LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF
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-Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree standsFar from all human dwelling: what if hereNo sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb;What if these barren boughs the bee not loves;Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves,That break against the shore, shall lull thy mindBy one soft impulse saved from vacancy. --Who he wasThat piled these stones, and with the mossy sodFirst covered o’er, and taught this aged tree,Now wild, to bend its arms in circling shade,I well remember.--He was one who own’dNo common soul. In youth, by genius nurs’d,And big with lofty views, he to the worldWent forth, pure in his heart, against the taintOf dissolute tongues, ’gainst jealousy, and hate,And scorn, against all enemies prepared,All but neglect: and so, his spirit dampedAt once, with rash disdain he turned away,And with the food of pride sustained his soulIn solitude.--Stranger! these gloomy boughsHad charms for him; and here he loved to sit,His only visitants a straggling sheep,The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper;And on these barren rocks, with juniper,And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o’er,Fixing his downward eye, he many an hourA morbid pleasure nourished, tracing hereAn emblem of his own unfruitful life:And lifting up his head, he then would gazeOn the more distant scene; how lovely ’tisThou seest, and he would gaze till it becameFar lovelier, and his heart could not sustainThe beauty still more beauteous. Nor, that time,Would he forget those beings, to whose minds,Warm from the labours of benevolence,The world, and man himself, appeared a sceneOf kindred loveliness: then he would sighWith mournful joy, to think that others feltWhat he must never feel: and so, lost man!On visionary views would fancy feed,Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep valeHe died, this seat his only monument. If thou be one whose heart the holy formsOf young imagination have kept pure,Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know, that pride,Howe’er disguised in its own majesty,Is littleness; that he, who feels contemptFor any living thing, hath facultiesWhich he has never used; that thought with himIs in its infancy. The man, whose eyeIs ever on himself, doth look on one,The least of nature’s works, one who might moveThe wise man to that scorn which wisdom holdsUnlawful, ever. O, be wiser thou!Instructed that true knowledge leads to love,True dignity abides with him aloneWho, in the silent hour of inward thought,Can still suspect, and still revere himself,In lowliness of heart. THE NIGHTINGALE;
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