LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE WHICH STANDS HE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE,
ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, YET ANDING ABEAUTIFUL PROSPECT.
--Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands
Far from all human dwelling: what if here
No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb;
What if these barren boughs the bee not loves;
Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves,
That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind
By one soft impulse saved from vacy.
--Who he was
That piled these stones, and with the mossy sod
First covered oer, and taught this aged tree,
Now wild, to bend its arms in cirg shade,
I well remember.--He was one who ownd
No on soul. In youth, by genius nursd,
And big with lofty views, he to the world
Went forth, pure in his heart, against the taint
Of dissolute tongues, gainst jealousy, and hate,
And s, against all enemies prepared,
All but : and so, his spirit damped
At once, with rash disdaiurned away,
And with the food of pride sustained his soul
In solitude.--Strahese gloomy boughs
Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit,
His only visitants a straggling sheep,
The stone-chat, or the glang sand-piper;
And on these barren rocks, with juniper,
Ah, and thistle, thinly sprinkled oer,
Fixing his downward eye, he many an hour
A morbid pleasure nourished, trag here
An emblem of his own unfruitful life:
And lifting up his head, he then would gaze
On the more distant se; how lovely tis
Thou seest, and he would gaze till it became
Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain
The beauty still more beauteous. Nor, that time,
Would he fet those beings, to whose minds,
Warm from the labours of benevolence,
The world, and man himself, appeared a se
Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh
With mournful joy, to think that others felt
What he must never feel: and so, lost man!
On visionary views would fancy feed,
Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale
He died, this seat his only mo.
If thou be one whose heart the holy forms
Of young imagination have kept pure,
Stranger! heh be warned; and know, that pride,
Howeer disguised in its own majesty,
Is littleness; that he, who feels pt
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 natures works, one who might move
The wise man to that s which wisdom 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,
still suspect, and still revere himself,
In lowliness of heart.