Of those mutations that extend their sway Throughout the nether sphere! — And if with
I mix more lowly matter; with the thing
Contemplated, describe the Mind and Man
Contemplating; and who, and what he was-
The transitory being that beheld
This vision;
when and where, and how he
Be not this labour useless. If such theme
May sort with highest objects, then - dread
Power!
Whose gracious favour is the primal source
Of all illumination -
may my life
Express the image of a better time,
More wise desires, and simpler manners;
My heart in genuine freedom: - all pure thoughts
Be with me;
so shall thy unfailing love
Guide, and support, and cheer me to the end!
O blithe New-comer! I have heard,
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?
In love and holy passion, shall find these
A simple produce of the common day.
- I, long before the blissful hour arrives,
Would chant, in lonely peace, the spousal verse
Of this great consummation: - and, by words
Which speak of nothing more than what we are,
Would I arouse the sensual from their sleep
Of death, and win the vacant and the vain
To noble raptures; while my voice proclaims
How exquisitely the individual mind
(And the progressive powers perhaps no less
Of the whole species) to the external world
Is fitted: and how exquisitely, too—
Theme this but little heard of among men
The external world is fitted to the mind;
And the creation (by no lower name
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!
But we will downward with the Tweed, Nor turn aside to Yarrow.
"There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
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