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PDF A favoured Being, knowing no desire
Which genius did not hallow; ’gainst the taint
Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate,
And scorn,—against all enemies prepared,
All but neglect. The world, for so it thought, 20
Owed him no service; wherefore he at once
With indignation turned himself away, [4]
And with the food of pride sustained his soul
In solitude.—Stranger! these gloomy boughs
Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit, 25
His only visitants a straggling sheep,
The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper: [5]
And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath,
And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o’er, [6]
Fixing his downcast [7] eye, he many an hour 30
A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here
An emblem of his own unfruitful life:
And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze
On the more distant scene,—how lovely ’tis
Thou seest,—and he would gaze till it became 35
Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain
The beauty, still more beauteous! Nor, that time,
When nature had subdued him to herself, [8]
Would he forget those Beings to whose minds
Warm from the labours of benevolence 40
The world, and human life, [9] appeared a scene
Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh,
Inly disturbed, to think [10] that others felt
What he must never feel: and so, lost Man!
On visionary views would fancy feed, 45
Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale
He died,—this seat his only monument.
If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms
Of young imagination have kept pure,
Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride, 50
Howe’er disguised in its own majesty,
Is littleness; that he who feels contempt
For any living thing, hath faculties
Which he has never used; that thought with him
Is in its infancy. The man whose eye 55
Is ever on himself doth look on one,
The least of Nature’s works, one who might move
The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds
Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, Thou!
Instructed that true knowledge leads to love; 60
True dignity abides with him alone
Who, in the silent hour of inward thought,
Can still suspect, and still revere himself,
In lowliness of heart.
Which genius did not hallow; ’gainst the taint
Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate,
And scorn,—against all enemies prepared,
All but neglect. The world, for so it thought, 20
Owed him no service; wherefore he at once
With indignation turned himself away, [4]
And with the food of pride sustained his soul
In solitude.—Stranger! these gloomy boughs
Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit, 25
His only visitants a straggling sheep,
The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper: [5]
And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath,
And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o’er, [6]
Fixing his downcast [7] eye, he many an hour 30
A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here
An emblem of his own unfruitful life:
And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze
On the more distant scene,—how lovely ’tis
Thou seest,—and he would gaze till it became 35
Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain
The beauty, still more beauteous! Nor, that time,
When nature had subdued him to herself, [8]
Would he forget those Beings to whose minds
Warm from the labours of benevolence 40
The world, and human life, [9] appeared a scene
Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh,
Inly disturbed, to think [10] that others felt
What he must never feel: and so, lost Man!
On visionary views would fancy feed, 45
Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale
He died,—this seat his only monument.
If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms
Of young imagination have kept pure,
Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride, 50
Howe’er disguised in its own majesty,
Is littleness; that he who feels contempt
For any living thing, hath faculties
Which he has never used; that thought with him
Is in its infancy. The man whose eye 55
Is ever on himself doth look on one,
The least of Nature’s works, one who might move
The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds
Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, Thou!
Instructed that true knowledge leads to love; 60
True dignity abides with him alone
Who, in the silent hour of inward thought,
Can still suspect, and still revere himself,
In lowliness of heart.
* * * * *
