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Out of the bowels of those very schemes
In which his youth did first extravagate, -
These spread like day, and something in the shape
Of these will live till man shall be no more.
Dumb yearnings, hidden appetites, are ours,
And they must have their food. Our childhood sits,
Our simple childhood sits upon a throne
That hath more power than all the elements.
I guess not what this tells of Being past,
Nor what it augurs of the life to come;
But so it is, and, in that dubious hour,
That twilight when we first begin to see
This dawning Earth, to recognise, expect,
And in the long probation that ensues,
The time of trial, ere we learn to live
In reconcilement with our stinted powers;
To endure this state of meagre vaşsalage,
Unwilling to forego, confess, submit,
Uneasy and unsettled, yoke-fellows
To custom, mettlesome, and not yet tamed
And humbled down; 0, then we feel, we feel,
We know where we have friends. Ye dreamers, then,
Forgers of daring tales, we bless you then,
Impostors, drivellers, dotards, as the ape
Philosophy will call you; then we feel
With what, and how great might ye are in league,
Who make our wish, our power, our thought a deed,
An empire, a possession, — ye whom time
And seasons serve; all Faculties to whom
Earth crouches, th' elements are potter's clay,
Space like a heaven fill'd up with northern lights,
Here, nowhere, there, and everywhere at once.

SIGHTS IN LONDON.

(From the Prelude, Book vii.)
Pass we from entertainments, that are such
Professedly, to others titled higher,
Yet, in the estimate of youth at least,
More near akin to those than names imply, -
I mean the brawls of lawyers in their courts
Before the ermined judge, or that great stage
Where senators, tongue-favour'd men, perform,
Admired and envied. O, the beating heart!
When one among the prime of these rose up,

One, of whose name from childhood we had heard
Familiarly, a household term, like those,
The Bedfords, Glosters, Salsburys, of old
Whom the fifth Harry talks of. Silence! luslı!
This is no trifler, no short-flighted wit,
No stammerer of a minute, painfully
Deliver'd. No! the Orator hath yoked
The Hours, like young Aurora, to his car.
Thrice welcome Presence! how can patience e'er
Grow weary of attending on a track
That kindles with such glory! All are charm'd,
Astonish'd; like a hero in romance,
He winds away his never-ending horn;
Words follow words, sense seems to follow sense:
What memory and what logic! till the strain
Transcendent, superhuman as it seem’d,
Grows tedious even in a young man's ear.

Genius of Burke! forgive the pen seduced
By specious wonders, and too slow to tell
Of what th' ingenuous, what bewilder'd men,
Beginning to mistrust their boastful guides,
And wise men, willing to grow wiser, caught,
Rapt auditors ! from thy most eloquent tongue,
Now mute, for ever mute in the cold

grave.
I see him — old, but vigorous in age –
Stand like an oak whose stag-horn branches start
Out of its leafy brow, the more to awe
The younger brethren of the

But some,
While he forewarns, denounces, launches forth,
Against all systems built on abstract rights,
Keen ridicule; the majesty proclaims
Of Institutes and Laws, hallow'd by time;
Declares the vital power of social ties
Endear'd by Custom; and, with high disdain
Exploding upstart Theory, insists
Upon th' allegiance to which men are born ;-
Some - say at once a froward multitude
Murmur, (for truth is hated, where not loved,)
As the winds fret within th' Æolian cave,
Gall’d by their monarch's chain. The times were big
With ominous change, which, night by night, provoked
Keen struggles, and black clouds of passion raised;
But memorable moments intervened,
When Wisdom, like the Goddess from Jove's brain,

grove.

6 The allusion is to the King's speech in Shakespeare's King Henry the Fifth, Act iv. scene 3, beginning, “What's he, that wishes so?"

Broke forth in armour of resplendent words,
Startling the Synod. Could a youth, and one
In ancient story versed, whose breast hath heaved
Under the weight of classic eloquence,
Sit, see, and hear, unthankful, uninspired ?

Nor did the Pulpit's oratory fail
To achieve its higher triumph. — Not unfelt
Were its admonishments, nor lightly heard
The awful truths deliver'd thence by tongues
Endow'd with various power to search the soul;
Yet ostentation, domineering, oft
Pour'd forth harangues, how sadly out of place! -
There have I seen a comely bachelor,
Fresh from a toilet of two hours, ascend
His rostrum, with seraphic glance look up,
And, in a tone elaborately low
Beginning, lead his voice through many a maze
A minuet course; and, winding up his mouth,
From time to time, into an orifice
Most delicate, a lurking eyelet, small,
And only not invisible, again
Open it out, diffusing thence a smile
of rapt irradiation, exquisite.
Meanwhile th' Evangelists, Isaiah, Job,
Moses, and he who penn'd, the other day,
The Death of Abel, Shakespeare, and the Bard
Whose genius spangled o’er a gloomy theme
With fancies thick as his inspiring stars,"
And Ossian (doubt not, 'tis the naked truth)
Summon'd from streamy Morven,-- each and all
Would, in their turns, lend ornaments and flowers
To entwine the crook of eloquence that help'd
This pretty Shepherd, pride of all the plains,
To rule and guide his captivated flock.

