166 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS. VI. Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a Mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely Nurse doth all she can To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, 80 VII. 86 Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: To dialogues of business, love, or strife; Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little Actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his stage" 90 95 100 "humorous With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, That Life brings with her in her equipage; 105 As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation. VIII. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 110 Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,- 115 On whom those truths do rest, Which we are toiling all our lives to find, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; Thou, over whom thy Immortality Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, A Presence which is not to be put by; Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 120 Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 125 Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight, IX. O joy! that in our embers 130 The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest; 135 Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realised, 140 145 High instincts before which our mortal Nature Are yet the fountain light of all our day, 150 Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, To perish never; 155 Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Nor Man nor Boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence in a season of calm weather Though inland far we be, Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea Can in a moment travel thither, 160 165 And see the Children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. X. Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song! 170 We in thought will join your throng, Ye that through your hearts to-day What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, 175 Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Which having been must ever be; 180 In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind. 186 XI. And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Forebode not any severing of our loves! To live beneath your more habitual sway. 190 Do take a sober colouring from an eye |