Lyrical Ballads With Other Poems, 1800, vol 1 | Page 9

effectually contributed to further the end which I have in view as to have shewn of what kind the pleasure is, and how the pleasure is produced which is confessedly produced by metrical composition essentially different from what I have here endeavoured to recommend; for the Reader will say that he has been pleased by such composition and what can I do more for him? The power of any art is limited and he will suspect that if I propose to furnish him with new friends it is only upon condition of his abandoning his old friends. Besides, as I have said, the Reader is himself conscious of the pleasure which he has received from such composition, composition to which he has peculiarly attached the endearing name of Poetry; and all men feel an habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry for the objects which have long continued to please them: we not only wish to be pleased, but to be pleased in that particular way in which we have been?accustomed to be pleased. There is a host of arguments in these feelings; and I should be the less able to combat them successfully, as I am willing to allow, that, in order entirely to enjoy the Poetry which I am recommending, it would be necessary to give up much of what is ordinarily enjoyed. But would my limits have permitted me to point out how this pleasure is produced, I might have removed many obstacles, and assisted my Reader in perceiving that the powers of language are not so limited as he may suppose; and that it is possible that poetry may give other enjoyments, of a purer, more lasting, and more exquisite nature. But this part of my subject I have been obliged altogether to omit: as it has been less my present aim to prove that the interest excited by some other kinds of poetry is less vivid, and less worthy of the nobler powers of the mind, than to offer reasons for presuming, that, if the object which I have proposed to myself were adequately attained, a species of poetry would be produced, which is genuine poetry; in its nature well adapted to interest mankind permanently, and likewise important in the multiplicity and quality of its moral relations. From what has been said, and from a perusal of the Poems, the Reader will be able clearly to perceive the object which I have proposed to myself: he will determine how far I have attained this object; and, what is a much more important question, whether it be worth attaining; and upon the decision of these two questions will rest my claim to the approbation of the public.
EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY.
"Why, William, on that old grey stone,?Thus for the length of half a day,?Why, William, sit you thus alone,?And dream your time away?"
"Where are your books? that light bequeath'd?To beings else forlorn and blind!?Up! Up! and drink the spirit breath'd?From dead men to their kind."
"You look round on your mother earth,?As if she for no purpose bore you;?As if you were her first-born birth,?And none had lived before you!"
One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,?When life was sweet, I knew not why,?To me my good friend Matthew spake,?And thus I made reply.
"The eye it cannot chuse but see,?We cannot bid the ear be still;?Our bodies feel, where'er they be,?Against, or with our will."
"Nor less I deem that there are powers?Which of themselves our minds impress,?That we can feed this mind of ours?In a wise passiveness."
"Think you, mid all this mighty sum?Of things for ever speaking,?That nothing of itself will come,?But we must still be seeking?"
"--Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,?Conversing as I may,?I sit upon this old grey stone,?And dream my time away."
THE TABLES TURNED;
An Evening Scene, on the same Subject,
Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks,?Why all this toil and trouble??Up! up! my friend, and quit your books,?Or surely you'll grow double.
The sun, above the mountain's head,?A freshening lustre mellow?Through all the long green fields has spread,?His first sweet evening yellow.
Books! 'tis dull and endless strife,?Come, here the woodland linnet,?How sweet his music; on my life?There's more of wisdom in it.
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!?And he is no mean preacher;?Come forth into the light of things,?Let Nature be your teacher.
She has a world of ready wealth,?Our minds and hearts to bless--?Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,?Truth breathed by chearfulness.
One impulse from a vernal wood?May teach you more of man;?Of moral evil and of good,?Than all the sages can.
Sweet is the lore which nature brings;?Our meddling intellect?Mishapes the beauteous forms of things;?--We murder to dissect.
Enough of science and of art;?Close up these barren leaves;?Come forth, and bring with you a heart?That watches and receives.
ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY & DECAY
A SKETCH.
The little hedge-row birds?That peck along the road, regard