“MEN AS THEY ARE MEN.”

(From The Prelude, Book xiii.) 0, NEXT to one dear state of bliss, vouchsafed, Alas ! to few in this untoward world,

The bliss of walking daily in life's prime 6. At first, Wordsworth deeply regretted, not to say resented, the ground Burko took on the French revolution. The great statesman, in his prophetic rapture, then seemed to him little better than downright crazy. But he afterwards became con. vinced, as he well might, that Burke's folly was wiser than the wisdom of any or of all who maligned or opposed him. 7 Referring, probably, to Young's Night Thoughts.

Through field or forest with the maid we love,
While yet our hearts are young, while yet we breathe
Nothing but happiness, in some lone nook,
Deep vale, or anywhere, the home of both,
From which it would be misery to stir;-
O, next to such enjoyment of our youth,
In my esteem, next to such dear delight,
Was that of wandering on from day to day
Where I could meditate in peace, and cull
Knowledge that step by step might lead me on
To wisdom; or, as lightsome as a bird
Wafted upon the wind from distant lands,
Sing notes of greeting to strange fields or groves,
Which lack'd not voice to welcome me in turn :
And, when that pleasant toil had ceased to please,
Converse with men, where if we meet a face
We almost meet a friend, on naked heaths
With long, long ways before, by cottage bench,
Or well-spring where the weary traveller rests.
Who doth not love to follow with his

eye
The windings of a public way? the sight,
Familiar object as it is, hath wrought
On my imagination since the morn
Of childhood, when a disappearing line,
One daily present to my eyes, that cross'd
The naked summit of a far-off hill
Beyond the limits that my feet had trod,
Was like an invitation into space
Boundless, or guide into eternity.
Yes, something of the grandeur which invests
The mariner who sails the roaring sea
Through storm and darkness, early in my mind
Surrounded, too, the wanderers of the earth;
Grandeur as much, and loveliness far more.
Awed have I been by strolling Bedlamites;
From many other uncouth vagrants (pass’d
In fear) have walk'd with quicker step; but why
Take note of this? When I began to inquire,
To watch and question those I met, and speak
Without reserve to them, the lonely roads
Were open schools in which I daily read
With most delight the passions of mankind,
Whether by words, looks, sighs, or tears, reveald;
There saw into the depth of human souls,
Souls that appear to have no depth at all
To careless eyes. And now convinced at heart

How little those formalities, to which
With overweening trust alone we give
The name of Education, have to do
With real feeling and just sense ; how vain
A correspondence with the talking world
Proves to the most; and call'd to make good search
If man's estate, by doom of Nature yoked
With toil, be therefore yoked with ignorance;
If virtue be indeed so hard to rear,
And intellectual strength so rare a boon
I prized such walks still more, for there I found
Hope to my hope, and to my pleasure peace
And steadiness, and healing and repose
To every angry passion. There I heard,
From mouths of men obscure and lowly, truths
Replete with honour; sounds in unison
With loftiest promises of good and fair.

There are who think that strong affection, love
Known by whatever name, is falsely deem'd
A gift, to use a term which they would use,
Of vulgar nature; that its growth requires
Retirement, leisure, language purified
By manners studied and elaborate;
That whoso feels such passion in its strength
Must live within the very light and air
Of courteous usages refined by art.
True is it, where oppression worse than death
Salutes the being at his birth, where grace
Of culture hath been utterly unknown,
And poverty and labour in excess
From day to day pre-occupy the ground
Of the affections, and to Nature's self
Oppose a deeper nature; there, indeed,
Lore cannot be; nor does it thrive with ease
Among the close and overcrowded haunts
Of cities, where the human heart is sick,
And the eye feeds it not, and cannot feed.
Yes, in those wanderings deeply did I feel
How we mislead each other; above all,
How books mislead us, seeking their reward
From judgments of the wealthy Few, who see
By artificial lights; how they debase
The Many for the pleasure of those Few;
Effeminately level down the truth
To certain general notions, for the sake
Of being understood at once, or else

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