The song would speak Of that interminable building reared By observation of affinities In objects where no brotherhood exists 385 To passive minds.

My seventeenth year was come; And, whether from this habit rooted now So deeply in my mind; or from excess In the great social principle of life Coercing all things into sympathy, 390 To unorganic ratures were transferred My own enjoyments; or the power of truth Coming in revelation, did converse With things that really are; I, at this time, Saw blessings spread around me like a sea.

395 Thus while the days flew by, and years passed on, From Nature and her overflowing soul, I had received so much, that all my thoughts Were steeped in feeling; I was only then Contented, when with bliss ineffable 400 I felt the sentiment of Being spread O'er all that moves and all that seemeth still; O'er all that, lost beyond the reach of thought And human knowledge, to the human eye Invisible, yet liveth to the heart; 405 O'er all that leaps and runs, and shouts and sings, Or beats the gladsome air; o'er all that glides Beneath the wave, yea, in the wave itself, And mighty depth of waters.

Wonder not If high the transport, great the joy I felt, 410 Communing in this sort through earth and heaven With every form of creature, as it looked Towards the Uncreated with a countenance Of adoration, with an eye of love.
One song they sang, and it was audible, 415 Most audible, then, when the fleshly ear, O'ercome by humblest prelude of that strain, Forgot her functions, and slept undisturbed.
If this be error, and another faith Find easier access to the pious mind, 420 Yet were I grossly destitute of all Those human sentiments that make this earth So dear, if I should fail with grateful voice To speak of you, ye mountains, and ye lakes And sounding cataracts, ye mists and winds 425 That dwell among the hills where I was born.
If in my youth I have been pure in heart, If, mingling with the world, I am content With my own modest pleasures, and have lived With God and Nature communing, removed 430 From little enmities and low desires, The gift is yours; if in these times of fear, This melancholy waste of hopes o'erthrown, If, 'mid indifference and apathy, And wicked exultation when good men 435 On every side fall off, we know not how, To selfishness, disguised in gentle names Of peace and quiet and domestic love, Yet mingled not unwillingly with sneers On visionary minds; if, in this time 440 Of dereliction and dismay, I yet Despair not of our nature, but retain A more than Roman confidence, a faith That fails not, in all sorrow my support, The blessing of my life; the gift is yours, 445 Ye winds and sounding cataracts! 'tis yours, Ye mountains! thine, O Nature! Thou hast fed My lofty speculations; and in thee, For this uneasy heart of ours, I find A never-failing principle of joy 450 And purest passion.
Thou, my Friend! wert reared In the great city, 'mid far other scenes; [a] But we, by different roads, at length have gained The self-same bourne.

And for this cause to thee I speak, unapprehensive of contempt, 455 The insinuated scoff of coward tongues, And all that silent language which so oft In conversation between man and man Blots from the human countenance all trace Of beauty and of love.