My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky：
So was it when my life began；
So is it now I am a man；
So be it when I shall grow old，
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man➀；
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety➁.
➀参看弥尔顿《复乐园》第4卷220—221行：“儿童预示成人，像晨光预示白昼。”并参看《永生的信息》题注。
➁林水云风注：虔诚：诗人提出的父性思想是这样的，每个今天都是昨天的孩子，所以每个今天都应孝敬昨天。此诗写于1802年3月26日（译自《The Golden Treasury》注释）。
Behold，within the leafy shade，
Those bright blue eggs together laid!
On me the chance-discovered sight
Gleamed like a vision of delight.
I started—seeming to espy
The home and sheltered bed，
The Sparrow’s dwelling，which，hard by
My Father’s house，in wet or dry
My sister Emmeline and I
Together visited.
She look at it and seemed to fear it；
Dreading，tho’wishing，to be near it:
Such heart was in her，being then
A little Prattler among men.
The Blessing of my later years
Was with me when a boy:
She gave me eyes，she gave me ears；
And humble cares，and delicate fears；
A heart，the fountain of sweet tears；
And love，and thought，and joy➀.
That is work of waste and ruin—
Do as Charles and I are doing!
Strawberry-blossoms，one and all，
We must spare them—here are many:
Look at it—the flower is small，
Small and low，though fair as any➀:
Do not touch it!summers two
I am older，Anne，than you.
Pull the primrose，sister Anne!
Pull as many as you can.
—Here are daisies，take your fill；
Pansies，and the cuckoo-flower:
Of the lofty daffodil
Make your bed，or make your bower；
Fill your lap and fill your bosom；
Only spare the strawberry-blossom!
Primroses，the Spring may love them—
Summer knows but little of them:
Violets，a barren kind，
Withered on the ground must lie；
Daisies leave no fruit behind
When the pretty flowerets die；
Pluck them，and another year
As many will be blowing here.
God has given a kindlier power
To the favoured strawberry-flower.
Hither soon as spring is fled
You and Charles and I will walk；
Lurking berries，ripe and red，
Then will hang on every stalk，
Each within its leafy bower；
And for that promise spare the flower!
—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 dwell➀，
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 seen，’
The little Maid replied，
‘Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door，
And they are side by side.
‘My stockings there I often knit，
My kerchief there I hem；
And there upon the ground I sit，
And sing a song to them.
‘And often after sunset，Sir，
When it is light and fair，
I take my little porringer，
And eat my supper there.
‘The first that died was sister Jane；
In bed she moaning lay，
Till God released her of her pain；
And then she went away.
‘So in the church-yard she was laid；
And，when the grass was dry，
Together round her grave we played，
My brother John and I.
‘And when the ground was white with snow，
And I could run and slide，
My brother John was forced to go，
And he lies by her side.’
‘How many are you，then，’said I，
‘If they two are in heaven?’
Quick was the little Maid’s reply，
‘O Master! we are seven.’
‘But they are dead；those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!’
'Twas throwing words away；for still
The little Maid would have her will，
And said，‘Nay，we are seven!’
The dew was falling fast，the stars began to blink；
I heard a voice；it said，“Drink，pretty creature，drink!”
And，looking over the hedge，before me I espied
A snow-white mountain-lamb with a Maiden at its side.
Nor sheep nor kine were near；the lamb was all alone，
And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone；
With one knee on the grass did the the little Maiden kneel，
While to that mountan-lamb she gave its evening meal.
The lamb，while from her hand he thus his supper took，
Seemed to feast with head and ears；and his tail with pleasure shook.
“Drink，pretty creature，drink，”she said in such a tone
That I almost received her heart into my own.
’Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite，a child of beauty rare!
I watched them with delight，they were a lovely pair.
Now with her empty can the Maiden tuened away：
But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay.
Right towards the lamb she looked；and from a shady place
I unobserved could see the workings of her face：
If Nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring，
Thus，thought I，to her lamb that little Maid might sing：
“What ails thee，young One? What? Why pull so at thy cord?
Is it not well with thee? well both for bed and board?
Thy plot of grass is soft，and green as grass can be；
Rest，little young One，rest，what is’t that aileth thee?
“What is it thou wouldst seek? What is wanting to thy heart?
Thy limbs，are they not strong? And beautiful thou art：
This grass is tender grass；these flowers they have no peers；
And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears!
“If the sun be shining hot，do but stretch thy woolen chain，
This beech is standing by，its covert thou canst gain；
For rain and mountain-storms! The like thou need’st not fear，
The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here.
“Rest，little young One，rest；thou hast forgot the day
When my father found thee first in places far away；
Many flocks were on the hills，but thou wert owned by none，
And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone.
“He took thee in his arms，and in pity brought thee home：
A blessed day for thee! Then whither wouldst thou roam?
A faithful nurse thou hast；the dam that did thee yean
Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could have been.
“Thou know’st that twice a day I have brought thee in this can
Frsh water from the brook，as clear as ever ran；
And twice in the day，when the ground is wet with dew，
I bring thee draughts of milk，warm milk it is and new.
“Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now，
Then I’ll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough；
My playmate thou shalt be；and when the wind is cold，
Our hearth shall be thy bed，our house shall be thy fold.
“It will not，will not rset!—poor creature，can it be
That’tis thy mother’s heart which is working so in thee?
Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear，
And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear.
“Alas，the mountain-tops that look so green and fair!
I’ve heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there；
The little brooks that seem all pastime and all play，
When they are angry，roar like lions for their prey.
“Here thou need’st not dread the raven in the sky；
Night and day thou art safe，—our cottage is hard by.
Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain?
sleep—and at break of day I will come to thee again!”
—As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet，
This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat；
And it seemed，as I retraced the ballad line by line，
That but half of it was hers，and one half of it was mine.
Again，and once again，did I repeat the song；
“Nay，”said I，“more than half to the damsel must belong，
For she looked with such a look，and she spake with such a tone，
That I almost received her heart into my own.”
