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He knew the rocks which angels haunt
Upon the mountains visitant;

He hath kenned them taking wing:

And into caves where faeries sing

He hath entered; and been told

By voices how men lived of old.
Among the heavens his eye can see
The face of thing that is to be;
And, if that men report him right,

His tongue could whisper words of might.

Now another day is come,

Fitter hope, and nobler doom:

He hath thrown aside his crook,

And hath buried deep his book;
Armour rusting in his halls

On the blood of Clifford calls ;—
'Quell the Scot,' exclaims the lance-

'Bear me to the heart of France,'

Is the longing of the shield—

Tell thy name, thou trembing Field;
Field of death, where'er thou be,

Groan thou with our victory!

Happy day, and mighty hour,

When our shepherd, in his power,

Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword,

To his ancestors restored,

Like a reappearing star,

Like a glory from afar,

First shall head the flock of war!"

Alas! the impassioned minstrel did not know

How, by Heaven's grace, this Clifford's heart was

framed :

How he, long forced in humble walks to go,
Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed.

Love had he found in huts where poor men lie;
His daily teachers had been woods and rills,
The silence that is in the starry sky,

The sleep that is among the lonely hills.

In him the savage virtue of the race,
Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead:

Nor did he change; but left in lofty place

The wisdom which adversity had bred.

Glad were the vales, and every cottage hearth;

The shepherd lord was honoured more and more;
And, ages after he was laid in earth,

"The good Lord Clifford was the name he bore.




IVE years have passed; five summers,

with the length

Of five long winters! and again I


These waters, rolling from their


With a soft inland murmur.*—Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,

That on a wild secluded scene impress

Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect

The landscape with the quiet of the sky.

The day is come when I again repose

* The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above Tintern.

Here, under this dark sycamore, and view

These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
These hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms,
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
Sent up in silence, from among the trees!
With some uncertain notice, as might seem,
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire
The hermit sits alone.

These beauteous forms.

Through a long absence, have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
And passing even into my purer mind,
With tranquil restoration:-feelings, too,
Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,

As have no slight or trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, unremembered acts

Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
In which the burthen of the mystery,

In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world,

Is lightened that serene and blessed mood,


In which the affections gently lead us on,Until, the breath of this corporeal frame, And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep

In body, and become a living soul:

While with an eye made quiet by the power

Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.

If this

Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft-
In darkness, and amid the many shapes
Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart-

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