With which I can hold commune: haply hence, That still the living spirit in our frame, Which loves not to behold a lifeless thing, Transfuses into all things its own Will, And its own pleasures; sometimes with deep faith, And sometimes with a wilful playfulness That stealing pardon from our common sense Smiles, as self-scornful, to disarm the scorn For these wild reliques of our childish Thought, That flit about, oft go, and oft return Not uninvited. Ah there was a time, When oft amused by no such subtle toys Of the self-watching mind, a child at school, With most believing superstitious wish. P. R. [Between 20-4] To which the living spirit in our frame, That loves not to behold a lifeless thing, Transfuses its own pleasures, its own will. S. L. 1828. [26] To watch the _stranger_ there! and oft belike 4{o}, P. R. [27] had] have P. R. [32] wild] sweet S. L. (for _sweet_ read _wild_. _Errata_, S. L., p. [xii]). [45] deep] dead 4{o}, P. R., S. L. (for _dead_ read _deep_. _Errata_, S. L., p. [xii]). [46] Fill] Fill'd S. L. (for _Fill'd_ read _Fill_. _Errata_, S. L., p. [xii]). [48] thrills] fills 4{o}, P. R., S. L. (for _fills_ read _thrills_. _Errata_, S. L., p. [xii]). [67] redbreast] redbreasts 4{o}, P. R. [69] the nigh] all the 4{o}. [71] trances] traces S. L. (for _traces_ read _trances_. _Errata_, S. L., p. [xii]). [72-end] Or whether the secret ministery of cold Shall hang them up in silent icicles, Quietly shining to the quiet moon, Like those, my babe! which ere tomorrow's warmth Have capp'd their sharp keen points with pendulous drops, Will catch thine eye, and with their novelty Suspend thy little soul; then make thee shout, And stretch and flutter from thy mother's arms As thou wouldst fly for very eagerness. 4{o}. FRANCE: AN ODE[243:1] I Ye Clouds! that far above me float and pause, Whose pathless march no mortal may controul! Ye Ocean-Waves! that, wheresoe'er ye roll, Yield homage only to eternal laws! Ye Woods! that listen to the night-birds singing, 5 Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined, Save when your own imperious branches swinging, Have made a solemn music of the wind! Where, like a man beloved of God, Through glooms, which never woodman trod, 10 How oft, pursuing fancies holy, My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound, Inspired, beyond the guess of folly, By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound! O ye loud Waves! and O ye Forests high! 15 And O ye Clouds that far above me soared! Thou rising Sun! thou blue rejoicing Sky! Yea, every thing that is and will be free! Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be, With what deep worship I have still adored 20 The spirit of divinest Liberty. II