His mind was a thanksgiving to the power That made him; it was blessedness and love!

220

225

A Herdsman on the lonely mountain tops, Such intercourse was his, and in this sort Was his existence oftentimes possessed. O then how beautiful, how bright, appeared The written promise! Early had he learned To reverence the volume that displays The mystery, the life which cannot die; But in the mountains did he feel his faith. All things, responsive to the writing, there Breathed immortality, revolving life And greatness still revolving; infinite: There littleness was not; the least of things 230 Seemed infinite; and there his spirit shaped Her prospects, nor did he believe,—he saw. What wonder if his being thus became Sublime and comprehensive! Low desires, Low thoughts had there no place; yet was his heart

Lowly; for he was meek in gratitude,

Oft as he called those ecstasies to mind,

235

And whence they flowed; and from them he acquired

Wisdom, which works thro' patience; thence he learned

In oft-recurring hours of sober thought
To look on Nature with a humble heart,
Self-questioned where it did not understand,
And with a superstitious eye of love.

240

245

So passed the time; yet to the nearest town He duly went with what small overplus His earnings might supply, and brought away The book that most had tempted his desires While at the stall he read. Among the hills

THE WANDERER.

19

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,
(Especially perceived where nature droops 255
And feeling is suppressed) 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,

270

Her forms, and with the spirit of her forms,
He clothed the nakedness of austere truth.
While yet he lingered in the rudiments
Of science, and among her simplest laws,
His triangles-they were the stars of heaven,
The silent stars! Öft 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.

20

WORDSWORTH'S POEMS.

With still increasing weight; he was o'erpowered

By Nature; by the turbulence subdued
Of his own mind; by mystery and hope,
And the first virgin passion of a soul
Communing with the glorious universe.
Full often wished he that the winds might

rage

285

When they were silent: far more fondly now Than in his earlier season did he love Tempestuous nights-the conflict and the sounds

290

That live in darkness. From his intellect
And from the stillness of abstracted thought
He asked repose; and, failing oft to win
The peace required, he scanned the laws of
light

Amid the roar of torrents, where they send 295
From hollow clefts up to the clearer air
A cloud of mist, that smitten by the sun
Varies its rainbow hues. But vainly thus,
And vainly by all other means, he strove
To mitigate the fever of his heart.

300

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
To yield him no unworthy maintenance.
Trged by his Mother, he essayed to teach

310

A village-school-but wandering thoughts were

then

A misery to him; and the Youth resigned
A task he was unable to perform.

315

319

That stern yet kindly Spirit, who constrains The Savoyard to quit his naked rocks, The free-born Swiss to leave his narrow vales, (Spirit attached to regions mountainous Like their own stedfast clouds) did now impel His restless mind to look abroad with hope. -An irksome drudgery seems it to plod on, Through hot and dusty ways, or pelting storm, A vagrant Merchant under a heavy load Bent as he moves, and needing frequent

rest;

325

Yet do such travellers find their own delight; And their hard service, deemed debasing now, Gained merited respect in simpler times; When squire, and priest, and they who round them dwelt

330

In rustic sequestration-all dependent.
Upon the PEDLAR's toil-supplied their wants,
Or pleased their fancies, with the wares he
brought.

Not ignorant was the Youth that still no few
Of his adventurous countrymen were led
By perseverance in this track of life
To competence and ease:-to him it offered
Attractions manifold ;—and this he chose.

335

340

His Parents on the enterprise bestowed Their farewell benediction, but with hearts Foreboding evil. From his native hills He wandered far; much did he see of men, Their manners, their enjoyments, and pursuits, Their passions and their feelings; chiefly those Essential and eternal in the heart,

That, 'mid the simpler forms of rural life, 345 Exist more simple in their elements,

350

And speak a plainer language. In the woods,
A lone Enthusiast, and among the fields,
Itinerant in this labour, he had passed
The better portion of his time; and there
Spontaneously had his affections thriven
Amid the bounties of the year, the peace
And liberty of nature; there he kept
In solitude and solitary thought
His mind in a just equipoise of love.
Serene it was, unclouded by the cares
Of ordinary life; unvexed, unwarped

By partial bondage. In his steady course,
No piteous revolutions had he felt,
No wild varieties of joy and grief.
Unoccupied by sorrow of its own,

His heart lay open; and, by nature tuned
And constant disposition of his thoughts
To sympathy with man, he was alive

355

360

To all that was enjoyed where'er he went, 365
And all that was endured; for, in himself
Happy, and quiet in his cheerfulness,

He had no painful pressure from without
That made him turn aside from wretchedness
With coward fears. He could afford to suffer 370
With those whom he saw suffer. Hence it

came

That in our best experience he was rich,
And in the wisdom of our daily life.
For hence, minutely, in his various rounds,
He had observed the progress and decay
Of many minds, of minds and bodies too;
The history of many families;

375

How they had prospered; how they were o'erthrown

By passion or mischance, or such misrule