Let other bards of angels sing➀，
Bright suns without a spot；
But thou art no such perfect thing：
Rejoice that thou art not!
Heed not tho’none should call thee fair；
So，Mary，let it be
If nought in loveliness compare
With what thou art to me.
True beauty dwells in deep retreats，
Whose veil is unremoved
Till heart with heart in concord beats，
And the lover is beloved.
➀“天使”，指“别的歌手”所爱慕的女子。
作者: 林水云风 时间: 2015-12-3 11:42
9
致——
让别人去歌唱他们的天使吧，
就像太阳明亮无瑕；
我知道你并不是完美无缺，
我喜欢你朴实无华！
不要在乎是否有人叫你美女，
玛丽，一定要随意，
因你在我心上的那漂亮
那是没有人能相比。
真美总是隐居在幽径深巷，
要等两心互慕碰撞，
遂激起彼此深深的相亲相爱，
那层蒙纱才会卸妆。
作者: 林水云风 时间: 2015-12-4 12:03
10
（Untitled）
What heavenly smiles! O Lady mine，
Through my very heart they shine；
And，if my brow gives back their light，
Do thou look gladly on the sight；
As the clear Moon with modest pride
Beholds her own bright beams
Reflected from the mountain’s side
And from the headlong streams.
If from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll➀，
You will suppose that with an upright path
Your feet must struggle；in such bold ascent
The pastoral mountains front you，face to face.
But，courage! for around that boisterous brook
The mountains have all opened out themselves，
And made a hidden valley of their own.
No habitation can be seen；but they
Who journey thither find themselves alone
With a few sheep，with rocks and stones，and kites
That overhead are sailing in the sky.
It is in truth an utter solitude；
Nor should I have made mention of this Dell
But for one object which you might pass by，
Might see and notice not. Beside the brook
Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones!
And to that simple object appertains
A story—unenriched with strange events，
Yet not unfit，I deem，for the fireside，
Or for the summer shade. It was the first
Of those domestic tales that spake to me
Of shepherds，dwellers in the valleys，men
Whom I already loved；not verily
For their own sakes，but for the fields and hills
Where was their occupation and abode.
And hence this Tale，while I was yet a Boy
Careless of books，yet having felt the power
Of Nature，by the gentle agency
Of natural objects，led me on to feel
For passions that were not my own，and think
(At random and imperfectly indeed)
On man，the heart of man，and human life.
Therefore，although it be a history
Homely and rude，I will relate the same
For the delight of a few natural hearts；
And，with yet fonder feeling，for the sake
Of youthful Poets，who among these hills
Will be my second self when I am gone.
作者: 林水云风 时间: 2015-12-6 14:46
Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale➁
There dwelt a Shepherd，Michael was his name；
An old man，stout of heart，and strong of limb.
His bodily frame had been from youth to age
Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen，
Intense，and frugal，apt for all affairs，
And in his shepherd’s calling he was prompt
And watchful more than ordinary men.
Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds，
Of blasts of every tone；and，oftentimes，
When others heeded not，He heard the South
Make subterraneous music，like the noise
Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills.
The Shepherd，at such warning，of his flock
Bethought him，and he to himself would say，
‘The winds are now devising work for me!’
And，truly，at all times，the storm，that drives
The traveller to a shelter，summoned him
Up to the mountains: he had been alone
Amid the heart of many thousand mists，
That came to him，and left him，on the heights.
So lived he till his eightieth year was past.
And grossly that man errs，who should suppose
That the green valleys，and the streams and rocks，
Were things indifferent to the Shepherd’s thoughts.
Fields，where with cheerful spirits he had breathed
The common air；hills，which with vigorous step
He had so often climbed；which had impressed
So many incidents upon his mind
Of hardship，skill or courage，joy or fear；
Which，like a book，preserved the memory
Of the dumb animals，whom he had saved，
Had fed or sheltered，linking to such acts
The certainty of honourable gain；
Those fields，those hills--what could they less? had laid
Strong hold on his affections，were to him
A pleasurable feeling of blind love，
The pleasure which there is in life itself.
作者: 林水云风 时间: 2015-12-7 12:03
His days had not been passed in singleness.
His Helpmate was a comely matron，old—
Though younger than himself full twenty years.
She was a woman of a stirring life，
Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had
Of antique form，this large，for spinning wool；
That small，for flax；and if one wheel had rest，
It was because the other was at work.
The Pair had but one inmate in their house，
An only Child，who had been born to them
When Michael，telling o’er his years，began
To deem that he was old，—in shepherd’s phrase，
With one foot in the grave. This only Son，
With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm，
The one of an inestimable worth，
Made all their household. I may truly say，
That they were as a proverb in the vale
For endless industry. When day was gone，
And from their occupations out of doors
The Son and Father were come home，even then，
Their labour did not cease；unless when all
Turned to the cleanly supper-board，and there，
Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk，
Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes，
And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the meal
Was ended，Luke (for so the Son was named)
And his old Father both betook themselves
To such convenient work as might employ
Their hands by the fireside；perhaps to card
Wool for the Housewife’s spindle，or repair
Some injury done to sickle，flail，or scythe，
Or other implement of house or field.
作者: 林水云风 时间: 2015-12-8 11:23
Down from the ceiling，by the chimney’s edge，
That in our ancient uncouth country style
With huge and black projection overbrowed
Large space beneath，as duly as the light
Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp；
An aged utensil，which had performed
Service beyond all others of its kind.
Early at evening did it burn—and late，
Surviving comrade of uncounted hours，
Which，going by from year to year，had found，
And left，the couple neither gay perhaps
Nor cheerful，yet with objects and with hopes，
Living a life of eager industry.
And now，when Luke had reached his eighteenth year，
There by the light of this old lamp they sate，
Father and Son，while far into the night
The Housewife plied her own peculiar work，
Making the cottage through the silent hours
Murmur as with the sound of summer flies.
