POETRY. 933 
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, 
Haye hung upon the beatings of my heart, 
How oft, in spirit, have I turn’d to thee, 
O Sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the woods, 
How often has my spirit turn’d to thee! 
And now, with gleams of half-extinguish’d thought, 
With many recognitions dim and faint, 
And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 
The piéture 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, 
Tho’ changed, no doubt, from what I was, when first 
I came among these hills ; when, like a rve, 
I bounded o’er the mountains, by the sides 
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, 
Wherever nature led ; more like a map 
Flying from something that he dreads, than one 
Who sought the thing he lov’d. For nature then 
(The coarser pleasure 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 cataraét 
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, or any interest 
Unborrow’d 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 follow’d, for such loss, I would believe, 
Abundant recompence. For I have Jeari’d 
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 eleyated thoughts ; a sense sublime 
Of something far more deeply interfus’d, 
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 
And the round ocean, and the living air, 
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And 
