Mark that cripple who leans on his crutch; like a tower
That long has lean'd forward, leans hour after hour!
That mother, whose spirit in fetters is bound,

While she dandles the babe in her arms to the sound.
Now, coaches and chariots! roar on like a stream;
Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream:
They are deaf to your murmurs,-they care not for you,
Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye pursue!

MORNING IN THE MOUNTAINS.

He looked

O then what soul was his, when, on the tops
Of the high mountains, he beheld the sun
Rise up, and bathe the world in light!
Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth
And ocean's liquid mass, beneath him lay
In gladness and deep joy. The clouds were touched,
And in their silent faces did he read
Unutterable love. Sound needed none,
Nor any voice of joy; his spirit drank
The spectacle; sensation, soul, and form
All melted into him; they swallowed up
His animal being; in them did he live,
And by them did he live; they were his life.
In such access of mind, in such high hour
Of visitation from the living God,

Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired.
No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request;
Rapt into still communion that transcends
The imperfect offices of prayer and praise,
His mind was a thanksgiving to the Power
That made him; it was blessedness and love.

TINTERN ABBEY.

I have learned

To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity,

Not 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 recognize
In nature and the language of the sense
The anchor of my purest thoughts.

DAFFODILS.

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, dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
That 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 the heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid 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.

EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY,

"Why, William, on that old gray stone,
Thus for the length of half a day,
Why, William, sit you thus alone,
And dream your time away?

"Where are your books? that light bequeath'd
To Beings else forlorn and blind!
Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed
From dead men to their kind.

"You look round on your Mother Earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you;
As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before you!"

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet, I knew not why,
To me my good friend Matthew spake,
And thus I made reply:

"The eye-it cannot choose but see;
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
Against or with our will.

"Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress; That we can feed this mind of ours

In a wise passiveness.

"Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum
Of things forever speaking,
That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking?

"Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,
Conversing as I may,

I sit upon this old gray stone,
And dream my time away."

THE TABLES TURNED.

Up! up! my friend, and quit your books,
Or surely you'll grow double:

Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble?

The sun, above the mountain's head,
A freshening lustre mellow

Through all the long green fields has spread
His first sweet evening yellow.

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life,
There's more of wisdom in it.

But hark, how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth,

Our minds and hearts to bless,—
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,

Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect

Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:
We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art;

Close up those barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.

169.—JERUSALEM THE GOLDEN.

BERNARD OF CLUNY.

The world is very evil; the times are waxing late;
Be sober and keep vigil, the Judge is at the gate;

The Judge who comes in mercy, the Judge who comes in might,
To terminate the evil, to diadem the right.

'Mid power that knows no limit, and wisdom free from bound, There rests a peace untroubled, peace holy and profound. O happy, holy portion, refection for the blest,

True vision of true beauty, sweet cure for all distrest!

Thou hast no shore, fair ocean! thou hast no time, bright day!
Dear fountain of refreshment to pilgrims far away!
Strive, man, to win that glory; toil, man, to gain that light;
Send hope before to grasp it, till hope be lost in sight.
Brief life is here our portion, brief sorrow, short-lived care;
The life that knows no ending, the tearless life, is there!
O happy retribution ! short toil, eternal rest,

For mortals and for sinners, a mansion with the blest!
There grief is turned to pleasure; such pleasure as below
No human voice can utter, no human heart can know;
And after fleshly weakness, and after this world's night,
And after storm and whirlwind, are calm, and joy, and light.
And now we fight the battle, but then shall wear the crown
Of full and everlasting and passionless renown;
And he whom now we trust in shall then be seen and known,
And they that know and see him shall have him for their own.
And now we watch and struggle, and now we live in hope,
And Sion, in her anguish, with Babylon must cope;
But there is David's fountain, and life in fullest glow;
And there the light is golden, and milk and honey flow.

The morning shall awaken, the shadows flee away,
And each true-hearted servant shall shine as doth the day;
For God, our king and portion, in fullness of his grace,
We then shall see forever, and worship face to face.

For thee, O dear, dear country, mine eyes their vigils keep;
For very love beholding thy holy name, they weep.
The mention of thy glory is unction to the breast,

And medicine in sickness, and love, and life, and rest.

O one, O only mansion! O Paradise of joy!

Where tears are ever banished, and smiles have no alloy;
Thy loveliness oppresses all human thought and heart,
And none, O Peace, O Sion, can sing thee as thou art.
With jaspers glow thy bulwarks, thy streets with emeralds blaze;
The sardius and the topaz unite in thee their rays;

Thine ageless walls are bounded with amethyst unpriced;
The saints build up thy fabric, and the corner-stone is Christ.
Jerusalem, the golden! with milk and honey blest;
Beneath thy contemplation sink heart and voice opprest.
I know not, oh, I know not, what joys await us there!
What radiancy of glory! what bliss beyond compare!
They stand, those halls of Sion, all jubilant with song,
And bright with many an angel, and all the martyr throng.
The Prince is ever in them, the daylight is serene;
The pastures of the blesséd are decked in glorious sheen.
There is the throne of David; and there from care released,
The shout of them that triumph, the song of them that feast.
And they, who with their Leader, have conquered in the fight,
Forever and forever are clad in robes of white.

O sweet and blesséd country, the home of God's elect!
O sweet and blesséd country, that eager hearts expect!
Jesus, in mercy bring us to that dear land of rest!
Who art, with God the Father, and Spirit, ever blest.

170.—REPLY TO GRAFTON.

LORD THURLOW.

A. D. 1145.

I am amazed at the attack which the noble duke has made upon me. Yes, my lords, I am amazed at his Grace's speech. The noble duke cannot look before him, behind him, or on either side of him, without seeing some noble peer who owes his seat in this House to his successful exertions in the profession to which I belong. Does he not feel that it is as honorable to owe it to these, as to being the accident of an accident? To all these noble lords the language of the noble duke is as applicable, and as insulting, as it is to myself. But I do not fear to meet it single and alone.

No one venerates the peerage more than I do; but, my lords, I must say that the peerage solicited me,-not I the peerage. Nay, more,-I can say, and will say, that, as a peer of parlia