and the laws of light, is still more incomprehensible.

Yet still uppermost Nature was at his heart, as if he felt, Though yet he knew not how, a wasting pow'r In all things which from her sweet influence Might tend to wean him. Therefore with her hues, Her forms, and with the spirit of her forms, He cloth'd the nakedness of austere truth. While yet he linger'd in the rudiments Of science, and among her simplest laws, His triangles-they were the stars of heav'n, The silent stars! Oft did he take delight To measure th' altitude of some tall crag Which is the eagle's birthplace, or some peak Familiar with forgotten years, that shows Inscrib'd, as with the silence of the thought, Upon its bleak and visionary sides;

and I have heard him say
That often, failing at this time to gain
The peace requir'd, he scann'd the laws of light
Amid the roar of torrents, where they send
From hollow clefts up to the clearer air

A cloud of mist, which in the sunshine frames
A lasting tablet-for the observer's eye
Varying its rainbow hues. But vainly thus,
And vainly by all other means, he strove
To mitigate the fever of his heart."—pp. 16-18.
The whole book, indeed, is full of such
stuff. The following is the author's own
sublime aspiration after the delight of be-
coming a Motion, or a Presence, or an Energy
among multitudinous streams.

"Oh! what a joy it were, in vig'rous health,
To have a Body (this our vital Frame
With shrinking sensibility endu'd,
And all the nice regards of flesh and blood)
And to the elements surrender it,
As if it were a Spirit!-How divine
The liberty, for frail, for mortal man,
To roam at large among unpeopled glens
And mountainous retirements, only trod
By devious footsteps; regions consecrate
To oldest time! and, reckless of the storm
That keeps the raven quiet in her nest,
Be as a Presence or a lotion !-one
Among the many there; and, while the Mists
Flying, and rainy Vapours, call out Shapes
And Phantoms from the crags and solid earth
As fast as a Musician scatters sounds

Out of an instrument; and, while the Streams-
(As at a first creation and in haste
To exercise their untried faculties)
Descending from the regions of the clouds,
And starting from the hollows of the earth
More multitudinous every moment-rend
Their way before them, what a joy to roam
An equal among mightiest Energies!
And haply sometimes with articulate voice,
Amid the deaf ning tumult, scarcely heard
By him that utters it, exclaim aloud
Be this continu'd so from day to day,

Nor let it have an end from month to month!" pp. 164, 165. We suppose the reader is now satisfied with Mr. Wordsworth's sublimities-which occupy rather more than half the volume: Of his tamer and more creeping prolixity, we have not the heart to load him with many specimens. The following amplification of the vulgar comparison of human life to a stream, has the merit of adding much obscurity to wordiness; at least, we have not ingenuity enough to refer the conglobated bubbles and murmurs, and floating islands, to their Vital prototypes.

"The tenor

Which my life holds, he readily may conceive
Whoe'er hath stood to watch a mountain Brook
In some still passage of its course, and seen,
Within the depths of its capacious breast,
Inverted trees, and rocks, and azure sky;
And, on its glassy surface, specks of foam,
And conglobated bubbles undissolv'd,
Numerous as stars; that, by their onward lapse,
Betray to sight the motion of the stream,
Else imperceptible; meanwhile, is heard
Perchance a roar or murmur; and the sound
Though soothing, and the little floating isles
Though beautiful, are both by Nature charg'd
With the same pensive office; and make known
Through what perplexing labyrinths, abrupt
Precipitations, and untoward straits,

The earth-born wanderer hath pass'd; and quickly,
That respite o'er, like traverses and toils
Must be again encounter'd.-Such a stream
Is Human Life."-pp. 139, 140.

The following, however, is a better example of the useless and most tedious minuteness with which the author so frequently details circumstances of no interest in themselves,of no importance to the story,-and possessing no graphical merit whatsoever as pieces of description. On their approach to the old chaplain's cottage, the author gets before his companion,

"when behold

An object that entic'd my steps aside!

It was an Entry, narrow as a door;

A passage whose brief windings open'd out
Into a platform; that lay, sheepfold-wise,
Enclos'd between a single mass of rock
And one old moss-grown wall;-a cool Recess,
And fanciful! For, where the rock and wall
Met in an angle, hung a tiny roof,

Or penthouse, which most quaintly had been fram'd,
By thrusting two rude sticks into the wall
And overlaying them with mountain sods!
To weather-fend a little turf-built seat
Whereon a full-grown man might rest, nor dread
The burning sunshine, or a transient shower;
But the whole plainly wrought by Children's hands!
Whose simple skill had throng'd the grassy floor
With work of frame less solid; a proud show
Of baby-houses, curiously arrang'd!
Nor wanting ornament of walks between,
With mimic trees inserted in the turf,

And gardens interpos'd. Pleas'd with the sight,

I could not choose but beckon to my Guide,
Who, having enter'd, carelessly look'd round,
And now would have pass'd on; when I exclaim'd,
'Lo! what is here?' and, stooping down, drew
A Book," &c. pp. 71, 72.

