Lines, written in the Album at Elbingerode

I stood on Brocken's sovran height, and sawWoods crowding upon woods, hills over hills,A surging scene, and only limitedBy the blue distance. Heavily my wayDownward I dragg'd through fir-groves evermore,Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral formsSpeckled with sunshine; and, but seldom heard,The sweet bird's song became an hollow sound;And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly,Preserved its solemn murmur most distinctFrom many a note of many a waterfall,And the brook's chatter; 'mid whose islet stonesThe dingy kidling with its tinkling bellLeapt frolicsome, or old romantic goatSat, his white beard slow waving. I moved on

In low and languid mood: for I had foundThat outward Forms, the loftiest, still receiveTheir finer influence from the Life within:Fair Cyphers of vague import, where the EyeTraces no spot, in which the Heart may readHistory or Prophecy of Friend, or Child,Or gentle Maid, our first and early love,Or Father, or the venerable nameOf our adored Country! O thou Queen,Thou delegated Deity of Earth,O dear, dear England! how my longing eyeTurned westward, shaping in the steady cloudsThy sands and high white cliffs!My native Land!Filled with the thought of thee this heart was proud,Yea, mine eye swam with tears: that all the viewFrom sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills,Floated away, like a departing dream,Feeble and dim! Stranger, these impulses

Blame thou not lightly; nor will I profane,With hasty judgment or injurious doubt,That man's sublimer spirit, who can feelThat God is every where! the God who framedMankind to be one mighty Family,Himself our Father, and the World our Home.