He died, this seat his only monument. If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms

Of young imagination have kept pure, Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride,

Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, Is littleness; that he, who feels contempt

For any living thing, hath faculties Which he has never used; that thought with him

Is in its infancy. The man whose eye Is ever on himself doth look on one, The least of Nature's works, one who might move

The wise man to that scorn which wis dom holds

Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, Thou! Instructed that true knowledge leads to love;

True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward thought,

Can still suspect, and still revere himself,

In lowliness of heart. 1787-1795. 1798.1

Down which she so often has tripped with her pail ;

And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,

The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.

She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,

The mist and the river, the hill and the shade:

The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,

And the colors have all passed away from her eyes! 1797. 1800.

A NIGHT-PIECE

Composed on the road between Nether Stowey and Alfoxden, extempore. I distinctly recollect the very moment when I was struck, as described "He looks up-the clouds are split," etc. (Wordsworth)

"Wordsworth particularly recommended to me among his Poems of Imagination, Yew Trees, and a description of Night. These, he says, are amongst the best for the imaginative power displayed in them." (Diary of Henry Crabb Robinson, May 9, 1815.)

--THE sky is overcast With a continuous cloud of texture close, Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon,

Which through that veil is indistinctly

seen,

A dull, contracted circle, yielding light So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls, Chequering the ground-from rock, plant, tree, or tower.

At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam Startles the pensive traveller while he treads

His lonesome path, with unobserving eye

Bent earthward; he looks up-the clouds are split

Asunder, and above his head he sees The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens.

There, in a black-blue vault she sails along,

Followed by multitudes of stars, that,

small

Built round by those white clouds, enor

mous clouds,

Still deepens its unfathomable depth.
At length the Vision closes; and the

mind,

Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, Is left to muse upon the solemn scene. 1798. 1815.

WE ARE SEVEN

-A SIMPLE Child,

That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:

Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
-Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all," she said
And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

"Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;

And in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven !-I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be."

Then did the little Maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree."

"You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;

If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be

WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED.

This old man had been huntsman to the squires of Alfoxden. The fact was as mentioned in the poem; and I have, after an interval of fortyfive years, the image of the old man as fresh before my eyes as if I had seen him yesterday. The expression when the hounds were out, "I dearly love their voice," was word for word from his own lips. (Wordsworth.)

IN the sweet shire of Cardigan,
Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,

An old Man dwells, a little man,—
Tis said he once was tall.

Full five and thirty years he lived
A running huntsman merry;
And still the centre of his cheek
Is red as a ripe cherry.

No man like him the horn could sound,
And hill and valley rang with glee
When Echo bandied, round and round,
The halloo of Simon Lee.

In those proud days, he little cared
For husbandry or tillage;

To blither tasks did Simon rouse
The sleepers of the village.

He all the country could outrun,
Could leave both man and horse behind :
And often, ere the chase was done,
He reeled and was stone-blind.
And still there's something in the world
At which his heart rejoices;

For when the chiming hounds are out,
He dearly loves their voices !

But, oh the heavy change!-bereft
Of health, strength, friends, and kindred,
see!

Old Simon to the world is left
In liveried poverty.

His Master's dead,-and no one now
Dwells in the Hall of Ivor;

Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
He is the sole survivor.

And he is lean and he is sick;
His body, dwindled and awry,
Rests upon ankles swoln and thick ;
His legs are thin and dry.
One prop he has, and only one,
His wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village Common.

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
Not twenty paces from the door,
A scrap of land they have, but they
Are poorest of the poor.
This scrap of land he from the heath
Enclosed when he was stronger;
But what to them avails the land
Which he can till no longer?

Oft, working by her Husband's side,
Ruth does what Simon cannot do ;
For she, with scanty cause for pride,
Is stouter of the two.

And, though you with your utmost skill
From labor could not wean them,