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

of decision, and
to suggest that if Poetry be a subject on which much time has not been
bestowed, the judgment may be erroneous, and that in many cases it

necessarily will be so.
I know that nothing would have so 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