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“ Poor victim! no idle intruder has stood
"With o'erweening complacence our state to compare, “ But one, whose first wish is the wish to be good,
“ Is come as a brother thy sorrows to share.
“ At thy name though compassion her nature resign, “ Though in virtue's proud mouth thy report be a
stain, "My care, if the arm of the mighty were mine, "Would plant thee where yet thou might'st blossom
WRITTEN A FEW MILES ABOVE
Five years have passed ; five summers, with the length
* The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above Tintern.
The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits, Among the woods and copses lose themselves, Nor, with their green and simple hue, disturb The wild green landscape. Once again I see These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild ; these pastoral farıns Green to the very door; and wreathes of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees, And the low copses--coming from 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.
Though absent long, These forms of beauty have not been to me,
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame,
If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft, In darkness, and amid the many shapes Of joyless day-light; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart, How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee !
And now, with gleams of half-extinguish'd thought,