This light was famous in its neighbourhood，
And was a public symbol of the life
That thrifty Pair had lived. For，as it chanced，
Their cottage on a plot of rising ground
Stood single，with large prospect，north and south，
High into Easedale，up to Dunmail-Raise，
And westward to the village near the lake；
And from this constant light，so regular，
And so far seen，the House itself，by all
Who dwelt within the limits of the vale，
Both old and young，was named THE EVENING STAR.
作者: 林水云风 时间: 2015-12-9 14:08
Thus living on through such a length of years，
The Shepherd，if he loved himself，must needs
Have loved his Helpmate；but to Michael’s heart
This son of his old age was yet more dear—
Less from instinctive tenderness，the same
Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all—
Than that a child，more than all other gifts
That earth can offer to declining man，
Brings hope with it，and forward-looking thoughts，
And stirrings of inquietude，when they
By tendency of nature needs must fail.
Exceeding was the love he bare to him，
His heart and his heart’s joy! For oftentimes
Old Michael，while he was a babe in arms，
Had done him female service，not alone
For pastime and delight，as is the use
Of fathers，but with patient mind enforced
To acts of tenderness；and he had rocked
His cradle，as with a woman’s gentle hand.
作者: 林水云风 时间: 2015-12-10 11:39
And，in a later time，ere yet the Boy
Had put on boy's attire，did Michael love，
Albeit of a stern unbending mind，
To have the Young-one in his sight，when he
Wrought in the field，or on his shepherd’s stool
Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched
Under the large old oak，that near his door
Stood single，and，from matchless depth of shade，
Chosen for the Shearer’s covert from the sun，
Thence in our rustic dialect was called
The CLIPPING TREE，a name which yet it bears.
There，while they two were sitting in the shade，
With others round them，earnest all and blithe，
Would Michael exercise his heart with looks
Of fond correction and reproof bestowed
Upon the Child，if he disturbed the sheep
By catching at their legs，or with his shouts
Scared them，while they lay still beneath the shears.
作者: 林水云风 时间: 2015-12-11 12:12
And when by Heaven’s good grace the boy grew up
A healthy Lad，and carried in his cheek
Two steady roses that were five years old；
Then Michael from a winter coppice cut
With his own hand a sapling，which he hooped
With iron，making it throughout in all
Due requisites a perfect shepherd’s staff，
And gave it to the Boy；wherewith equipt
He as a watchman oftentimes was placed
At gate or gap，to stem or turn the flock；
And，to his office prematurely called，
There stood the urchin，as you will divine，
Something between a hindrance and a help；
And for this cause not always，I believe，
Receiving from his Father hire of praise；
Though nought was left undone which staff，or voice，
Or looks，or threatening gestures，could perform.
作者: 林水云风 时间: 2015-12-12 12:44
But soon as Luke，full ten years old，could stand
Against the mountain blasts；and to the heights，
Not fearing toil，nor length of weary ways，
He with his Father daily went，and they
Were as companions，why should I relate
That objects which the Shepherd loved before
Were dearer now? that from the Boy there came
Feelings and emanations—things which were
Light to the sun and music to the wind；
And that the old Man’s heart seemed born again?
Thus in his Father’s sight the Boy grew up:
And now，when he had reached his eighteenth year，
He was his comfort and his daily hope.
作者: 林水云风 时间: 2015-12-13 11:28
While in this sort the simple household lived
From day to day，to Michael’s ear there came
Distressful tidings. Long before the time
Of which I speak，the Shepherd had been bound
In surety for his brother’s son，a man
Of an industrious life，and ample means；
But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly
Had prest upon him；and old Michael now
Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture，
A grievous penalty，but little less
Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim，
At the first hearing，for a moment took
More hope out of his life than he supposed
That any old man ever could have lost.
As soon as he had armed himself with strength
To look his trouble in the face，it seemed
The Shepherd’s sole resource to sell at once
A portion of his patrimonial fields.
Such was his first resolve；he thought again，
And his heart failed him.‘Isabel，’said he，
Two evenings after he had heard the news，
‘I have been toiling more than seventy years，
And in the open sunshine of God’s love
Have we all lived；yet if these fields of ours
Should pass into a stranger’s hand，I think
That I could not lie quiet in my grave.
Our lot is a hard lot；the sun himself
Has scarcely been more diligent than I；
And I have lived to be a fool at last
To my own family. An evil man
That was，and made an evil choice，if he
Were false to us；and，if he were not false，
There are ten thousand to whom loss like this
Had been no sorrow. I forgive him；—but
’Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus.
作者: 林水云风 时间: 2015-12-14 12:12
When I began，my purpose was to speak
Of remedies and of a cheerful hope.
Our Luke shall leave us，Isabel；the land
Shall not go from us，and it shall be free；
He shall possess it，free as is the wind
That passes over it. We have，thou know’st，
Another kinsman—he will be our friend
In this distress. He is a prosperous man，
Thriving in trade—and Luke to him shall go，
And with his kinsman’s help and his own thrift
He quickly will repair this loss，and then
He may return to us. If here he stay，
What can be done? Where every one is poor，
What can be gained?’
作者: 林水云风 时间: 2015-12-15 11:29
At this the old Man paused，
And Isabel sat silent，for her mind
Was busy，looking back into past times.
There’s Richard Bateman，thought she to herself，
He was a parish-boy—at the church-door
They made a gathering for him，shillings，pence，
And halfpennies，wherewith the neighbours bought
A basket，which they filled with pedlar’s wares；
And，with this basket on his arm，the lad
Went up to London，found a master there，
Who，out of many，chose the trusty boy
To go and overlook his merchandise
Beyond the seas；where he grew wondrous rich，
And left estates and monies to the poor，
And，at his birth-place，built a chapel floored
With marble，which he sent from foreign lands➀.
These thoughts，and many others of like sort，
Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel，
And her face brightened. The old Man was glad，
And thus resumed:—‘Well，Isabel! this scheme
These two days has been meat and drink to me.
Far more than we have lost is left us yet.
We have enough—I wish indeed that I
Were younger；—but this hope is a good hope.
