« IndietroContinua »
-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 these barren boughs the bee not loves; Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves That break against the shore, shall lullthy mind By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.
Who he was That pflod these stones, and with the mossy sod First covera o'er, and taught this aged Tree, Now wild, to bend its arms in circling shade, I well remember. He was one who own'd No common soul. In youth, by genius nursid,
And big with lofty views, he to the world
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
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.