfast eyes I saw thee in the choir

       Of ever-enduring men. The truly Great

       Have all one age, and from one visible space

       Shed influence: for they, both power and act,

       Are permanent, and Time is not with them,

       Save as it worketh for them, they in it.

       Nor less a sacred Roll, than those of old,

       And to be plac’d, as they, with gradual fame

       Among the Archives of Mankind, thy Work

       Makes audible a linked Song of Truth,

       Of Truth profound a sweet continuous Song

       Not learnt, but native,

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