quent energy and vivacity of its imagery, and its unceasing heavenward enthusiasm, are qualities that stamp it with the seal of one of the noblest of imaginations. Many of Mr Wordsworth's smaller poems are "flowers fresh with childhood ;" and among those of a more extended aim, what, in grace of delineation, or delicacy of fancy, can equal “Ruth ;" in affecting simplicity of circumstantial lineament of things in themselves morally and poetically beautiful, than "Michael," or the "Cumberland Beggar?" and in "Tintern Abbey," the whole sympathies of the poet's nature, in reference to the relation of man to the external world, are poured forth in exemplification of one of the prominent characteristics of Cowper's genius. If Cowper has taught the new generation to renew the habit of looking "at nature," the telescopic power of Wordsworth's poetry has vastly extended our sphere of vision,-has brought the minutest and the nearest, as well as the most distant, the vastest and most undefined objects, within the sphere of our sympathies,-has widened the glance of faith, and hope, and charity,-and has given to the "humblest daisy on the mountain-side." not merely "a voice to bid the doubting sons of men be still," the cold tongue of dogmatic theology might do this, but a voice with the power of the Mosaic rod, to draw from the flinty and unfeeling heart the gushing waters of all that is holy in piety, pure in affection, and hopeful and consoling amidst the obduracy of sorrowhardened humanity. In Wordsworth's poetry the soul of man animates nature, as, in the Platonic philosophy, the Deity was the innate spirit of the universe. Nature inhabits him, and he inhabits nature, with a reciprocity of life-giving influence. "The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion. . The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Byron and Burns are beings apart from Nature, to whose enjoyment she holds the cup, accepted by the one with haughty disdain, or drained with the sullen gratification of selfish passion,-by the other with hearty and benevolent relish of the enjoyment, but with the eagerness that deadens and kills while it gratifies. But Wordsworth shares her "boon-ness" with herself, as if the very flowers were conscious of his verse; "using," Christian-like, “as not abusing." In estimating the spirit and tendency of Mr Wordsworth's poetry, we have looked on its better side, and have disregarded the adhering vitiations that clung to his style, from the original peculiarity of his poetical theory. Coleridge, who almost worshipped Wordsworth, has left, in his " Biographia Literaria," a philosophical and critical estimate of the poet; and, from the extent to which the cast of Mr Wordsworth's style of expression and mode of thought have penetrated our subsequent poetical literature, we may reasonably predict that posterity will approve the criticism of his friend. Mr Wordsworth has classified his collected works-which he is fond of viewing as parts of an architectural whole, and would wish to be judged as such-into, I. Poems referring to Childhood; II. Poems founded on the Affections; III. Poems of the Fanoy; IV. Poems of the Imagination; V. Sonnets, Inscriptions, &c. ; all forming, as it were," the little cells, oratories, and sepulchral recesses" of the "Gothic Church" to be reared in "The Recluse." 1 See Virg. Æn. vi. 724. AN OLD MAN'S REFLECTIONS. Down to the vale this water steers, 'Twill murmur on a thousand years, And here, on this delightful day, My eyes are dim with childish tears, Thus fares it still in our decay; Mourns less for what age takes away, The Blackbird in the summer trees, Let loose their carols when they please, With Nature never do they wage A happy youth, and their old age But we are pressed with heavy laws, SONNETS.-PART FIRST. XXXI. "Weak is the will of man, his judgment blind, Remembrance persecutes, and hope betrays; Heavy is woe, and joy for human kind A mournful thing, so transient is the blaze!" Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days, Who wants the glorious faculty assigned, To elevate the more than reasoning mind, And colour life's dark cloud with orient rays. Imagination is that sacred power, 'Tis hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of Faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind ODE. INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The glory and the freshness of a dream. By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more! The Rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the Rose; The Moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare; Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth ;— That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; My head hath its coronal, The fulness of your bliss I feel,-I feel it all. This sweet May-morning, And the children are pulling, On every side, In a thousand valleys far and wide, Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, And the Babe leaps up on his mother's arm. 1 Compare with Lord Brooke, p. 69, supra. 2 Comp. Coleridge's Ode," Dejection." Stanza iii. The birds, the shepherd boy, &c., whose vernal happiness the poet describes in the omitted stanza. I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! Doth the same tale repeat. Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: And cometh from afar; Not in entire forgetfulness, But, trailing clouds of glory, do we come But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, The Youth, who daily farther from the east Is on his way attended; At length the Man perceives it die away, Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; The homely nurse doth all she can And that imperial palace whence he came. The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benedictions: 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:- The songs of thanks and praise; 1 This is a splendid shape of the Pythagorean doctrine; see Virg. Æn. vi. 748-751. "Heaven lies," &c. ; comp. the poet Campbell's pretty remark, Life by Dr Beattie, vol. ii. p. 120- Children have so recently come out of the hands of their Creator, that they have not had time to lose the impress of their divine origin." But for those obstinate questionings Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realised, High instincts, before which our mortal nature 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 Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy: Hence, in a season of calm weather, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Can in a moment travel thither,- Then, sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! As to the tabor's sound! We, in thought, will join your throng, Ye that through your hearts to-day What though the radiance which was once so bright Though nothing can bring back the hour Which, having been, must ever be, In the faith that looks through death, And oh, ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, Think not of any severing of your loves! |