And this book, which he

[forth

"found to be a work In the French Tongue, a Novel of Voltaire," leads to no incident or remark of any value or importance, to apologise for this long story of its finding. There is no beauty, we think, it must be admitted, in these passages; and so little either of interest or curiosity in the incidents they disclose, that we can scarcely conceive that any man to whom they had actually occurred, should take the trouble to recount them to his wife and children by his idle fireside :-but, that man or child should think them worth writing down in blank verse, and printing in magnificent quarto, we should certainly have supposed altogether impossi ble, had it not been for the ample proofs which Mr. Wordsworth has afforded to the contrary

But yet no motion of the breast was seen,
No heaving of the heart. While by the fire
We sate together, sighs came on my ear,
I know not how, and hardly whence they came.
I return'd,

And took my rounds along this road again,
Ere on its sunny bank the primrose flow'r
Peep'd forth, to give an earnest of the Spring,
I found her sad and drooping; she had learn'd.
No tidings of her Husband; if he liv'd
She knew not that he lived; if he were dead
She knew not he was dead. She seem'd the same
In person and appearance; but her House
Bespake a sleepy hand of negligence
Her Infant Babe

Had from its Mother caught the trick of grief,
And sigh'd among its playthings!"-pp. 41-43.

Returning seasons only deepened this gloom, and confirmed this neglect. Her child died; and she spent her weary days in roaming over the country, and repeating her fond and vain inquiries to every passer by.

"Meantime her House by frost, and thaw, and rain,
Was sapp'd; and while she slept the nightly damps
Did chill her breast; and in the stormy day
Her tatter'd clothes were ruffl'd by the wind,
Ev'n at the side of her own fire. Yet still
She lov'd this wretched spot; and here, my Friend,
In sickness she remain'd; and here she died!
Last Human Tenant of these ruin'd Walls."-p. 46.

The story of the old Chaplain, though a little less lowly, is of the same mournful cast, and almost equally destitute of incidents;for Mr. Wordsworth delineates only feelingsand all his adventures are of the heart. The narrative which is given by the sufferer himself is, in our opinion, the most spirited and interesting part of the poem. He begins thus, and addressing himself, after a long pause, to his ancient countryman and friend the Pedlar

"You never saw, your eyes did never look

On the bright Form of Her whom once I lov'd!
Her silver voice was heard upon the earth,
A sound unknown to you; else, honour'd Friend,
Your heart had borne a pitiable share
Of what I suffer'd, when I wept that loss!
And suffer now, not seldom, from the thought
That I remember-and can weep no more!"
p. 117.

The following account of his marriage and early felicity is written with great sweetness a sweetness like that of Massinger, in his softer and more mellifluous passages.

"This fair Bride

In the devotedness of youthful love,
Preferring me to Parents, and the choir
Of gay companions, to the natal roof,
And all known places and familiar sights,
(Resign'd with sadness gently weighing down
Her trembling expectations, but no more
Than did to her due honour, and to me
Yielded, that day, a confidence sublime
In what I had to build upon)-this Bride,
Young, modest, meek, and beautiful, I led
To a low Cottage in a sunny Bay,
Where the salt sea innocuously breaks,
And the sea breeze as innocently breathes,
On Devon's leafy shores;-a shelter'd Hold,
In a soft clime, encouraging the soil
To a luxuriant bounty!-As our steps

Approach the embower'd Abode, our chosen Seat,
See, rooted in the earth, its kindly bed,

-Wild were our walks upon those lonely Downs, Whence, unmolested Wanderers, we beheld The shining Giver of the Day diffuse His brightness, o'er a tract of sea and land Gay as our spirits, free as our desires,

As our enjoyments boundless.-From these Heights We dropp'd, at pleasure, into sylvan Combs; Where arbours of impenetrable shade, And mossy seats detain'd us, side by side, With hearts at ease, and knowledge in our hearts 'That all the grove and all the day was ours.'”’ pp. 118-120.

There, seven years of unmolested happiness were blessed with two lovely children. "And on these pillars rested, as on air, Our solitude."

Suddenly a contagious malady swept off both the infants.

"Calm as a frozen Lake when ruthless Winds
Blow fiercely, agitating earth and sky,
The Mother now remain'd."

59

cross'd

tailed.

