
430 
WORDSWORTH. 
A hundred times, by rock or bower, 
Kre thus I have lain couched an hour, 
Have I derived from thy sweet power 
Some apprehension ; 
Some steady love; some brief delight ; 
Some memory that has taken flight ; 
Some chime of fancy, wrong or right ; 
Or stray invention. 
If stately passions in me burn, 
And one chance look to thee should turn, 
f drink out of an humbler urn 
A lowlier pleasure ; 
The homely sympathy that heeds 
The common life our nature breeds; 
A wisdom fitted to the needs 
Of hearts at leisure. 
Fresh-smitten by the morning ray, 
When thou art-up, alert and gay, 
Then, cheerful Flower! my spirits play 
With kindred gladness : 
And when, at dusk, by dews opprest 
Thou sink’st, the image of thy rest 
Hath often eased my pensive breast 
Of careful sadness. 
