XXXV.

THE world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; The Winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;

It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be

A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

XXXVI.

A VOLANT Tribe of Bards on earth are found,
Who, while the flattering Zephyrs round them play,
On" coignes of vantage" hang their nests of clay;
How quickly from that aery hold unbound,
Dust for oblivion! To the solid ground

Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye;
Convinced that there, there only, she can lay
Secure foundations. As the year runs round,
Apart she toils within the chosen ring;

While the stars shine, or while day's purple eye
Is gently closing with the flowers of spring;
Where even the motion of an Angel's wing
Would interrupt the intense tranquillity
Of silent hills, and more than silent sky.

XXXVII.

How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks

The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood!
An old place, full of many a lovely brood,
Tall trees, green arbours, and ground-flowers in flocks;
And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks,
Like a bold Girl, who plays her agile pranks
At Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks,-
When she stands cresting the Clown's head, and mocks
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.

XXXVIII.

PERSONAL TALK.

I AM not One who much or oft delight
To season my fireside with personal talk, –
Of Friends, who live within an easy walk,
Or Neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight :
And, for my chance-acquaintance, Ladies bright,
Sons, Mothers, Maidens withering on the stalk,
These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk
Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night.
Better than such discourse doth silence long,
Long, barren silence, square with my desire;
To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,
In the loved presence of my cottage-fire,
And listen to the flapping of the flame,
Or kettle whispering its faint undersong.

XXXIX.

CONTINUED.

"YET life," you say, "is life; we have seen and see, And with a living pleasure we describe;

And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe

The languid mind into activity.

Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee
Are fostered by the comment and the gibe.”
Even be it so: yet still among your tribe,

Our daily world's true Worldlings, rank not me!
Children are blest, and powerful; their world lies
More justly balanced; partly at their feet,

And part far from them: — sweetest melodies

Are those that are by distance made more sweet; Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes,

He is a Slave; the meanest we can meet!