Make ready Luke’s best garments，of the best
Buy for him more，and let us send him forth
To-morrow，or the next day，or to-night:
—If he could go，the Boy should go tonight.’
谢谢月下，多提意见。作者: 林水云风 时间: 2015-12-16 12:11
Here Michael ceased，and to the fields went forth
With a light heart. The Housewife for five days
Was restless morn and night，and all day long
Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare
Things needful for the journey of her son.
But Isabel was glad when Sunday came
To stop her in her work: for，when she lay
By Michael’s side，she through the last two nights
Heard him，how he was troubled in his sleep:
And when they rose at morning she could see
That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon
She said to Luke，while they two by themselves
Were sitting at the door，‘Thou must not go:
We have no other Child but thee to lose，
None to remember—do not go away，
For if thou leave thy Father he will die.’
The Youth made answer with a jocund voice；
And Isabel，when she had told her fears，
Recovered heart. That evening her best fare
Did she bring forth，and all together sat
Like happy people round a Christmas fire.
作者: 林水云风 时间: 2015-12-17 13:35
With daylight Isabel resumed her work；
And all the ensuing week the house appeared
As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length
The expected letter from their kinsman came，
With kind assurances that he would do
His utmost for the welfare of the Boy；
To which，requests were added，that forthwith
He might be sent to him. Ten times or more
The letter was read over；Isabel
Went forth to show it to the neighbours round；
Nor was there at that time on English land
A prouder heart than Luke’s. When Isabel
Had to her house returned，the old Man said，
‘He shall depart to-morrow.’To this word
The Housewife answered，talking much of things
Which，if at such short notice he should go，
Would surely be forgotten. But at length
She gave consent，and Michael was at ease.
作者: 林水云风 时间: 2015-12-18 13:29
Near the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll，
In that deep valley，Michael had designed
To build a Sheep-fold；and，before he heard➁
The tidings of his melancholy loss，
For this same purpose he had gathered up
A heap of stones，which by the streamlet’s edge
Lay thrown together，ready for the work.
With Luke that evening thitherward he walked；
And soon as they had reached the place he stopped，
And thus the old Man spake to him:—‘My Son，
To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full heart
I look upon thee，for thou art the same
That wert a promise to me ere thy birth，
And all thy life hast been my daily joy.
I will relate to thee some little part
Of our two histories；’twill do thee good
When thou art from me，even if I should touch
On things thou canst not know of.—After thou
First cam’st into the world—as oft befalls
To new-born infants—thou didst sleep away
Two days，and blessings from thy Father’s tongue
Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on，
And still I loved thee with increasing love.
Never to living ear came sweeter sounds
Than when I heard thee by our own fireside
First uttering，without words，a natural tune；
While thou，a feeding babe，didst in thy joy
Sing at thy Mother’s breast. Month followed month，
And in the open fields my life was passed
And on the mountains；else I think that thou
Hadst been brought up upon thy Father’s knees.
But we were playmates，Luke: among these hills，
As well thou knowest，in us the old and young
Have played together，nor with me didst thou
Lack any pleasure which a boy can know.’
Luke had a manly heart；but at these words
He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand，
And said，‘Nay，do not take it so—I see
That these are things of which I need not speak.
—Even to the utmost I have been to thee
A kind and a good Father: and herein
I but repay a gift which I myself
Received at others’hands；for，though now old
Beyond the common life of man，I still
Remember them who loved me in my youth.
Both of them sleep together: here they lived，
As all their Forefathers had done；and when
At length their time was come，they were not loth
To give their bodies to the family mould.
I wished that thou shouldst live the life they lived，
But’tis a long time to look back，my Son，
And see so little gain from threescore years.
These fields were burthened when they came to me；
Till I was forty years of age，not more
Than half of my inheritance was mine.
I toiled and toiled；God blessed me in my work，
And till these three weeks past the land was free➂.
—It looks as if it never could endure
Another Master. Heaven forgive me，Luke，
If I judge ill for thee，but it seems good
That thou shouldst go.’
作者: 林水云风 时间: 2015-12-19 12:16
At this the old Man paused；
Then，pointing to the stones near which they stood，
Thus，after a short silence，he resumed:
‘This was a work for us；and now，my Son，
It is a work for me. But，lay one stone—
Here，lay it for me，Luke，with thine own hands.
Nay，Boy，be of good hope；—we both may live
To see a better day. At eighty-four
I still am strong and hale；—do thou thy part；
I will do mine.—I will begin again
With many tasks that were resigned to thee:
Up to the heights，and in among the storms，
Will I without thee go again，and do
All works which I was wont to do alone，
Before I knew thy face.—Heaven bless thee，Boy!
Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast
With many hopes；it should be so—yes—yes—
I knew that thou couldst never have a wish
To leave me，Luke: thou hast been bound to me
Only by links of love: when thou art gone，
What will be left to us!—But，I forget
My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone，
As I requested；and hereafter，Luke，
When thou art gone away，should evil men
Be thy companions，think of me，my Son，
And of this moment；hither turn thy thoughts，
And God will strengthen thee: amid all fear
And all temptation，Luke，I pray that thou
May’st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived，
Who， being innocent，did for that cause
Bestir them in good deeds. Now，fare thee well—
When thou return’st，thou in this place wilt see
A work which is not here: a covenant
’Twill be between us；but，whatever fate
Befall thee，I shall love thee to the last，
And bear thy memory with me to the grave.’
作者: 林水云风 时间: 2015-12-20 12:23
The Shepherd ended here；and Luke stooped down，
And，as his Father had requested，laid
The first stone of the Sheepfold. At the sight
The old Man’s grief broke from him；to his heart
He pressed his Son，he kissed him and wept；
And to the house together they returned.
—Hushed was that House in peace，or seeming peace
Ere the night fell:—with morrow’s dawn the Boy
Began his journey，and，when he had reached
The public way，he put on a bold face；
And all the neighbours，as he passed their doors，
Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers，
That followed him till he was out of sight.
