"Thou art not beneath the moon But a thing' beneath our shoon '; Others roam about the sea; Praise it is enough for me Who will love my little flower." And why are these crowds thronging to his valley and his grave, if they have not come round to him? What means the rich subjective element which has been infused into English literature, if his profounder ideas have not begun to prevail? What means the fine analysis of Tennyson, his dwelling upon lowly and simple themes, his drawing out of a deeper soul from inanimate things, if he had not drunk into the spirit of this great master of true modern poetry? Wordsworth was the poet of progress, - "A man of hope and forward-looking mind Even to the last." His idea of Nature and creation led to unlimited search, and to ever-widening and deepening thought, because he discerned "God in the human soul, and God in all things." Rydal Water is a miniature affair, not more than half a mile long, but its mountain guardians of Loughrigg Fell and Nab Scar make it lose its sense of smallness; and it is not too small for many little gems "Of islands that together lie, Amongst the evening clouds." A short way on from Rydal Mere, and strung to it by a silver streamlet, is the heart of all the lakes, Grasmere. As the road creeping around under Nab Scar passes the middle part of the lake, it runs near the " Wishing Gate" sung by Wordsworth in those tripping verses with such solemn ending. Here one looks down upon one of the most lovely and softly peaceful scenes on earth, and yet with a certain sober grandeur about it quite impossible to describe. Why was it named Grasmere? Because it could not have been named any thing else. There is a grassy margin around the whole shore of the lake, spreading out into dark green meadows at its upper end where the village stands, and climbing up almost to the summits of the bold cliffs that curl their edges over this vale. Just opposite rise the steep, overhanging heights of Silver How, and the eye running along its wall follows it up into the shadowy recesses of the lonely glen of Easedale. At the head of the lake beyond the village, towers the noble cliff called Helm Crag, not unlike a Roman soldier's nodding crest, if that were indeed the origin of its name. Back of it are the higher mountains that lie around Thirlemere Lake, and I do not remember whether one can catch here a glimpse of the shoulder of Helvellyn above Seat Sandal on the far right. The waveless expanse of Grasmere, with its one little island, spreads out before one, tranquilly reflecting all this beauty. A little further on we came to Town End, and saw the humble roof, somewhat out of the village, beneath which Wordsworth made his first home. Here he brought his young bride, and gathered his soul-friends — Southey, Coleridge, Scott, Lamb, Lloyd, Wilson-about him. De Quincey also lived here after him. And not far from this his first home, the scene of his first works and studies, standing at the very head of the lake, is the small, square-towered, rude stone church, in the graveyard of which he sleeps. Within the church there is a marble bas-relief of his farmer-like yet thoughtful face, and a just and elaborate inscription placed over the pew which he frequently occupied. I will not stop to transcribe it. "Green is the churchyard, beautiful and green, And mantled o'er with aboriginal turf And everlasting flowers. These dalesmen trust Beneath his ridge of green, with a simple black slate-stone at its head, inscribed simply with the name of William Wordsworth, among the dalesmen and humble people with whom he daily walked, sleeps the poet. His loved sister, and his only daughter Dora, and her husband the scholar Edward Quillinan, are laid by his side. Between these mounds and the church is the monument of poor Hartley Coleridge, covered with a cross-crown and thorns, with the inscription "By thy cross and passion, good Lord, deliver us! 99 A clear little stream sings past the very edge of these grassy mounds, and slides into the soft and quiet lake which is but a few steps distant. The great mountains stand watching around. The shadows of the clouds pass silently over the spot. The stars shine upon it. "As in the eye of Nature he has lived, So in the eye of Nature let him die." CHAPTER XII. THE LAKE COUNTRY (CONTINUED.) I STOPPED awhile at the "Swan" to take my last near look of Grasmere, and then went slowly up the ascending road to Dunmail Raise, which was a favorite walk of Wordsworth's. For some way it goes almost in the shadow of Helm Crag, whose crest presents odd combinations of rocks, out of which any one has as much right as the poet to form grotesque images. Of a mass of tall hobnobbing rocks that stand black and clear against the sky, Wordsworth's fancy painted this little Albrecht-Dürer picture : "The Astrologer, sage Sidrophel, Where at his desk and book he sits, As if intent on magic spell; Dread pair, that spite of wind and weather, And the whole group of rocks and mountains around was gathered up in a picture in these lines: "The rock like something starting from a sleep, Took up the lady's voice and laughed again; |