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Sunday, Feb. 28.-- ... "William very ill; employed himself with 'The Pedlar.'"

Friday morning.-- ... "I wrote 'The Pedlar,' and finished it."...

"DEAR WORDSWORTH--I cannot tell you how pleased I was at the receipt of the great armful of poetry which you have sent me; and to get it before the rest of the world too! I have gone quite through with it, and was thinking to have accomplished that pleasure a second time before I wrote to thank you, but M. Burney came in the night and made holy theft of it, but we expect restitution in a day or two. It is the noblest conversational poem I ever read--a day in Heaven. The part which has left the sweetest odour on my memory is the Tales of the Churchyard; the only girl among seven brethren, born out of due time, and not duly taken away again,--the deaf man and the blind man; the Jacobite and the Hanoverian, whom antipathies reconcile; the Scarron-entry of the rusticating parson upon his solitude;--these were all new to me too. My having known the story of Margaret , a very old acquaintance, even as long back as when I saw you first at Stowey, did not make her reappearance less fresh. I don't know what to pick out of this best of books upon the best subjects for partial naming. That gorgeous sunset is famous; I think it must have been the identical one we saw on Salisbury Plain five years ago, that drew Phillips from the card-table, where he had sat from rise of that luminary to its unequalled set; but neither he nor I had gifted eyes to see those symbols of common things glorified, such as the prophets saw them in that sunset--the wheel, the potter's clay, the wash-pot, the wine-press, the almond-tree rod, the basket of figs, the fourfold visaged head, the throne, and Him that sat thereon. One feeling I was particularly struck with, as what I recognised so very lately at Harrow Church on entering in it after a hot and secular day's pleasure, the instantaneous coolness and calming, almost transforming properties of a country church just entered; a certain fragrance which it has, either from its holiness, or being kept shut all the week, or the air that is let in being pure country, exactly what you have reduced into words; but I am feeling that which I can-not express. Reading your lines about it fixed me for a time, a monument in Harrow Church. Do you know it? with its fine long spire, white as washed marble, to be seen, by vantage of its high site, as far as Salisbury spire itself almost."

In the Notes to the text I have confined myself chiefly to the explanation of obscure allusions, topographical, historical, or legendary.--ED.

FOOTNOTES:

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE WILLIAM, EARL OF LONSDALE, K.G., ETC. ETC.

Oft, through thy fair domains, illustrious Peer! In youth I roamed, on youthful pleasures bent; And mused in rocky cell or sylvan tent, Beside swift-flowing Lowther's current clear. --Now, by thy care befriended, I appear Before thee, LONSDALE, and this Work present, A token Of high respect and gratitude sincere. Gladly would I have waited till my task Had reached its close; but Life is insecure, And Hope full oft fallacious as a dream: Therefore, for what is here produced, I ask Thy favour; trusting that thou wilt not deem The offering, though imperfect, premature.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1814

The Title-page announces that this is only a portion of a poem; and the Reader must be here apprised that it belongs to the second part of a long and laborious Work, which is to consist of three parts.--The Author will candidly acknowledge that, if the first of these had been completed, and in such a manner as to satisfy his own mind, he should have preferred the natural order of publication, and have given that to the world first; but, as the second division of the Work was designed to refer more to passing events, and to an existing state of things, than the others were meant to do, more continuous exertion was naturally bestowed upon it, and greater progress made here than in the rest of the poem; and as this part does not depend upon the preceding, to a degree which will materially injure its own peculiar interest, the Author, complying with the earnest entreaties of some valued Friends, presents the following pages to the Public.

"On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life, Musing in solitude, I oft perceive Fair trains of imagery before me rise, Accompanied by feelings of delight Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed; 5 And I am conscious of affecting thoughts And dear remembrances, whose presence soothes Or elevates the Mind, intent to weigh The good and evil of our mortal state. --To these emotions, whencesoe'er they come, 10 Whether from breath of outward circumstance, Or from the Soul--an impulse to herself-- I would give utterance in numerous verse. Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love, and Hope, And melancholy Fear subdued by Faith; 15 Of blessed consolations in distress; Of moral strength, and intellectual Power; Of joy in widest commonalty spread; Of the individual Mind that keeps her own Inviolate retirement, subject there 20 To Conscience only, and the law supreme Of that Intelligence which governs all-- I sing:--'fit audience let me find though few!'

