But now here's 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; The Being, that is in the clouds and air, groves, Maintains a deep and reverential care The Pleasure-house is dust:-behind, before, 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 shews, and what conceals, Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels. There was a Boy, ye knew him well, ye Cliffs Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake, Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls That they might answer him. And they would shout Across the wat❜ry vale and shout again Responsive to his call, with quivering peals, And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud Redoubled and redoubled, a wild scene Of mirth and jocund din. And, when it chanced of deep silence mock'd his skill, That pauses Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprize Of mountain torrents, or the visible scene With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, receiv'd Fair are the woods, and beauteous is the spot, The vale where he was born: the Church-yard hangs Upon a slope above the village school, And there along that bank when I have pass'd At evening, I believe, that near his grave A full half-hour together I have stood, Mute—for he died when he was ten years old. |