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Ah, well for him if here his sufferings ceased,
And ample hours of rest his pains appeased!
But roused again, and sternly bade to rise,
And shake refreshing slumber from his eyes,
Ere his exhausted spirits can return,

Or through his frame reviving ardour burn, [sore,
Come forth he must, though limping, maim'd, and
He hears the whip; the chaise is at the door;—
The collar tightens, and again he feels

His half-heal'd wounds inflamed; again the wheels
With tiresome sameness in his ears resound,
O'er blinding dust, or miles of flinty ground.
Thus nightly robb'd, and injured day by day,
His piecemeal murderers wear his life away.
What say'st thou, Dobbin? what though hounds
await

With open jaws the moment of thy fate,
No better fate attends his public race;
His life is misery, and his end disgrace.
Then freely bear thy burden to the mill:
Obey but one short law,-thy driver's will.
Affection to thy memory ever true,

Shall boast of mighty loads that Dobbin drew;
And back to childhood shall the mind with pride
Recount thy gentleness in many a ride
To pond, or field, or village fair, when thou
Heldst high thy braided mane and comely brow!
And oft the tale shall rise to homely fame
Upon thy generous spirit and thy name.

Though faithful to a proverb we regard
The midnight chieftain of the farmer's yard,
Beneath whose guardianship all hearts rejoice,
Woke by the echo of his hollow voice;
Yet as the hound may faltering quit the pack,
Snuff the fowl scent, and hasten yelping back;
And e'en the docile pointer know disgrace,
Thwarting the general instinct of his race;
E'en so the mastiff, or the meaner cur
At times will from the path of duty err,
(A pattern of fidelity by day:

By night a murderer, lurking for his prey ;)
And round the pastures or the fold will creep,
And coward-like, attack the peaceful sheep.
Alone the wanton mischief he pursues,
Alone in reeking blood his jaws imbrues;
Chasing amain his frighten'd victims round,
Till death in wild confusion strews the ground;
Then wearied out, to kennel sneaks away,
And licks his guilty paws till break of day.

The deed discover'd, and the news once spread,
Vengeance hangs o'er the unknown culprit's head:
And careful shepherds extra hours bestow
In patient watchings for the common foe;
A foe most dreaded now, when rest and peace
Should wait the season of the flock's increase.
In part these nightly terrors to dispel,
Giles, ere he sleeps, his little flock must tell.
From the fireside with many a shrug he hies,
Glad if the full-orb'd moon salute his eyes,
And through th' unbroken stillness of the night
Shed on his path her beams of cheering light.
With sauntering step he climbs the distant stile,
Whilst all around him wears a placid smile;
There views the white-robed clouds in clusters
driven,

And all the glorious pageantry of heaven.

Low, on the utmost boundary of the sight,
The rising vapours catch the silver light;
Thence fancy measures, as they parting fly,
Which first will throw its shadow on the eye,
Passing the source of light; and thence away,
Succeeded quick by brighter still than they.
Far yet above these wafted clouds are seen
(In a remoter sky, still more serene,)
Others, detach'd in ranges through the air,
Spotless as snow, and countless as they're fair,
Scatter'd immensely wide from east to west,
The beauteous semblance of a flock at rest.
These, to the raptured mind, aloud proclaim
Their MIGHTY SHEPHERD's everlasting Name.

Whilst thus the loiterer's utmost stretch of soul
Climbs the still clouds, or passes those that roll,
And loosed imagination soaring goes

High o'er his home, and all his little woes,
Time glides away; neglected duty calls;
At once from plains of light to earth he falls,
And down a narrow lane, well known by day,
With all his speed pursues his sounding way,
In thought still half-absorb'd, and chill'd with cold,
When lo! an object frightful to behold;
A grisly spectre, clothed in silver-gray,
Around whose feet the waving shadow's play,
Stands in his path!-He stops, and not a breath
Heaves from his heart, that sinks almost to death.
Loud the owl halloos o'er his head unseen;
All else is silent, dismally serene:
Some prompt ejaculation, whisper'd low,
Yet bears him up against the threatening foe;
And thus poor Giles, though half inclined to fly,
Mutters his doubts, and strains his steadfast eye.
""Tis not my crimes thou comest here to reprove;
No murders stain my soul, no perjured love;
If thou'rt indeed what here thou seem'st to be,
Thy dreadful mission cannot reach to me.
By parents taught still to mistrust mine eyes,
Still to approach each object of surprise,
Lest fancy's formful visions should deceive
In moonlight paths, or glooms of falling eve,
This then's the moment when my mind should try
To scan thy motionless deformity;

But O, the fearful task! yet well I know
An aged ash, with many a spreading bough,
(Beneath whose leaves I've found a summer's bower,
Beneath whose trunk I've weather'd many a

shower,)

Stands singly down this solitary way,
But far beyond where now my footsteps stay.
'Tis true, thus far I've come with heedless haste;
No reckoning kept, no passing objects traced:
And can I then have reach'd that very tree?
Or is its reve end form assumed by thee?"
The happy thought alleviates his pain:
He creeps another step; then stops again:
Till slowly, as his noiseless feet draw near,
Its perfect lineaments at once appear;
Its crown of shivering ivy whispering peace,
And its white bark that fronts the moon's pale face.
Now, whilst his blood mounts upward, now he

knows

The solid gain that from conviction flows;
And strengthen'd confidence shall hence fulfil
(With conscious innocence more valued stif

