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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
My care, if the arm of the mighty were mine, “ Would plant thee where yet thou might'st blossom
WRITTEN A FEW MILES ABOVE
TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE PANKS OF THE WYE DURING
July 13, 1798.
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.
Though absent long, These forms of beauty have not been to me,
As is a landscape to a blind man's
eye : But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart, And passing even into my purer mind With tranquil restoration :—feelings too Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps, As may
have had no trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life; His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world Is lighten'd :- that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on,
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame,
And now, with gleams of half-extinguish'd thought,