"YES, IT WAS THE MOUNTAIN ECHO"

          YES, it was the mountain Echo,
          Solitary, clear, profound,
          Answering to the shouting Cuckoo,
          Giving to her sound for sound!

          Unsolicited reply
          To a babbling wanderer sent;
          Like her ordinary cry,
          Like--but oh, how different!

          Hears not also mortal Life?
          Hear not we, unthinking Creatures!                          10
          Slaves of folly, love, or strife--
          Voices of two different natures?

          Have not 'we' too?--yes, we have
          Answers, and we know not whence;
          Echoes from beyond the grave,
          Recognised intelligence!

          Such rebounds our inward ear
          Catches sometimes from afar--
          Listen, ponder, hold them dear;
          For of God,--of God they are.                               20
                                                              1806.

"NUNS FRET NOT AT THEIR CONVENT'S NARROW ROOM"

          NUNS fret not at their convent's narrow room;
          And hermits are contented with their cells;
          And students with their pensive citadels;
          Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
          Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
          High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,
          Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:
          In truth the prison, unto which we doom
          Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me,
          In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound                  10
          Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground;
          Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)
          Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
          Should find brief solace there, as I have found.
                                                              1806.

PERSONAL TALK
                                   I

          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.

                                   II

          "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!

                                  III

          Wings have we,--and as far as we can go,
          We may find pleasure: wilderness and wood,
          Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood
          Which with the lofty sanctifies the low.
          Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know,
          Are a substantial world, both pure and good:
          Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
          Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
          There find I personal themes, a plenteous store,
          Matter wherein right voluble I am,
          To which I listen with a ready ear;
          Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear,--
          The gentle Lady married to the Moor;
          And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb,

                                   IV

          Nor can I not believe but that hereby
          Great gains are mine; for thus I live remote
          From evil-speaking; rancour, never sought,
          Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie.
          Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I
          Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought:
          And thus from day to day my little boat
          Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably.
          Blessings be with them--and eternal praise,
          Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares--
          The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs
          Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays!
          Oh! might my name be numbered among theirs,
          Then gladly would I end my mortal days.
                                                              1806.

ADMONITION

          WELL may'st thou halt--and gaze with brightening eye!
          The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook
          Hath stirred thee deeply; with its own dear brook,
          Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!
          But covet not the Abode;--forbear to sigh,
          As many do, repining while they look;
          Intruders--who would tear from Nature's book
          This precious leaf, with harsh impiety.
          Think what the home must be if it were thine,
          Even thine, though few thy wants!--Roof, window, door,      10
          The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,
          The roses to the porch which they entwine:
          Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day
          On which it should be touched, would melt away.
                                                              1806.

"BELOVED VALE! I SAID, WHEN I SHALL CON"

          "BELOVED Vale!" I said, "when I shall con
          Those many records of my childish years,
          Remembrance of myself and of my peers
          Will press me down: to think of what is gone
          Will be an awful thought, if life have one."
          But, when into the Vale I came, no fears
          Distressed me; from mine eyes escaped no tears;
          Deep thought, or dread remembrance, had I none.
          By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost
          I stood, of simple shame the blushing Thrall;               10
          So narrow seemed the brooks, the fields so small!
          A Juggler's balls old Time about him tossed;
          I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed; and all
          The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
                                                              1806.

"HOW SWEET IT IS, WHEN MOTHER FANCY ROCKS"

          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                  10
          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.
                                                              1806.

"THOSE WORDS WERE UTTERED AS IN PENSIVE MOOD"

                "------they are of the sky,
                 And from our earthly memory fade away."

          THOSE words were uttered as in pensive mood
          We turned, departing from that solemn sight:
          A contrast and reproach to gross delight,
          And life's unspiritual pleasures daily wooed!
          But now upon this thought I cannot brood;
          It is unstable as a dream of night;
          Nor will I praise a cloud, however bright,
          Disparaging Man's gifts, and proper food.
          Grove, isle, with every shape of sky-built dome,
          Though clad in colours beautiful and pure,                  10
          Find in the heart of man no natural home:
          The immortal Mind craves objects that endure:
          These cleave to it; from these it cannot roam,
          Nor they from it: their fellowship is secure.
                                                              1806.

COMPOSED BY THE SIDE OF GRASMERE LAKE
1806.

          CLOUDS, lingering yet, extend in solid bars
          Through the grey west; and lo! these waters, steeled
          By breezeless air to smoothest polish, yield
          A vivid repetition of the stars;
          Jove, Venus, and the ruddy crest of Mars
          Amid his fellows beauteously revealed
          At happy distance from earth's groaning field,
          Where ruthless mortals wage incessant wars.
          Is it a mirror?--or the nether Sphere
          Opening to view the abyss in which she feeds                10
          Her own calm fires?--But list! a voice is near;
          Great Pan himself low-whispering through the reeds,
          "Be thankful, thou; for, if unholy deeds
          Ravage the world, tranquillity is here!"

"WITH HOW SAD STEPS, O MOON, THOU CLIMB'ST THE SKY"

          WITH how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the sky,
          "How silently, and with how wan a face!"
          Where art thou? Thou so often seen on high
          Running among the clouds a Wood-nymph's race!
          Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath's a sigh
          Which they would stifle, move at such a pace!
          The northern Wind, to call thee to the chase,
          Must blow to-night his bugle horn. Had I
          The power of Merlin, Goddess! this should be:
          And all the stars, fast as the clouds were riven,           10
          Should sally forth, to keep thee company,
          Hurrying and sparkling through the clear blue heaven.
          But, Cynthia! should to thee the palm be given,
          Queen both for beauty and for majesty.
                                                              1806.

"THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US; LATE AND SOON"

          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!
          The 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 everything, we are out of tune;
          It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
          A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;                         10
          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.
                                                              1806.