WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

54.0. The Trosachs

r I 'HERE 's not a nook within this solemn Pass But were an apt confessional for one

Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, That Life is but a tale of morning grass Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase

That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes

Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities, Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest,

If from a golden perch of aspen spray

(October's workmanship to rival May) The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast

That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest !

/4/. Speak !

"VVTHY art thou silent ! Is thy love a plant ^ Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air

Of absence withers what was once so fair ? Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant? Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant

Bound to thy service with unceasing care, The mind's least generous wish a mendicant

For naught but what thy happiness could spare. Speak though this soft warm heart, once free to hold

A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, Be left more desolate, more dreary cold

Than a forsaken bird's-nest fill'd with snow

'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine

Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know I

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