VARIANTS:

FOOTNOTES:

Book First

THE WANDERER

ARGUMENT

Upon that open moorland stood a grove, The wished-for port to which my course was bound. Thither I came, and there, amid the gloom Spread by a brotherhood of lofty elms, Appeared a roofless Hut; four naked walls 30 That stared upon each other!--I looked round, And to my wish and to my hope espied The Friend I sought; a Man of reverend age, But stout and hale, for travel unimpaired. There was he seen upon the cottage-bench, 35 Recumbent in the shade, as if asleep; An iron-pointed staff lay at his side.

Him had I marked the day before--alone And stationed in the public way, with face Turned toward the sun then setting, while that staff Afforded, to the figure of the man 41 Detained for contemplation or repose, Graceful support; his countenance as he stood Was hidden from my view, and he remained Unrecognised; but, stricken by the sight, 45 With slackened footsteps I advanced, and soon A glad congratulation we exchanged At such unthought-of meeting.--For the night We parted, nothing willingly; and now He by appointment waited for me here, 50 Under the covert of these clustering elms.

We were tried Friends: amid a pleasant vale, In the antique market-village where was passed My school-time, an apartment he had owned, To which at intervals the Wanderer drew, 55 And found a kind of home or harbour there. He loved me; from a swarm of rosy boys Singled out me, as he in sport would say, For my grave looks, too thoughtful for my years. As I grew up, it was my best delight 60 To be his chosen comrade. Many a time, On holidays, we rambled through the woods: We sate--we walked; he pleased me with report Of things which he had seen; and often touched Abstrusest matter, reasonings of the mind 65 Turned inward; or at my request would sing Old songs, the product of his native hills; A skilful distribution of sweet sounds, Feeding the soul, and eagerly imbibed As cool refreshing water, by the care 70 Of the industrious husbandman, diffused Through a parched meadow-ground, in time of drought. Still deeper welcome found his pure discourse: How precious when in riper days I learned To weigh with care his words, and to rejoice 75 In the plain presence of his dignity!

Among the hills of Athol he was born; Where, on a small hereditary farm, An unproductive slip of rugged ground, 110 His Parents, with their numerous offspring, dwelt; A virtuous household, though exceeding poor! Pure livers were they all, austere and grave, And fearing God; the very children taught Stern self-respect, a reverence for God's word, 115 And an habitual piety, maintained With strictness scarcely known on English ground.

From his sixth year, the Boy of whom I speak, In summer, tended cattle on the hills; But, through the inclement and the perilous days 120 Of long-continuing winter, he repaired, Equipped with satchel, to a school, that stood Sole building on a mountain's dreary edge, Remote from view of city spire, or sound Of minster clock! From that bleak tenement 125 He, many an evening, to his distant home In solitude returning, saw the hills Grow larger in the darkness; all alone Beheld the stars come out above his head, And travelled through the wood, with no one near To whom he might confess the things he saw. 131

Such was the Boy--but for the growing Youth What soul was his, when, from the naked top Of some bold headland, he beheld the sun Rise up, and bathe the world in light! He looked-- Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth 201 And ocean's liquid mass, in gladness lay Beneath him:--Far and wide the clouds were touched, And in their silent faces could he read Unutterable love. Sound needed none, 205 Nor any voice of joy; his spirit drank The spectacle: sensation, soul, and form. All melted into him; they swallowed up His animal being; in them did he live, And by them did he live; they were his life. 210 In such access of mind, in such high hour Of visitation from the living God, Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired. No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request; Rapt into still communion that transcends 215 The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him; it was blessedness and love!

