Which they have fashioned would confine us down,
  Like engines; when will their presumption learn,
  That in the unreasoning progress of the world
  A wiser spirit is at work for us, 360
  A better eye than theirs, most prodigal
  Of blessings, and most studious of our good,
  Even in what seem our most unfruitful hours? [H]

  There was a Boy:  ye knew him well, ye cliffs
  And islands of Winander!—­many a time 365
  At evening, when the earliest stars began
  To move along the edges of the hills,
  Rising or setting, would he stand alone
  Beneath the trees or by the glimmering lake,
  And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands 370
  Pressed closely palm to palm, and to his mouth
  Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,
  Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,
  That they might answer him [I]; and they would shout
  Across the watery vale, and shout again, 375
  Responsive to his call, with quivering peals,
  And long halloos and screams, and echoes loud,
  Redoubled and redoubled, concourse wild
  Of jocund din; and, when a lengthened pause
  Of silence came and baffled his best skill, 380
  Then sometimes, in that silence while he hung
  Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise
  Has carried far into his heart the voice
  Of mountain torrents; or the visible scene
  Would enter unawares into his mind, 385
  With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,
  Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received
  Into the bosom of the steady lake.

  This Boy was taken from his mates, and died
  In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. 390
  Fair is the spot, most beautiful the vale
  Where he was born; the grassy churchyard hangs
  Upon a slope above the village school, [K]
  And through that churchyard when my way has led
  On summer evenings, I believe that there 395
  A long half hour together I have stood
  Mute, looking at the grave in which he lies! [L]
  Even now appears before the mind’s clear eye
  That self-same village church; I see her sit
  (The throned Lady whom erewhile we hailed) 400
  On her green hill, forgetful of this Boy
  Who slumbers at her feet,—­forgetful, too,
  Of all her silent neighbourhood of graves,
  And listening only to the gladsome sounds
  That, from the rural school ascending, [M] play 405
  Beneath her and about her.  May she long
  Behold a race of young ones like to those
  With whom I herded!—­(easily, indeed,
  We might have fed upon a fatter soil
  Of arts and letters—­but be that forgiven)—­410
  A race of real children; not too wise,