We must trespass upon our readers with the fragments of yet another story. It is that of a simple, seduced, and deserted girl, told with great sweetness, pathos, and indulgence, by the Vicar of the parish, by the side of her untimely grave. Looking down on the turf, he says

"As, on a sunny bank, a tender Lamb,

Lurks in safe shelter, from the winds of March
Screen'd by its Parent, so that little mound
Lies guarded by its neighbour. The small heap
Speaks for itself:- -an Infant there doth rest;
The shelt'ring Hillock is the Mother's grave !—
There, by her innocent Baby's precious grave,
Yea, doubtless, on the turf that roofs her own,
The Mother oft was seen to stand, or kneel,
In the broad day, a weeping Magdalene.
Now she is not! The swelling turf reports
Of the fresh show'r, but of poor Ellen's tears
Is silent; nor is any vestige left

Upon the pathway of her mournful tread;
Nor of that pace with which she once had mov'd
In virgin fearlessness-a step that seem'd
Caught from the pressure of elastic turf
Upon the mountains wet with morning dew,
In the prime hour of sweetest scents and airs."
pp. 285-287.

Her virgin graces and gentleness are then very beautifully described, and her seduction and lonely anguish passed over very tenderly.

"Ah why,' said Ellen, sighing to herself,

Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn pledge; And nature that is kind in Woman's breast, And reason that in Man is kind and good, And fear of Him who is a righteous Judge, Why do not these prevail for human life, To keep two hearts together, that began

[food Through four months' space the Infant drew its From the maternal breast. Then scruples rose; Thoughts, which the rich are free from, came and The sweet affection. She no more could bear By her offence to lay a twofold weight On a kind parent, willing to forget So, to that parent's care Their slender means! Trusting her child, she left their common home, And with contented spirit undertook A Foster-Mother's office."-pp. 291-293.

Here the parents of her new nursling soon forbade her all intercourse with her own most precious child;-and a sudden malady carried it off, in this period of forced desertion. -"Once, only once,

She saw it in that mortal malady:
And, on the burial day, could scarcely gain
Permission to attend its obsequies!
She reach'd the house-last of the fun'ral train;
And some One, as she enter'd, having chanc'd'
To urge unthinkingly their prompt departure,
Nay,' said she, with commanding look, a spirit
Nay ye must wait my time!' and down she sate,
anger never seen in her before,
And by the unclos'd coffin kept her seat;
Weeping and looking, looking on and weeping
Upon the last sweet slumber of her Child!
Until at length her soul was satisfied.

Of

You see the Infant's Grave!-and to this Spot, The Mother, oft as she was sent abroad, And whatsoe'er the errand, urg'd her steps: Hither she came; and here she stood, or knelt, In the broad day-a rueful Magdalene !"—p. 294. Overwhelmed with this calamity, she was at last obliged to leave her service.

"But the green stalk of Ellen's life was snapp'd, And the flower droop'd; as every eye might see.'

"Her fond maternal Heart had built a Nest In blindness all too near the river's edge; That Work a summer flood with hasty swell Had swept away! and now her spirit long'd For its last flight to Heaven's security."

- Meek Saint! through patience glorified on
earth!

In whom, as by her lonely hearth she sate,
The ghastly face of cold decay put on
A sun-like beauty, and appear'd divine;
So, through the cloud of death, her Spirit pass'd
Into that pure and unknown world of love,
Where injury cannot come :-and here is laid
The mortal Body by her Infant's side!"

pp. 296, 297.

These passages, we think, are among the most touching with which the volume presents

Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet
To grant, or be receiv'd?'"-p. 289.

"A kindlier passion open'd on her soul
When that poor Child was born. Upon its face
She look'd as on a pure and spotless gift
Of unexpected promise, where a grief
Or dread was all that had been thought of.
Till this hour,'

Thus in her Mother's hearing Ellen spake,
There was a stony region in my heart!
But He at whose command the parched rock
Was smitten, and pour'd forth a quenching stream,
Hath soften'd that obduracy, and made
Unlook'd-for gladness in the desert place,
To save the perishing; and, henceforth, I look
Upon the light with cheerfulness, for thee
My Infant! and for that good Mother dear,
Who bore me,-and ha i pray'd for me in vain!-

and impassioned style. The following commemoration of a beautiful and glorious youth, the love and the pride of the humble valley. is full of warmth and poetry.

"The mountain Ash,

Deck'd with autumnal berries that outshine
Spring's richest blossoms, yields a splendid show
Amid the leafy woods; and ye have seen,
By a brook side or solitary tarn,
How she her station doth adorn,-the pool
Glows at her feet, and all the gloomy rocks
Are brighten'd round her! In his native Vale
Such and so glorious did this Youth appear;
A sight that kindled pleasure in all hearts,
By his ingenuous beauty, by the gleam
Of his fair eyes, by his capacious brow,
By all the graces with which nature's hand
Had bounteously array'd him. As old Bards