So passed the time; yet to the nearest town He duly went with what small overplus 245 His earnings might supply, and brought away The book that most had tempted his desires While at the stall he read. Among the hills He gazed upon that mighty orb of song, The divine Milton. Lore of different kind, 250 The annual savings of a toilsome life, His School-master supplied; books that explain The purer elements of truth involved In lines and numbers, and, by charm severe, preserve the mind Busy in solitude and poverty. These occupations oftentimes deceived The listless hours, while in the hollow vale, Hollow and green, he lay on the green turf 260 In pensive idleness. What could he do, Thus daily thirsting, in that lonesome life With blind endeavours? Yet, still uppermost, Nature was at his heart as if he felt, Though yet he knew not how, a wasting power 265 In all things that from her sweet influence Might tend to wean him. Therefore with her hues, Her forms, and with the spirit of her forms, He clothed the nakedness of austere truth. While yet he lingered in the rudiments 270 Of science, and among her simplest laws, His triangles--they were the stars of heaven, The silent stars! Oft did he take delight To measure the altitude of some tall crag That is the eagle's birth-place, or some peak 275 Familiar with forgotten years, that shows Inscribed upon its visionary sides, The history of many a winter storm, Or obscure records of the path of fire.

In dreams, in study, and in ardent thought, Thus was he reared; much wanting to assist The growth of intellect, yet gaining more, And every moral feeling of his soul Strengthened and braced, by breathing in content 305 The keen, the wholesome, air of poverty, And drinking from the well of homely life. --But, from past liberty, and tried restraints, He now was summoned to select the course Of humble industry that promised best 310 To yield him no unworthy maintenance. Urged by his Mother, he essayed to teach A village-school--but wandering thoughts were then A misery to him; and the Youth resigned A task he was unable to perform. 315

"I speak," continued he, "of One whose stock Of virtues bloomed beneath this lowly roof. She was a Woman of a steady mind, Tender and deep in her excess of love; Not speaking much, pleased rather with the joy 515 Of her own thoughts: by some especial care Her temper had been framed, as if to make A Being, who by adding love to peace Might live on earth a life of happiness. Her wedded Partner lacked not on his side 520 The humble worth that satisfied her heart: Frugal, affectionate, sober, and withal Keenly industrious. She with pride would tell That he was often seated at his loom, In summer, ere the mower was abroad 525 Among the dewy grass,--in early spring, Ere the last star had vanished.--They who passed At evening, from behind the garden fence Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply, After his daily work, until the light 530 Had failed, and every leaf and flower were lost In the dark hedges. So their days were spent In peace and comfort; and a pretty boy Was their best hope, next to the God in heaven.

"Not twenty years ago, but you I think 535 Can scarcely bear it now in mind, there came Two blighting seasons, when the fields were left With half a harvest. It pleased Heaven to add A worse affliction in the plague of war: This happy Land was stricken to the heart! 540 A Wanderer then among the cottages, I, with my freight of winter raiment, saw The hardships of that season: many rich Sank down, as in a dream, among the poor; And of the poor did many cease to be, 545 And their place knew them not. Meanwhile, abridged Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled To numerous self-denials, Margaret Went struggling on through those calamitous years With cheerful hope, until the second autumn, 550 When her life's Helpmate on a sick-bed lay, Smitten with perilous fever. In disease He lingered long; and, when his strength returned, He found the little he had stored, to meet The hour of accident or crippling age, 555 Was all consumed. A second infant now Was added to the troubles of a time Laden, for them and all of their degree, With care and sorrow: shoals of artisans From ill-requited labour turned adrift 560 Sought daily bread from public charity, They, and their wives and children--happier far Could they have lived as do the little birds That peck along the hedge-rows, or the kite That makes her dwelling on the mountain rocks! 565 "A sad reverse it was for him who long Had filled with plenty, and possessed in peace, This lonely Cottage. At the door he stood, And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes That had no mirth in them; or with his knife 570 Carved uncouth figures on the heads of sticks-- Then, not less idly, sought, through every nook In house or garden, any casual work Of use or ornament; and with a strange, Amusing, yet uneasy, novelty, 575 He mingled, where he might, the various tasks Of summer, autumn, winter, and of spring. But this endured not; his good humour soon Became a weight in which no pleasure was: And poverty brought on a petted mood 580 And a sore temper: day by day he drooped, And he would leave his work--and to the town Would turn without an errand his slack steps; Or wander here and there among the fields. One while he would speak lightly of his babes, 585 And with a cruel tongue; at other times He tossed them with a false unnatural joy: And 'twas a rueful thing to see the looks Of the poor innocent children. 'Every smile,' Said Margaret to me, here beneath these trees, 590 'Made my heart bleed.'" At this the Wanderer paused; And, looking up to those enormous elms, He said, "'Tis now the hour of deepest noon. At this still season of repose and peace, This hour when all things which are not at rest 595 Are cheerful; while this multitude of flies With tuneful hum is filling all the air; Why should a tear be on an old Man's cheek? Why should we thus, with an untoward mind, And in the weakness of humanity, 600 From natural wisdom turn our hearts away; To natural comfort shut our eyes and ears; And, feeding on disquiet, thus disturb The calm of nature with our restless thoughts?"