作者: 林水云风 时间: 2015-12-21 12:24
A good report did from their Kinsman come，
Of Luke and his well-doing: and the Boy
Wrote loving letters，full of wondrous news，
Which，as the Housewife phrased it，were throughout
‘The prettiest letters that were ever seen.’
Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts.
So，many months passed on: and once again
The Shepherd went about his daily work
With confident and cheerful thoughts；and now
Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour
He to that valley took his way，and there
Wrought at the Sheepfold. Meantime Luke began
To slacken in his duty；and，at length，
He in the dissolute city gave himself
To evil courses: ignominy and shame
Fell on him，so that he was driven at last
To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas.
作者: 林水云风 时间: 2015-12-22 12:57
There is a comfort in the strength of love；
’Twill make a thing endurable，which else
Would overset the brain，or break the heart:
I have conversed with more than one who well
Remember the old Man，and what he was
Years after he had heard this heavy news.
His bodily frame had been from youth to age
Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks
He went，and still looked up to sun and cloud，
And listened to the wind；and，as before，
Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep，
And for the land，his small inheritance.
And to that hollow dell from time to time
Did he repair，to build the Fold of which
His flock had need. ’Tis not forgotten yet
The pity which was then in every heart
For the old Man—and’tis believed by all
That many and many a day he thither went，
And never lifted up a single stone.
作者: 林水云风 时间: 2015-12-23 13:43
There，by the Sheepfold，sometimes was he seen
Sitting alone，or with his faithful Dog，
Then old，beside him，lying at his feet.
The length of full seven years，from time to time，
He at the building of this Sheepfold wrought，
And left the work unfinished when he died.
Three years，or little more，did Isabel
Survive her Husband: at her death the estate
Was sold，and went into a stranger’s hand.
The Cottage which was named the EVENING STAR
Is gone—the ploughshare has been through the ground
On which it stood；great changes have been wrought
In all the neighbourhood:—yet the oak is left
That grew beside their door；and the remains
Of the unfinished Sheepfold may be seen
Beside the boisterous brook of Greenhead Ghyll.
‘Begone，thou fond presumptuous Elf，’
Exclaimed an angry Voice，
‘Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self
Between me and my choice!’
A small Cascade fresh swoln with snows
Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose，
That，all bespattered with his foam，
And dancing high and dancing low，
Was living，as a child might know，
In an unhappy home.
‘Dost thou presume my course to block?
Off，off! Or，puny Thing!
I’ll hurl thee headlong with the rock
To which thy fibres cling.’
The Flood was tyrannous and strong；
The patient Briar suffered long，
Nor did he utter groan or sigh，
Hoping the danger would be past；
But，seeing no relief，at last，
He ventured to reply.
‘Ah!’said the Briar，‘blame me not；
Why should we dwell in strife?
We who in this sequestered spot
Once lived a happy life!
You stirred me on my rocky bed—
What pleasure through my veins you spread
The summer long，from day to day，
My leaves you freshened and bedewed；
Nor was it common gratitude
That did your cares repay.
‘When spring came on with bud and bell，
Among these rocks did I
Before you hang my wreaths to tell
That gentle days were nigh!
And in the sultry summer hours
I sheltered you with leaves and flowers；
And in my leaves—now shed and gone，
The linnet lodged，and for us two
Chanted his pretty songs，when you
Had little voice or none.
‘But now proud thoughts are in your breast—
What grief is mine you see，
Ah! would you think，even yet how blest
Together we might be!
Though of both leaf and flower bereft，
Some ornaments to me are left—
Rich store of scarlet hips is mine，
With which I，in my humble way，
Would deck you many a winter day，
A happy Eglantine!’
What more he said I cannot tell，
The Torrent down the rocky dell
Came thundering loud and fast；
I listened，nor aught else could hear；
The Briar quaked—and much I fear
Those accents were his last.
Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
Their snow-white blossoms on my head，
With brightest sunshine round me spread
Of spring’s unclouded weather，
In this sequestered nook how sweet
To sit upon my orchard-seat!
And birds and flowers once more to greet，
My last year’s friends together.
One have I marked，the happiest guest
In all this covert of the blest:
Hail to Thee，far above the rest
In joy of voice and pinion!
Thou，Linnet! in thy green array，
Presiding Spirit here to-day，
Dost lead the revels of the May；
And this is thy dominion.
While birds，and butterflies，and flowers，
Make all one band of paramours，
Thou，ranging up and down the bowers，
Art sole in thy employment:
A Life，a Presence like the Air，
Scattering thy gladness without care，
Too blest with any one to pair；
Thyself thy own enjoyment.
Amid yon tuft of hazel trees，
That twinkle to the gusty breeze，
Behold him perched in ecstasies，
Yet seeming still to hover；
There! where the flutter of his wings
Upon his back and body flings
Shadows and sunny glimmerings，
That cover him all over.
My dazzled sight he oft deceives，
A Brother of the dancing leaves；
Then flits，and from the cottage-eaves
Pours forth his song in gushes；
As if by that exulting strain
He mocked and treated with disdain
The voiceless Form he chose to feign，
While fluttering in the bushes.
Swiftly turn the murmuring wheel!
Night has brought the welcome hour，
When the weary fingers feel
Help，as if from faery power；
Dewy night o’ershades the ground，
Turn the swift wheel round and round!
Now，beneath the starry sky，
Couch the widely-scattered sheep；
Ply the pleasant labour ply!
For the spindle，while they sleep，
Runs with speed more smooth and fine，
Gathering up a trustier line.
Short-lived likings may be bred
By a glance from fickle eyes；
But true love is like the thread
Which the kindly wool supplies，
When the flocks are all at rest，
Sleeping on the mountain’s breast.
As often as I murmur here
My half-formed melodies，
Straight from her osier mansion near，
The Turtledove replies:
Though silent as a leaf before，
The captive promptly coos；
Is it to teach her own soft lore，
Or second my weak Muse?
