Who wakenest with thy balmy breath
To myriads on the genial earth,

Memories of bridal, or of birth,
And unto myriads more, of death.

O wheresoever those may be,

Betwixt the slumber of the poles,

To-day they count as kindred souls;

They know me not, but mourn with me

C.

CLIMB the hill: from end to end
Of all the landscape underneath,

I find no place that does not breathe Some gracious memory of my friend;

No gray old grange, or lonely fold,

Or low morass and whispering reed,

Or simple stile from mead to mead, Or sheepwalk up the windy wold;

Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw

That hears the latest linnet trill,

Nor quarry trench'd along the hill,

And haunted by the wrangling daw;

Nor runlet tinkling from the rock;

Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves

To left and right thro' meadowy curves, That feed the mothers of the flock;

But each has pleased a kindred eye,
And each reflects a kindlier day;
And, leaving these, to pass away,
I think once more he seems to die.

CI.

NWATCH'D, the garden bough shall

sway,

The tender blossom flutter down,

Unloved, that beech will gather brown,

This maple burn itself away;

Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair,

Ray round with flames her disk of seed,

And many a rose-carnation feed

With summer spice the humming air;

Unloved, by many a sandy bar,

The brook shall babble down the plain,

At noon or when the lesser wain

Is twisting round the polar star;

Uncared for, gird the windy grove,

And flood the haunts of hern and crake;

Or into silver arrows break

The sailing moon in creek and cove;

Till from the garden and the wild

A fresh association blow,

And year by year the landscape grow

Familiar to the stranger's child;

As year by year the labourer tills

His wonted glebe, or lops the glades;

And year by year our memory fades From all the circle of the hills.