"This tale did Margaret tell with many tears: And, when she ended, I had little power To give her comfort, and was glad to take 684 Such words of hope from her own mouth as served To cheer us both. But long we had not talked Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts, And with a brighter eye she looked around As if she had been shedding tears of joy. We parted.--'Twas the time of early spring; 690 I left her busy with her garden tools; And well remember, o'er that fence she looked, And, while I paced along the foot-way path, Called out, and sent a blessing after me, With tender cheerfulness, and with a voice 695 That seemed the very sound of happy thoughts.

He ceased. Ere long the sun declining shot A slant and mellow radiance, which began To fall upon us, while, beneath the trees, We sate on that low bench: and now we felt, 960 Admonished thus, the sweet hour coming on. A linnet warbled from those lofty elms, A thrush sang loud, and other melodies, At distance heard, peopled the milder air. The old Man rose, and, with a sprightly mien 965 Of hopeful preparation, grasped his staff; Together casting then a farewell look Upon those silent walls, we left the shade; And, ere the stars were visible, had reached A village-inn,--our evening resting-place. 970

VARIANTS:

FOOTNOTES:

Whom the gods love, die young.

THE SOLITARY

ARGUMENT

Such intercourse I witnessed, while we roved, Now as his choice directed, now as mine; Or both, with equal readiness of will, Our course submitting to the changeful breeze Of accident. But when the rising sun 85 Had three times called us to renew our walk, My Fellow-traveller, with earnest voice, As if the thought were but a moment old, Claimed absolute dominion for the day. We started--and he led me toward the hills, 90 Up through an ample vale, with higher hills Before us, mountains stern and desolate; But, in the majesty of distance, now Set off, and to our ken appearing fair Of aspect, with a?rial softness clad, 95 And beautified with morning's purple beams.

The wealthy, the luxurious, by the stress Of business roused, or pleasure, ere their time, May roll in chariots, or provoke the hoofs Of the fleet coursers they bestride, to raise 100 From earth the dust of morning, slow to rise; And they, if blest with health and hearts at ease, Shall lack not their enjoyment:--but how faint Compared with ours! who, pacing side by side, Could, with an eye of leisure, look on all 105 That we beheld; and lend the listening sense To every grateful sound of earth and air; Pausing at will--our spirits braced, our thoughts Pleasant as roses in the thickets blown, And pure as dew bathing their crimson leaves. 110

"Though now sojourning there, he, like myself, Sprang from a stock of lowly parentage 165 Among the wilds of Scotland, in a tract Where many a sheltered and well-tended plant, Bears, on the humblest ground of social life, Blossoms of piety and innocence. Such grateful promises his youth displayed: 170 And, having shown in study forward zeal, He to the Ministry was duly called; And straight, incited by a curious mind Filled with vague hopes, he undertook the charge Of Chaplain to a military troop 175 Cheered by the Highland bagpipe, as they marched In plaided vest,--his fellow-countrymen. This office filling, yet by native power And force of native inclination made An intellectual ruler in the haunts 180 Of social vanity, he walked the world, Gay, and affecting graceful gaiety; Lax, buoyant--less a pastor with his flock Than a soldier among soldiers--lived and roamed 184 Where Fortune led:--and Fortune, who oft proves The careless wanderer's friend, to him made known A blooming Lady--a conspicuous flower, Admired for beauty, for her sweetness praised; Whom he had sensibility to love, Ambition to attempt, and skill to win. 190