I rather think the gentle Dove
Is murmuring a reproof，
Displeased that I from lays of love
Have dared to keep aloof；
That I，a Bard of hill and dale，
Have carolled，fancy free，
As if nor dove nor nightingale
Had heart or voice for me➀.
If such thy meaning，O forbear，
Sweet Bird! to do me wrong；
Love，blessed Love，is everywhere
The spirit of my song:
‘Mid grove，and by the calm fireside，
Love animates my lyre—
That coo again!—’tis not to chide，
I feel，but to inspire.
O Blithe New-comer! I have heard，
I hear thee and rejoice.
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird，
Or but a wandering Voice?
While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear，
From hill to hill it seems to pass，
At once far off，and near.
Though babbling only to the Vale，
Of sunshine and of flowers，
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome，darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird，but an invisible thing，
A voice，a mystery；
The same whom in my school-boy days
I listened to；that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush，and tree，and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green；
And thou wert still a hope，a love；
Still longed for，never seen.
And I can listen to thee yet；
Can lie upon the plain
And listen，till I do beget
That golden time again.
O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial，faery place；
That is fit home for Thee!
作者: 林水云风 时间: 2016-1-4 12:59
16
致杜鹃
欢迎贵客，我听到了，
一听到你叫，我就高兴；
啊，杜鹃，我该称你为鸟，
还是叫你为飘动之声？
当我躺在草地上，
听你那咕咕的婉转，
就仿佛是从这山传到那山，
近在身边，又在遥远。
虽然你只是向山谷倾诉，
赞美阳光和花朵，
可是你却让我听到一个，
一个梦幻间的传说。
再次欢迎你，春之骄子，
我仍然觉得你
不是鸟，是无形之物，
是声音，是神秘。
这声音仍与我儿时听到的
一模一样，我悄悄
在丛中、树上、天空
千百遍把你寻找。
我经常游荡去找你，
穿过树林，踏过草地，
可你仍就是希望，是心爱，
被追寻，却不见踪迹。
如今，我躺在草地上，
仍能听见你的歌声，
我仔细地听，心中渐渐
又浮起那昔日金色的光景。
啊，你这神灵的鸟，
我们足下的山川
似乎又成了虚幻的仙境，
正是你的家园。
作者: 林水云风 时间: 2016-1-5 11:13
17
（Untitled）➀
Three years she grew in sun and shower，
Then Nature said，’A lovelier flower
On earth was never sown；
This Child I to myself will take；
She shall be mine，and I will make
A Lady of my own➁.
‘Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse: and with me
The Girl，in rock and plain
In earth and heaven，in glade and bower，
Shall feel an overseeing power
To kindle or restrain.
‘She shall be sportive as the fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn
Or up the mountain springs；
And her’s shall be the breathing balm，
And her’s the silence and the calm
Of mute insensate things.
‘The floating clouds their state shall lend
To her；for her the willow bend；
Nor shall she fail to see
Even in the motions of the Storm
Grace that shall mold the Maiden’s form
By silent sympathy.
‘The stars of midnight shall be dear
To her；and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place
Where rivulets dance their wayward round，
And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face.
‘And vital feelings of delight
Shall rear her form to stately height，
Her virgin bosom swell；
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live
Here in this happy dell.’
Thus Nature spake—The work was done—
How soon my Lucy’s race was run!
She died，and left to me
This heath，this calm，and quiet scene；
The memory of what has been，
And never more will be.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills，
When all at once I saw a crowd，
A host，of golden daffodils；
Beside the lake，beneath the trees，
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way，
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance，
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced；but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay，
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft，when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood，
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude；
And then my heart with pleasure fills，
And dances with the daffodils.
At the corner of Wood Street，when daylight appears➁，
Hangs a Thrush that sings loud，it has sung for three years:
Poor Susan has passed by the spot，and has heard
In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.
‘Tis a note of enchantment；what ails her? She sees
A mountain ascending，a vision of trees；
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide，
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale，
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 colours have all passed away from her eyes!
Written in March
While Resting on the Bridge at the Foot of Brother’s Water
The Cock is crowing，
The stream is flowing，
The small birds twitter，
The lake doth glitter，
The green field sleeps in the sun；
The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest；
The cattle are grazing，
Their heads never raising；
There are forty feeding like one!
Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated，
And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill；
The ploughboy is whooping—anon—anon:
There’s joy in the mountains；
There’s life in the fountains；
Small clouds are sailing，
Blue sky prevailing；
The rain is over and gone➀!
Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water，about five miles from Richmond in Yorkshire，and near the side of the road that leads from Richmond to Askrigg. Its name is derived from a remarkable chase，the memory of which is preserved by the monuments spoken of in the second Part of the following Poem，which monuments do now exist as I have there described them➀.
Part First
The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor➁
With the slow motion of a summer’s cloud，
And now，as he approached a Vassal’s door，
‘Bring another Horse!’he cried aloud.
‘Another Horse!’—That shout the Vassal heard
And saddled his best Steed，a comely Grey；
Sir Walter mounted him；he was the third
Which he had mounted on that glorious day.
Joy sparkeled in the prancing Courser’s eyes；
The horse and horseman are a happy pair；
But，though Sir Walter like a falcon flies，
There is a doleful silence in the air.
A rout this morning left Sir Walter’s Hall，
That as they galloped made the echoes roar；
But horse and man are vanish’d，one and all；
Such race，I think，was never seen before.
Sir Walter，restless as a veering wind，
Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain:
Brach，Swift，and Music，noblest of their kind➂，
Follow，and up the weary mountain strain.
The Knight hallooed，he cheered and chid them on
With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern；
But breath and eyesight fail；and，one by one，
The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern.
Where is the throng，the tumult of the race?
The bugles that so joyfully were blown?
—This chase it looks not like an earthly chase；
Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone.
The poor Hart toils along the mountain side；
I will not stop to tell how far he fled，
Nor will I mention by what death he died；
But now the Knight beholds him lying dead.
