Newspapers / Gardner-Webb University Student Newspaper / Jan. 1, 1954, edition 1 / Page 11
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L I T E R A R Y "Come Forth Into The Light Of Things, Let Nature Be Your Teacher.' 2^ J ^ Flying from something that he dreads than Composed a tew miles above Tintern Abbey Five years have past; five summers, with the Of five long winters! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain- springs With a soft inland murmur. — Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs. That on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and con nect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard- tufts. Which as this season, with their unripe fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lost themselves Mid groves and copses. Once again I see These hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms, Greer; to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! With some uncertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some Hermit’s cave, where by his fire The Hermit sits alone. These beauteous forms. Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man’s eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and ’mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them. In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt long the heart; And passing even into my purer mind. With tranquil restoration — feelings too Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps. As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man’s life. His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and love. Nor less, I ti’ust. To them I may have owed another gift. Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world. Is lightened — that serence and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on — Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul; While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy. We see into the life of things. Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft— In darkness and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world. Have hung upon the beatings of my heart— How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 0 sylvan Wye! thou wanderer through the How often has my spirit turned to thee! And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought. With many recognitions dim and faint. And somewhat of a perplexity. The picture of the mind revives again: While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope. Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first 1 came among these hills; when like a roe I bounded o’er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams. Wherever nature led: more like a man Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then (The coarser pleasure of my boyish days. And their glad animal movements all gone by) To me was all in all. — I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock. The mountain, and the deep and gloomy Their co'ors a d their f rms, were then to me An appetite: a feeling and a love. That had no need cf a remoter charm. By thought supplied, nor any interest Uaborrowed from the eye. — That time is past. And all its aching joys are now no more. And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn ror murmur; other gifts Have followed; for such loss, I would believe. Abundant recompense. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing often- The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused. Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns. And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man: A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought. And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods. And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty Of eye, and ear — both what they half create. And what preceive; well pleased to recognize In nature and the language of the sense The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse. The guide, the guardian of my heart, and Of all my moral being. Nor perchance. If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay: For thou art with me here upon the banks Of this fair river; thou my hearest Friend, My dear, dear Fi'iend; and in thy voice I The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while May I behold in thee what I was once. My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make. Knowing that Nature never did betray The heart that loved her; ’tis her privilege. Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy: for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgm_ents, nor the sneers of selfish men. Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life. Shall e’er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon Shine on thee ir thy solitary walk; And let the misty mountain-winds be free To blow against thee: and, in after years, When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms. Thy memory be as a dwelling-place For all sweet sounds and harmonies: oh! then. If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief. Should be thy portion, with what healing Page 10
Gardner-Webb University Student Newspaper
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Jan. 1, 1954, edition 1
11
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