"For this fair Bride, most rich in gifts of mind, Nor sparingly endowed with worldly wealth, His office he relinquished; and retired From the world's notice to a rural home. Youth's season yet with him was scarcely past, 195 And she was in youth's prime. How free their love, How full their joy! 'Till, pitiable doom! In the short course of one undreaded year, Death blasted all. Death suddenly o'erthrew Two lovely Children--all that they possessed! 200 The Mother followed:--miserably bare The one Survivor stood; he wept, he prayed For his dismissal, day and night, compelled To hold communion with the grave, and face With pain the regions of eternity. 205 An uncomplaining apathy displaced This anguish; and, indifferent to delight, To aim and purpose, he consumed his days, To private interest dead, and public care. So lived he; so he might have died. "But now, 210 To the wide world's astonishment, appeared A glorious opening, the unlooked-for dawn, That promised everlasting joy to France! Her voice of social transport reached even him! He broke from his contracted bounds, repaired 215 To the great City, an emporium then Of golden expectations, and receiving Freights every day from a new world of hope. Thither his popular talents he transferred; And, from the pulpit, zealously maintained 220 The cause of Christ and civil liberty, As one, and moving to one glorious end. Intoxicating service! I might say A happy service; for he was sincere As vanity and fondness for applause, 225 And new and shapeless wishes, would allow.

"His sacred function was at length renounced; And every day and every place enjoyed The unshackled layman's natural liberty; 265 Speech, manners, morals, all without disguise. I do not wish to wrong him; though the course Of private life licentiously displayed Unhallowed actions--planted like a crown Upon the insolent aspiring brow 270 Of spurious notions--worn as open signs Of prejudice subdued--still he retained, 'Mid much abasement, what he had received From nature, an intense and glowing mind. Wherefore, when humbled Liberty grew weak, 275 And mortal sickness on her face appeared, He coloured objects to his own desire As with a lover's passion. Yet his moods Of pain were keen as those of better men, Nay keener, as his fortitude was less: 280 And he continued, when worse days were come, To deal about his sparkling eloquence, Struggling against the strange reverse with zeal That showed like happiness. But, in despite Of all this outside bravery, within, 285 He neither felt encouragement nor hope: For moral dignity, and strength of mind, Were wanting; and simplicity of life; And reverence for himself; and, last and best, Confiding thoughts, through love and fear of Him Before whose sight the troubles of this world 291 Are vain, as billows in a tossing sea.

Ah! what a sweet Recess, thought I, is here! Instantly throwing down my limbs at ease 350 Upon a bed of heath;--full many a spot Of hidden beauty have I chanced to espy Among the mountains; never one like this; So lonesome, and so perfectly secure; Not melancholy--no, for it is green, 355 And bright, and fertile, furnished in itself With the few needful things that life requires. --In rugged arms how softly does it lie, How tenderly protected! Far and near We have an image of the pristine earth, 360 The planet in its nakedness: were this Man's only dwelling, sole appointed seat, First, last, and single, in the breathing world, It could not be more quiet: peace is here Or nowhere; days unruffled by the gale 365 Of public news or private; years that pass Forgetfully; uncalled upon to pay The common penalties of mortal life, Sickness, or accident, or grief, or pain.

"Me," said I, "most doth it surprise, to find Such book in such a place!"--" A book it is," He answered,"to the Person suited well, Though little suited to surrounding things: 460 'Tis strange, I grant; and stranger still had been To see the Man who owned it, dwelling here, With one poor shepherd, far from all the world!-- Now, if our errand hath been thrown away, As from these intimations I forebode, 465 Grieved shall I be--less for my sake than yours, And least of all for him who is no more."

