In this still place, remote from men, Sleeps Ossian, in the Narrow Glen; In this still place, where murmurs on But one meek streamlet, only one: He sang of battles, and the breath Of stormy war, and violent death; And should, methinks, when all was past, Have rightfully been laid at last Where rocks were rudely heap'd, and rent As by a spirit turbulent; Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild, And everything unreconciled; In some complaining, dim retreat, For fear and melancholy meet; But this is calm; there cannot be A more entire tranquillity. Does then the Bard sleep here indeed? Or is it but a groundless creed? What matters it?--I blame them not Whose fancy in this lonely spot Was moved; and in such way express'd Their notion of its perfect rest. A convent, even a hermit's cell, Would break the silence of this Dell: It is not quiet, is not ease; But something deeper far than these; The separation that is here Is of the grave; and of austere Yet happy feelings of the dead: And, therefore, was it rightly said That Ossian, last of all his race! Lies buried in this lonely place. _W. Wordsworth_ CCCXXVI The World is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon, The winds that will be howling at all hours And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers, For this, for every thing, we are out of tune; It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn,-- So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathéd horn. _W. Wordsworth_ CCCXXVII _WITHIN KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE_ Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd (Albeit labouring for a scanty band Of white-robed Scholars only) this immense And glorious work of fine intelligence! --Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore Of nicely-calculated less or more:-- So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells Where light and shade repose, where music dwells Lingering--and wandering on as loth to die; Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof That they were born for immortality. _W. Wordsworth_ CCCXXVIII _ODE ON A GRECIAN URN_