Dismounting then，he leaned against a thorn；
He had no follower，dog，nor man，nor boy:
He neither cracked his whip，nor blew his horn，
But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.
Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned
Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat；
Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned；
And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet.
Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched:
His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill，
And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched
The waters of the spring were trembling still.
And now，too happy for repose or rest，
（never had living man such joyful lot!）
Sir Walter walked all round，north，south，and west，
And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot.
And climbing up the hill—（it was at least
Four roods of sheer ascent）Sir Walter found
Three several hoof-marks which the hunted Beast
Had left imprinted on the grassy ground.
Sir Walter wiped his face，and cried，‘Till now
Such sight was never seen by human eyes:
Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow
Down to the very fountain where he lies.
‘I’ll build a pleasure-house upon this spot，
And a small arbour，made for rural joy；
’Twill be the traveller’s shed，the pilgrim’s cot，
A place of love for damsels that are coy.
‘A cunning Artist will I have to frame
A basin for that fountain in the dell!
And they who do make mention of the same，
From this day forth，shall call it Hart-leap Well.
‘And，gallant Stag! to make thy praises known，
Another monument shall here be raised；
Three several pillars，each a rough-hewn stone，
And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed.
‘And in the summer-time，when days are long，
I will come hither with my paramour；
And with the dancers and the minstrel’s song
We will make merry in that pleasant bower.
‘Till the foundations of the mountains fail
My mansion with its arbour shall endure；—
The joy of them who till the fields of Swale，
And them who dwell among the woods of Ure➃!’
Then home he went，and left the Hart stone-dead，
With breathless nostrils stretched above the spring.
—Soon did the Knight perform what he had said；
And far and wide the fame thereof did ring.
Ere thrice the Moon into her port had steered，
A cup of stone received the living well；
Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared，
And built a house of pleasure in the dell.
And，near the fountain，flowers of stature tall
With trailing plants and trees were intertwined，—
Which soon composed a little sylvan hall，
A leafy shelter from the sun and wind.
And thither，when the summer days were long，
Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour；
And with the dancers and the minstrel’s song
Made merriment within that pleasant bower.
The Knight，Sir Walter，died in course of time，
And his bones lie in his paternal vale.—
But there is matter for a second rhyme，
And I to this would add another tale.
The moving accident is not my trade；
To freeze the blood I have no ready arts：
’Tis my delight，alone in summer shade，
To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair➄，
It chanced that I saw standing in a dell
Three aspens at three corners of a square；
And one，not four yards distant，near a well.
What this imported I could ill divine：
And，pulling now the rein my horse to stop，
I saw three pillars standing in a line，—
The last stone-pillar on a dark hill-top.
The trees were grey，with neither arms nor head；
Half-wasted the square mound of tawny green；
So that you just might say，as then I said，
‘Here in old time the hand of man hath been.’
I looked upon the hill both far and near，
More doleful place did never eye survey；
It seemed as if the spring-time came not here，
And Nature here were willing to decay.
I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost，
When one，who was in Shepherd’s garb attired，
Came up the hollow：—him did I accost，
And what this place might be I then enquired.
The Shepherd stopped，and that same story told
Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed➅.
‘A jolly place，’said he，‘in times of old!
But something ails it now：the spot is curst.
‘You see these lifeless stumps of aspen wood—
Some say that they are beeches，others elms—
These were the bower；and here a mansion stood，
The finest palace of a hundred realms!
‘The arbour does its own condition tell；
You see the stones，the fountain，and the stream；
But as to the great Lodge! you might as well
Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.
‘There’s neither dog nor heifer，horse nor sheep，
Will wet his lips within that cup of stone；
And oftentimes，when all are fast asleep，
This water doth send forth a dolorous groan.
‘Some say that here a murder has been done，
And blood cries out for blood: but，for my part，
I’ve guessed，when I’ve been sitting in the sun，
That it was all for that unhappy Hart.
‘What thoughts must through the creature’s brain have past!
Even from the topmost stone，upon the steep，
Are but three bounds—and look，Sir，at this last—
O Master! it has been a cruel leap.
‘For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race➆；
And in my simple mind we cannot tell
What cause the Hart might have to love this place，
And come and make his death-bed near the well.
‘Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank，
Lulled by the fountain in the summer-tide；
This water was perhaps the first he drank
When he had wandered from his mother’s side.
‘In April here beneath the flowering thorn
He heard the birds their morning carols sing；
And he，perhaps，for aught we know，was born
Not half a furlong from that self-same spring.
‘Now，here is neither grass nor pleasant shade；
The sun on drearier hollow never shone；
So will it be，as I have often said，
Till trees，and stones，and fountain，all are gone.’
‘Grey-headed Shepherd，thou hast spoken well；
Small difference lies between thy creed and mine:
This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell；
His death was mourned by sympathy divine.
‘The Being that is in the clouds and air，
That is in the green leaves among the groves，
Maintains a deep and reverential care
For the unoffending creatures whom he loves➇.
‘The pleasure-house is dust：—behind，before，
This is no common waste，no common gloom；
But Nature，in due course of time，once more
Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom.
‘She leaves these objects to a slow decay，
That what we are，and have been，may be known；
But at the coming of the milder day
These monuments shall all be overgrown.
‘One lesson，Shepherd，let us two divide，
Taught both by what she shows，and what conceals；
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.’
Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey，on Revisiting the Banks of the Wye during a Tour➀
Five years have past；five summers，with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters，rolling from their mountain-springs➁
With a soft inland murmur. —Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs，
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion；and connect
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，
Are clad in one green hue，and lose themselves
’Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
These hedge-rows，hardly hedge-rows，little lines
Of sportive wood run wild：these pastoral farms，
Green to the very door；and wreaths of smoke
Sent up，in silence，from among 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.
These beauteous forms，
Through a long absence，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 have no slight or 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 trust➂，
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 lightened：—that serene and blessed mood，
In which the affections gently lead us on，—
Until，the breath of this corporeal frame
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended，we are laid asleep
In body，and become a living soul:
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony，and the deep power of joy，
We see into the life of things.
