Wordsworth's Poems.
This volume is a Gothic church—no less,
And every separate poem but a part
Of a great edifice, built with rarest art,
A cell, or oratory, or carved recess,
Or but a simple leaf-wreath winding round
A marble pillar, in the sombre light,
Or an emblazoned window flashing bright,
Fair in itself, but fairest where 'tis found;
Each delicately symmetrical—but the whole
Ravishing with loveliness the prisoned soul.
The labour of a lifetime, and the work
Of one inspired, the prophet of his age.
What deep philosophy and experience sage
And tender sympathies here retired lurk
In simplest verses. Oh, beloved book!
With thee and but one other, which to name
Even with thee would matter be for blame,
Contented could I glide o'er life's calm brook,
Until it mingle with the mighty sea,
And time be swallowed in eternity.
Nor deem this praise extravagant or strange,
For without travel here I have its joys,
And sitting by my hearth where naught annoys,
O'er hills and oceans by these spells I range.
Is it not grand to see Helvellyn rear
Its lofty summit to the azure sky,
Or mark the lake below faint-gleaming lie,
A mirror for all objects far and near,
Bare rocks, and woods arrayed in vivid green,
And cheerful homesteads through the foliage seen?
