I turn from you, and listen to the wind,*

Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream Of agony by torture lengthen'd out

That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that ravest without,

Bare crag, or mountain-tairn,† or blasted tree, Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, Or lonely house, long held the witches' home, Methinks were fitter instruments for thee, Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers, Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, Makest Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song, The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds! Thou mighty Poet, even to frenzy bold! What tell'st thou now about?

'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout,

With groans of trampled men,‡ with smarting wounds

At once they groan with pain, and shudder with

the cold!

But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!

*O wherefore did I let it haunt my mind,

This dark distressful dream?

I turn from it, and listen to the wind-1802.

+ Tairn is a small lake, generally if not always applied to the lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of those in the valleys. This address to the Storm-wind will not appear extravagant to those who have heard it at night, and in a mountainous country.

With many groans of men-1802.

And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,

With groans, and tremulous shudderings-all is

over

It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and A tale of less affright,

And temper'd with delight,

As Otway's self had framed the tender lay, 'Tis of a little child

Upon a lonesome wild,

[loud!

Not far from home, but she hath lost her way:
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her
mother hear.

VIII.

'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep: Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep! Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing,

And may this storm be but a mountain-birth, May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, Silent as though they watch'd the sleeping Earth. With light heart may she rise,

Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,*

Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice;

* Here followed in the original version these lines :

"And sing his lofty song, and teach me to rejoice!

O Edmund, friend of my devoutest choice,

O raised from anxious dread and busy care
By the immenseness of the good and fair
Which thou seest every where,

Joy lifts thy spirit, joy attunes," &c.-1802.

To her may all things live, from pole to pole,
Their life the eddying of her living soul !
O simple spirit, guided from above,
Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice,
Thus may'st thou ever, evermore rejoice.

TO A FRIEND

WHO HAD DECLARED HIS INTENTION OF WRITING NO MORE POETRY.*

DEAR Charles! whilst yet thou wert a babe, I

ween

That Genius plunged thee in that wizard fount
Hight Castalie and (sureties of thy faith)
That Pity and Simplicity stood by,

And promised for thee, that thou shouldst renounce
The world's low cares and lying vanities,
Steadfast and rooted in the heavenly Muse,
And wash'd and sanctified to Poesy.

Yes-thou wert plunged, but with forgetful hand
Held, as by Thetis erst her warrior son :
And with those recreant unbaptized heels
Thou'rt flying from thy bounden ministeries—
So sore it seems and burthensome a task

To weave unwithering flowers! But take thou heed:
For thou art vulnerable, wild-eyed boy,

And I have arrows + mystically dipt,

* Printed in The Annual Anthology, Bristol, vol. ii. (1800). † Pind. Olymp, ii. 1. 156.

Such as may stop thy speed. Is thy Burns dead?
And shall he die unwept, and sink to earth
"Without the meed of one melodious tear ?"
Thy Burns, and Nature's own beloved bard,
Who to the "Illustrious* of his native Land
So properly did look for patronage."

Ghost of Mecenas! hide thy blushing face!
They snatch'd him from the sickle and the plough—
To gauge ale-firkins.

Oh! for shame return!

On a bleak rock, midway the Aonian mount,
There stands a lone and melancholy tree,
Whose aged branches to the midnight blast
Make solemn music: pluck its darkest bough,
Ere yet the unwholesome night-dew be exhaled,
And weeping wreath it round thy Poet's tomb.
Then in the outskirts, where pollutions grow,
Pick the rank henbane and the dusky flowers
Of night-shade, or its red and tempting fruit,
These with stopp'd nostril and glove-guarded hand
Knit in nice intertexture, so to twine,

The illustrious brow of Scotch Nobility!

1796.

* Verbatim from Burns' Dedication of his Poems to the Nobility and Gentry of the Caledonian Hunt.

TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

COMPOSED ON THE NIGHT AFTER HIS RECITATION OF A POEM ON THE GROWTH OF AN

FR

INDIVIDUAL MIND.*

RIEND of the wise! and teacher of the good!
Into my heart have I received that lay
More than historic, that prophetic lay

Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright)
Of the foundations and the building up
Of a Human Spirit thou hast dared to tell
What may be told, to the understanding mind
Revealable; and what within the mind
By vital breathings secret as the soul †
Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the heart
Thoughts all too deep for words !--

Theme hard as high

Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears
(The first-born they of Reason and twin-birth),
Of tides obedient to external force,

And currents self-determined, as might seem,
Or by some inner Power; of moments awful,
Now in thy inner life, and now abroad,
When power stream'd from thee, and thy soul
received

*The Prelude, commenced in the beginning of 1799 and completed in May, 1805, was read by Wordsworth to Coleridge after the return of the latter from Malta. This poem was not published until after the author's death in 1850.-ED. † Like the secret soul-1817.