If this
Be but a vain belief，yet，oh! how oft—
In darkness and amid the many shapes
Of joyless daylight；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 thro’the woods，
How often has my spirit turned to thee!
And now，with gleams of half-extinguished thought，
With many recognitions dim and faint，
And somewhat of a sad perplexity，
The picture of the mind revives again:
While here I stand，not only with the sense
Of present pleasure，but with pleasing thoughts
That in this moment there is life and food
For future years. And so I dare to hope，
Though changed，no doubt，from what I was when first➃
I came among these hills；when like a roe
I bounded o’er the mountains，by the sides
Of the deep rivers，and the lonely streams，
Wherever nature led: more like a man
Flying from something that he dreads than one
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
（The coarser pleasures of my boyish days，
And their glad animal movements all gone by）
To me was all in all.—I cannot paint
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock，
The mountain，and the deep and gloomy wood，
Their colours and their forms，were then to me
An appetite；a feeling and a love，
That had no need of a remoter charm，
By thought supplied，nor any interest
Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past，
And all its aching joys are now no more，
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I，nor mourn nor murmur；other gifts
Have followed；for such loss，I would believe，
Abundant recompence. For I have learned
To look on nature，not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth；but hearing oftentimes
The still，sad music of humanity，
Nor harsh nor grating，though of ample power
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts；a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused，
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns，
And the round ocean and the living air，
And the blue sky，and in the mind of man：
A motion and a spirit，that impels
All thinking things，all objects of all thought，
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods，
And mountains；and of all that we behold
From this green earth；of all the mighty world
Of eye，and ear，—both what they half create，
And what perceive；well pleased to recognise
In nature and the language of the sense➄
The anchor of my purest thoughts，the nurse，
The guide，the guardian of my heart，and soul
Of all my moral being.
Nor perchance，
If I were not thus taught，should I the more
Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
For thou art with me here upon the banks
Of this fair river；thou my dearest Friend➅，
My dear，dear Friend；and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart，and read
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
May I behold in thee what I was once，
My dear，dear Sister! and this prayer I make，
Knowing that Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her；’tis her privilege，
Through all the years of this our life，to lead
From joy to joy: for she can so inform
The mind that is within us，so impress
With quietness and beauty，and so feed
With lofty thoughts，that neither evil tongues，
Rash judgments，nor the sneers of selfish men，
Nor greetings where no kindness is，nor all
The dreary intercourse of daily life，
Shall e’er prevail against us，or disturb
Our cheerful faith，that all which we behold
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk；
And let the misty mountain-winds be free
To blow against thee: and，in after years，
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure；when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms，
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies；oh! Then，
If solitude，or fear，or pain，or grief，
Should be thy portion，with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me，
And these my exhortations! Nor，perchance—➆
If I should be where I no more can hear
Thy voice，nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
Of past existence—wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together；and that I，so long
A worshipper of Nature，hither came
Unwearied in that service: rather say
With warmer love—oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget，
That after many wanderings，many years
Of absence，these steep woods and lofty cliffs，
And this green pastoral landscape，were to me
More dear，both for themselves and for thy sake!
Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room；
And hermits are contented with their cells；
And students with their pensive citadels；
Maids at the wheel，the weaver at his loom，
Sit blithe and happy；bees that soar for bloom，
High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells➁，
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells➂:
In truth the prison，into which we doom
Ourselves，no prison is: and hence for me，
In sundry moods，’twas pastime to be bound
Within the Sonnet’s scanty plot of ground；
Pleased if some Souls（for such there needs must be）
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty，
Should find brief solace there，as I have found.
Upon the Sight of a Beautifull Picture➀
Painted by Sir G.H. Beaumont，Bart.
Praised be the Art whose subtle power could stay
Yon cloud，and fix it in that glorious shape；
Nor would permit the thin smoke to escape，
Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day；
Which stopped that band of travellers on their way，
Ere they were lost within the shady wood；
And showed the Bark upon the glassy flood
For ever anchored in her sheltering bay.
Soul-soothing Art! whom Morning，Noontide，Even，
Do serve with all their changeful pageantry；
Thou，with ambition modest yet sublime，
Here，for the sight of mortal man，hast given
To one brief moment caught from fleeting time
The appropriate calm of blest eternity➁.
A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by，
One after one；the sound of rain，and bees
Murmuring；the fall of rivers，winds and seas，
Smooth fields，white sheets of water，and pure sky；
I have thought of all by turns，and yet do lie➀
Sleepless! and soon the small birds’melodies
Must hear，first uttered from my orchard trees；
And the first cuckoo’s melancholy cry.
Even thus last night，and two nights more，I lay，
And could not win thee，Sleep! by any stealth:
So do not let me wear to-night away:
Without Thee what is all the morning’s wealth?
Come，blessed barrier between day and day，
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
Surprised by joy—impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport—Oh! with whom
But Thee，deep buried in the silent tomb，
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love，faithful love，recalled thee to my mind—
But how could I forget thee? Through what power，
Even for the least division of an hour，
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss! —That thought’s return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore，
Save one，one only，when I stood forlorn，
Knowing my heart’s best treasure was no more；
That neither present time，nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
It is a beauteous evening，calm and free
The holy time is quiet as a Nun
Breathless with adoration；the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquility；
The gentleness of heaven broods o’er the Sea；
Listen! the mighty Being is awake➀，
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder—everlastingly.
Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here，
If thou appear untouched by solemn thought，
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year➁；
And worshipp’st at the Temple’s inner shrine，
God being with thee when we know it not.
➀ the mighty Being 和下行的his 都指the Sea。
➁亚伯拉罕，《旧约•创世纪》中所说的犹太人的始祖。“亚伯拉罕的胸怀”，意为天国或“极乐世界”，典出《新约•路加福音》第16章。这行诗是说那个女孩终年与大自然脉息相通。下面两行进一步指出：亲近大自然也就是亲近了上帝。