Page:Lyrical ballads, Volume 2, Wordsworth, 1800.djvu/169

161 The freshness of the vallies, let his blood

Struggle with frosty air and winter snows,

And let the charter'd wind that sweeps the heath

Beat his grey locks against his wither'd face.

Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness

Gives the last human interest to his heart.

May never House, misnamed of industry,

Make him a captive; for that pent-up din,

Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air,

Be his the natural silence of old age.

Let him be free of mountain solitudes,

And have around him, whether heard or not,

The pleasant melody of woodland birds.

Few are his pleasures; if his eyes, which now

Have been so long familiar with the earth,

No more behold the horizontal sun

Rising or setting, let the light at least

Find a free entrance to their languid orbs.