So speaking, on he went, and at the word I followed, till he made a sudden stand: For full in view, approaching through a gate That opened from the enclosure of green fields 495 Into the rough uncultivated ground, Behold the Man whom he had fancied dead! I knew from his deportment, mien, and dress, That it could be no other; a pale face, A meagre person, tall, and in a garb 500 Not rustic--dull and faded like himself! He saw us not, though distant but few steps; For he was busy, dealing, from a store Upon a broad leaf carried, choicest strings Of red ripe currants; gift by which he strove, 505 With intermixture of endearing words, To soothe a Child, who walked beside him, weeping As if disconsolate.--"They to the grave Are bearing him, my Little-one," he said, "To the dark pit; but he will feel no pain; 510 His body is at rest, his soul in heaven."

More might have followed--but my honoured Friend Broke in upon the Speaker with a frank And cordial greeting.--Vivid was the light 514 That flashed and sparkled from the other's eyes; He was all fire: no shadow on his brow Remained, nor sign of sickness on his face. Hands joined he with his Visitant,--a grasp, An eager grasp; and many moments' space-- When the first glow of pleasure was no more, 520 And, of the sad appearance which at once Had vanished, much was come and coming back-- An amicable smile retained the life Which it had unexpectedly received, Upon his hollow cheek. "How kind," he said, 525 "Nor could your coming have been better timed; For this, you see, is in our narrow world A day of sorrow. I have here a charge"-- And, speaking thus, he patted tenderly The sun-burnt forehead of the weeping child-- 530 "A little mourner, whom it is my task To comfort;--but how came ye?--if yon track Conducted hither your most welcome feet, Ye could not miss the funeral train--they yet 535 Have scarcely disappeared." "This blooming Child," Said the old Man, "is of an age to weep At any grave or solemn spectacle, Inly distressed or overpowered with awe, He knows not wherefore;--but the boy to-day, 540 Perhaps is shedding orphan's tears; you also Must have sustained a loss."--"The hand of Death," He answered, "has been here; but could not well Have fallen more lightly, if it had not fallen Upon myself."--The other left these words 545 Unnoticed, thus continuing-- "From yon crag, Down whose steep sides we dropped into the vale, We heard the hymn they sang--a solemn sound Heard any where; but in a place like this 'Tis more than human! Many precious rites 550 And customs of our rural ancestry Are gone, or stealing from us; this, I hope, Will last for ever. Oft on my way have I Stood still, though but a casual passenger, So much I felt the awfulness of life, 555 In that one moment when the corse is lifted In silence, with a hush of decency; Then from the threshold moves with song of peace, And confidential yearnings, tow'rds its home, Its final home on earth. What traveller--who-- 560 does not own The bond of brotherhood, when he sees them go, A mute procession on the houseless road; Or passing by some single tenement Or clustered dwellings, where again they raise 565 The monitory voice? But most of all It touches, it confirms, and elevates, Then, when the body, soon to be consigned Ashes to ashes, dust bequeathed to dust, Is raised from the church-aisle, and forward borne 570 Upon the shoulders of the next in love, The nearest in affection or in blood; Yea, by the very mourners who had knelt Beside the coffin, resting on its lid In silent grief their unuplifted heads, 575 And heard meanwhile the Psalmist's mournful plaint, And that most awful scripture which declares We shall not sleep, but we shall all be changed! --Have I not seen--ye likewise may have seen-- Son, husband, brothers--brothers side by side, 580 And son and father also side by side, Rise from that posture:--and in concert move, On the green turf following the vested Priest, Four dear supporters of one senseless weight, From which they do not shrink, and under which 585 They faint not, but advance towards the open grave Step after step--together, with their firm Unhidden faces: he that suffers most, He outwardly, and inwardly perhaps, The most serene, with most undaunted eye!-- 590 Oh! blest are they who live and die like these, Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourned!"

