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The Poet, moved y contemplation of is history, apostronizes the child: hy dost thou, O hild, best of phisophers, having as quality of thy ildhood the highest isdom, hasten into e life of habit and onvention?

VIII

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thy soul's immensity;

Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,

That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal

deep,

Haunted forever by the eternal mind,-
Mighty prophet! Seer blest!

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 pro

voke

The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly
freight,

And custom lie upon thee with a weight,
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

IX

The mood changes, or the Poet comforts mself in his sorW: There is yet for joy, in at we had in childod, and can still

'ason

O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
That nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive!

remember, high instincts and obstinate questionings.

The thought of our past years in me doth

breed

Perpetual benediction: not indeed

For that which is most worthy to be blest—
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;
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings;

Blank misgivings of a creature
Moving about in worlds not realized,
High instincts before which our mortal

nature

Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:
But for those first affections,

Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
Are yet a master light of all our seeing;
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;

Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor,

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
Which brought us hither,

Can in a moment travel thither,

And see the children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling ever-

more.

X

The Poet exults in = pleasure which e thought brings, inspired by his ppiness finds a ther ground for solation: Then all nature be d! Though the ght radiance be e, we shall find

ength in what re

ins.

Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!

And let the young lambs bound

As to the tabor's sound!

We in thought will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!

What though the radiance which was once
so bright

Be now forever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the

hour

Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the
flower;

We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy

Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;

In the faith that looks through death;
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

XI

The Poet continues to find justification for his new-found joy: And, in truth, my love of nature is still left to me and has added to itself a sober quality born of my experience of human life.

And O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and

groves,

Forbode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquished one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the brooks which down their chan-
nels fret,

Even more than when I tripped lightly as
they;

The innocent brightness of a new-born day
Is lovely yet;

The clouds that gather round the setting

sun

Do take a sober coloring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms

are won.

Thanks to the human heart by which we
live,

Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can

give

Thoughts that do often lie too deep for

tears.

William Wordsworth

281

TO AN INDEPENDENT PREACHER

WHO PREACHED THAT WE SHOULD BE "IN HARMONY WITH NATURE"

N Nature"?

Restless fool,

"I harmony with a dost preach what were to thee,

When true, the last impossibility;

To be like Nature strong, like Nature cool:-
Know, man hath all which Nature hath, but more,
And in that more lie all his hopes of good.
Nature is cruel; man is sick of blood:

Nature is stubborn; man would fain adore:
Nature is fickle; man hath need of rest:
Nature forgives no debt, and fears no grave;
Man would be mild, and with safe conscience blest.
Man must begin, know this, where Nature ends;
Nature and man can never be fast friends.
Fool, if thou canst not pass her, rest her slave!

282

MORALITY

Matthew Arnold

WE cannot kindle when we will

WE

The fire which in the heart resides,

The spirit bloweth and is still,

In mystery our soul abides;

But tasks in hours of insight willed

Can be through hours of gloom fulfilled.

With aching hands and bleeding feet,
We dig and heap, lay stone on stone;

We bear the burden and the heat

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