LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE...

LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE,

ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, YET COMMANDING 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 vacancy.

--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 circling shade,

I well remember.--He was one who ownd

No common 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 scorn, against all enemies prepared,

All but neglect: and so, his spirit damped

At once, with rash disdain he turned away,

And with the food of pride sustained his soul

In solitude.--Stranger! these gloomy boughs

Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit,

His only visitants a straggling sheep,

The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper;

And on these barren rocks, with juniper,

And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled oer,

Fixing his downward eye, he many an hour

A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here

An emblem of his own unfruitful life:

And lifting up his head, he then would gaze

On the more distant scene; 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 forget those beings, to whose minds,

Warm from the labours of benevolence,

The world, and man himself, appeared a scene

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 monument.

If thou be one whose heart the holy forms

Of young imagination have kept pure,

Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know, that pride,

Howeer 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 natures works, one who might move

The wise man to that scorn 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,

Can still suspect, and still revere himself,

In lowliness of heart.