A power and a protection for the mind, Dispensed indeed to other solitudes, Favoured by noble privilege like this, Where kindred independence of estate 380 Is prevalent, where he who tills the field, He, happy man! is master of the field,[369] And treads the mountains which his fathers trod. Not less than half-way up yon Mountain’s side Behold a dusky spot, a grove of Firs, 385 That seems still smaller than it is. This grove Is haunted--by what ghost? a gentle spirit Of memory faithful to the call of love; For, as reports the dame, whose fire sends up Yon curling smoke from the grey cot below, 390 The trees (her first-born child being then a babe) Were planted by her husband and herself, That ranging o’er the high and houseless ground Their sheep might neither want (from perilous storms Of winter, nor from summer’s sultry heat) 395 A friendly covert. “And they knew it well,” Said she, “for thither as the trees grew up, We to the patient creatures carried food In times of heavy snow.” She then began In fond obedience to her private thoughts 400 To speak of her dead husband. Is there not An art, a music, and a strain of words That shall be like the acknowledged voice of life, Shall speak of what is done among the fields, Done truly there, or felt, of solid good 405 And real evil, yet be sweet withal, More grateful, more harmonious than the breath, The idle breath of softest pipe attuned To pastoral fancies? Is there such a stream, Pure and unsullied, flowing from the heart 410 With motions of true dignity and grace? Or must we seek that stream where Man is not? Methinks I could repeat in tuneful verse, Delicious as the gentlest breeze that sounds Through that aerial fir-grove, could preserve 415 Some portion of its human history As gathered from the Matron’s lips, and tell Of tears that have been shed at sight of it, And moving dialogues between this pair, Who in their prime of wedlock, with joint hands 420 Did plant the grove, now flourishing, while they No longer flourish, he entirely gone, She withering in her loneliness. Be this A task above my skill; the silent mind Has her own treasures, and I think of these, 425 Love what I see, and honour humankind. No, we are not alone, we do not stand, My Sister, here misplaced and desolate, Loving what no one cares for but ourselves; We shall not scatter through the plains and rocks 430 Of this fair Vale, and o’er its spacious heights Unprofitable kindliness, bestowed On objects unaccustomed to the gifts