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He knew the rocks which angels haunt
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.
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;
On the blood of Clifford calls ;—
'Bear me to the heart of France,'
Is the longing of the shield—
Tell thy name, thou trembing Field;
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
How he, long forced in humble walks to go,
Love had he found in huts where poor men lie;
The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
In him the savage virtue of the race,
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;
"The good Lord Clifford was the name he bore.
COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR, JULY 13, 1798
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
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,
These beauteous forms.
Through a long absence, have not been to me
As have no slight or trivial influence
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
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,
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft-