Lines Left Upon A Seat In A Yew-tree

William Wordsworth

Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands 
Far from all human dwelling: what if here 
No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb? 
What if the bee love not these barren boughs? 
Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves, 
That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind 
By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. 
--------------------Who he was 
That piled these stones and with the mossy sod 
First covered, and here taught this aged Tree 
With its dark arms to form a circling bower, 
I well remember.--He was one who owned 
No common soul. In youth by science nursed, 
And led by nature into a wild scene 
Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth 
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, 
Owed him no service; wherefore he at once 
With indignation turned himself away, 
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, 
His only visitants a straggling sheep, 
The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper: 
And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath, 
And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er, 
Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour 
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 
Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain 
The beauty, still more beauteous! Nor, that time, 
When nature had subdued him to herself, 
Would he forget those Beings to whose minds, 
Warm from the labours of benevolence, 
The world, and human life, appeared a scene 
Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh, 
Inly disturbed, to think that others felt 
What he must never feel: and so, lost Man! 
On visionary views would fancy feed, 
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, 
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 
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; 
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.

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