Oldalképek
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Unto mine inner eye,

Divinest Memory!

Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall Which ever sounds and shines

A pillar of white light upon the wall Of purple cliffs, aloof descried :

Come from the woods that belt the gray hill-side,

The seven elms, the poplars four
That stand beside my father's door,
And chiefly from the brook that loves
To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand,
Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves,
Drawing into his narrow earthen urn,

In every elbow and turn,

The filter'd tribute of the rough woodland.

O! hither lead thy feet!

Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled folds,

Upon the ridged wolds,

When the first matin-song hath waken'd

loud

Over the dark dewy earth forlorn,
What time the amber morn

Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung

cloud.

V.

Large dowries doth the raptured eye

To the young spirit present
When first she is wed;

And like a bride of old

In triumph led,

With music and sweet showers
Of festal flowers,

Unto the dwelling she must sway.

Well hast thou done, great artist Me

mory,

In setting round thy first experiment With royal frame-work of wrought

gold;

Needs must thou dearly love thy first

essay,

And foremost in thy various gallery Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls Upon the storied walls;

For the discovery

And newness of thine art so pleased thee, That all which thou hast drawn of fairest

Or boldest since, but lightly weighs With thee unto the love thou bearest The first-born of thy genius. Artist-like, Ever retiring thou dost gaze

On the prime labour of thine early days:

No matter what the sketch might be ; Whether the high field on the bushless

Pike,

Or even a sand-built ridge

Of heaped hills that mound the sea,
Overblown with murmurs harsh,

Or even a lowly cottage whence we see
Stretch'd wide and wild the waste enor-

mous marsh,

Where from the frequent bridge,

Like emblems of infinity,

The trenched waters run from sky to

sky;

Or a garden bower'd close

With plaited alleys of the trailing rose,

Long alleys falling down to twilight grots,

Or opening upon level plots
Of crowned lilies, standing near
Purple-spiked lavender :
Whither in after life retired
From brawling storms,

From weary wind,

With youthful fancy re-inspired,

We may hold converse with all forms

Of the many-sided mind,

And those whom passion hath not blinded, Subtle-thoughted, myriad-minded.

My friend, with you to live alone, Were how much better than to own A crown, a sceptre, and a throne!

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