"So ends my dolorous tale, and glad I am That it is ended." At these words he turned-- And, with blithe air of open fellowship, Brought from the cupboard wine and stouter cheer, Like one who would be merry. Seeing this, 900 My grey-haired Friend said courteously--"Nay, nay, You have regaled us as a hermit ought; Now let us forth into the sun!"--Our Host Rose, though reluctantly, and forth we went.

VARIANTS:

FOOTNOTES:

DESPONDENCY

ARGUMENT

Upon a semicirque of turf-clad ground, 50 The hidden nook discovered to our view A mass of rock, resembling, as it lay Right at the foot of that moist precipice, A stranded ship, with keel upturned, that rests Fearless of winds and waves. Three several stones 55 Stood near, of smaller size, and not unlike To monumental pillars: and, from these Some little space disjoined, a pair were seen, That with united shoulders bore aloft A fragment, like an altar, flat and smooth: 60 Barren the tablet, yet thereon appeared A tall and shining holly, that had found A hospitable chink, and stood upright, As if inserted by some human hand In mockery, to wither in the sun, 65 Or lay its beauty flat before a breeze, The first that entered. But no breeze did now Find entrance;--high or low appeared no trace Of motion, save the water that descended, Diffused adown that barrier of steep rock, 70 And softly creeping, like a breath of air, Such as is sometimes seen, and hardly seen, To brush the still breast of a crystal lake.

"Behold a cabinet for sages built, Which kings might envy!"--Praise to this effect 75 Broke from the happy old Man's reverend lip; Who to the Solitary turned, and said, "In sooth, with love's familiar privilege, You have decried the wealth which is your own. Among these rocks and stones, methinks, I see 80 More than the heedless impress that belongs To lonely nature's casual work: they bear A semblance strange of power intelligent, And of design not wholly worn away. Boldest of plants that ever faced the wind, 85 How gracefully that slender shrub looks forth From its fantastic birth-place! And I own, Some shadowy intimations haunt me here, That in these shows a chronicle survives Of purposes akin to those of Man, 90 But wrought with mightier arm than now prevails. --Voiceless the stream descends into the gulf With timid lapse;--and lo! while in this strait I stand--the chasm of sky above my head Is heaven's profoundest azure; no domain 95 For fickle, short-lived clouds to occupy, Or to pass through; but rather an abyss In which the everlasting stars abide; And whose soft gloom, and boundless depth, might tempt The curious eye to look for them by day. 100 --Hail Contemplation! from the stately towers, Reared by the industrious hand of human art To lift thee high above the misty air And turbulence of murmuring cities vast; From academic groves, that have for thee 105 Been planted, hither come and find a lodge To which thou mayst resort for holier peace,-- From whose calm centre thou, through height or depth, Mayst penetrate, wherever truth shall lead; Measuring through all degrees, until the scale 110 Of time and conscious nature disappear, Lost in unsearchable eternity!"

"Then," said I, interposing, "One is near, Who cannot but possess in your esteem 195 Place worthier still of envy. May I name, Without offence, that fair-faced cottage-boy? Dame Nature's pupil of the lowest form, Youngest apprentice in the school of art! Him, as we entered from the open glen, 200 You might have noticed, busily engaged, Heart, soul, and hands,--in mending the defects Left in the fabric of a leaky dam Raised for enabling this penurious stream To turn a slender mill 205 For his delight--the happiest he of all!"

"Far happiest," answered the desponding Man, "If, such as now he is, he might remain! Ah! what avails imagination high Or question deep? what profits all that earth, 210 Or heaven's blue vault, is suffered to put forth Of impulse or allurement, for the Soul To quit the beaten track of life, and soar Far as she finds a yielding element In past or future; far as she can go 215 Through time or space--if neither in the one, Nor in the other region, nor in aught That Fancy, dreaming o'er the map of things, Hath placed beyond these penetrable bounds, Words of assurance can be heard; if nowhere 220 A habitation, for consummate good, Or for progressive virtue, by the search Can be attained,--a better sanctuary From doubt and sorrow, than the senseless grave?"

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