1. LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE, ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, YET COMMANDING A BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT.
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—Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands
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Far from all human dwelling: what if here
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No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb;
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What if these barren boughs the bee not loves;
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Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves,
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That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind
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By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.
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That piled these stones, and with the mossy sod
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First covered o'er, and taught this aged tree,
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Now wild, to bend its arms in circling shade,
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And lifting up his head, he then would gaze
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On the more distant scene; how lovely 'tis
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Thou seest, and he would gaze till it became
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Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain
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The beauty still more beauteous. Nor, that time,
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Would he forget those beings, to whose minds,
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Warm from the labours of benevolence,
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The world, and man himself, appeared a scene
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Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh
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With mournful joy, to think that others felt
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What he must never feel: and so, lost man!
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On visionary views would fancy feed,
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Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale
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He died, this seat his only monument.
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If thou be one whose heart the holy forms
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Of young imagination have kept pure,
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Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know, that pride,
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Howe'er disguised in its own majesty,
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Is littleness; that he, who feels contempt
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For any living thing, hath faculties
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Which he has never used; that thought with him
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Is in its infancy. The man, whose eye
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Is ever on himself, doth look on one,
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The least of nature's works, one who might move
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The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds
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Unlawful, ever. O, be wiser thou!
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Instructed that true knowledge leads to love,
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True dignity abides with him alone
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Who, in the silent hour of inward thought,
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Can still suspect, and still revere himself,
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