---

Felicia Dorothea Hemans - To Wordsworth
Work rating: Low

Thine is a strain to read among the hills, 
  The old and full of voices;–by the source 
Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence fills 
  The solitude with sound; for in its course 
Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part 
Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart. 

Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken 
  To the still breast, in sunny garden-bowers, 
Where vernal winds each tree`s low tones awaken, 
  And bud and bell with changes mark the hours. 
There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day 
Sinks with a golden and serene decay. 

Or by some hearth where happy faces meet, 
  When night hath hush`d the woods, with all their birds, 
There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet 
  As antique music, link`d with household words.
While, in pleased murmurs, woman`s lip might move, 
And the rais`d eye of childhood shine in love. 

Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews 
  Brood silently o`er some lone burial-ground, 
Thy verse hath power that brightly might diffuse 
  A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around; 
From its own glow of hope and courage high, 
And steadfast faith`s victorious constancy. 

True bard and holy!–thou art ev`n as one 
  Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye, 
In every spot beneath the smiling sun, 
  Sees where the springs of living waters lie: 
Unseen awhile they sleep–till, touch`d by thee, 
Bright healthful waves flow forth to each glad wanderer free.
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.