The dreariest task that winter nights can bring,
By churchyard dark, or grove, or fairy ring;
Still buoying up the timid mind of youth,
Till loitering reason hoists the scale of truth.
With these blest guardians Giles his course pursues,
Till numbering his heavy-sided ewes,
Surrounding stillness tranquillize his breast,
And shape the dreams that wait his hours of rest.
As when retreating tempests we behold,
Whose skirts at length the azure sky unfold,
And full of murmurings and mingled wrath,
Slowly unshroud the smiling face of earth,
Bringing the bosom joy; so Winter flies!--
And see the source of life and light uprise!
A heightening arch o'er southern hills he bends;
Warm on the cheek the slanting beam descends,
And gives the reeking mead a brighter hue,
And draws the modest primrose bud to view.
Yet frosts succeed, and winds impetuous rush,
And hailstorms rattle through the budding bush;
And nigh-fall'n lambs require the shepherd's care,
And teeming ewes, that still their burdens bear;
Beneath whose sides to-morrow's dawn may see
The milk-white strangers bow the trembling knee;
At whose first birth the powerful instinct's seen
That fills with champions the daisied green:
For ewes that stood aloof with fearful eye,
With stamping foot now men and dogs defy,
And obstinately faithful to their young,
Guard their first steps to join the bleating throng.
But casualties and death from damps and cold
Will still attend the well-conducted fold:
Her tender offspring dead, the dam aloud
Calls, and runs wild amidst th' unconscious crowd;
And orphan'd sucklings raise the piteous cry;
No wool to warm them, no defenders nigh.
And must her streaming milk then flow in vain ?
Must unregarded innocence complain?
No; ere this strong solicitude subside,
Maternal fondness may be fresh applied,
And the adopted stripling still may find
A parent most assiduously kind.

For this he's doom'd awhile disguised to range,
(For fraud or force must work the wish'd-fo
change ;)

For this his predecessor's skin he wears,
Till, cheated into tenderness and cares,
The unsuspecting dam, contented grown,
Cherish and guard the foundling as her own.
Thus all by turns to fair perfection rise;
Thus twins are parted to increase their size:
Thus instinct yields as interest points the way,
Till the bright flock, augmenting every day,
On sunny hills and vales of springing flowers,
With ceaseless clamour greet the vernal hours.

The humbler shepherd here with joy beholds
Th' approved economy of crowded folds,
And, in his small contracted round of cares,
Adjusts the practice of each hint he hears:
For boys with emulation learn to glow,
And boast their pastures, and their healthful show
Of well-grown lambs, the glory of the Spring;
And field to field in competition bring.

E'en Giles, for all his cares and watchings past,
And all his contests with the wintry blast,
Claims a full share of that sweet praise bestow'd
By gazing neighbours, when along the road,
Or village green, his curly-coated throng
Suspends the chorus of the spinner's song;
When admiration's unaffected grace
Lisps from the tongue, and beams in every face.
Delightful moments!-Sunshine, health, and joy,
Play round, and cheer the elevated boy!
"Another spring!" his heart exulting cries;
"Another year! with promised blessings rise!-
ETERNAL POWER! from whom those blessings
flow,

Teach me still more to wonder, more to know!
Seed-time and harvest let me see again;
Wander the leaf-strewn wood, the frozen plain :
Let the first flower, corn-waving field, plain, tree,
Here round my home, still lift my soul to THEE;
And let me ever, midst thy bounties, raise
An humble note of thankfulness and praise!"

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, the founder of what is called the Lake school of poetry, was born in 1770, of a respectable family, at Cockermouth, in Cumberland. He received his early education at the grammar-school of Hawkshead, where he greatly excelled in his classical studies, and was remarkable for his thoughtful disposition, and taste for poetry, in which he made his first attempt, when at the age of thirteen. In 1787, he was removed to St. John's College, Cambridge, where he graduated B. A. and M. A.; and, in 1793, he published a poetical account of a pedestrian tour on the continent, entitled Descriptive Sketches in Verse, &c., followed by the Evening Walk, an epistle, in verse, addressed to a young lady. In alluding to the Descriptive Sketches, says Coleridge," seldom, if ever, was the emergence of an original poetic genius above the literary horizon more evidently announced." After wandering about in various parts of England, our author took a cottage at Alforton, in Somersetshire, near the then residence of Coleridge, where they were regarded by the good people of the neighbourhood as spies and agents of the French Directory. Our benevolent author, however, appears to have been considered the more dangerous character of the two. "As to Coleridge," one of the parish authorities is said to have remarked, "there is not so much harm in him, for he is a wild brain that talks whatever comes uppermost; but that

(Wordsworth) he is the dark traitor. You never hear him say a syllable on the subject." In 1798, he published a volume of his Lyrical Ballads, which met with much abuse and few admirers, but those who applauded, applauded enthusiastically.

morials of a Tour on the Continent; also a Description of the Scenery of the Lakes in the North of England, with illustrative remarks on the scenery of the Alps. His last publication was Yarrow Revisited, which appeared in 1834.

The genius of Mr. Wordsworth has been a matter of critical dispute ever since he first made pretension to any, and it is yet a question with some, whether his productions are not those of " an inspired idiot.” It would be, however, useless to deny him the reputation of a poet, though between the equally extravagant adoration and censure, of which he has been the object, it is difficult to define the exact position which will be ultimately assigned him in the rank of literature. Coleridge, who, as might be expected, is one of his most enthusiastic admirers, says that, "in imaginative powers, Wordsworth stands nearest of all modern writers to Shakspeare and Milton, and yet in a kind perfectly unborrowed, and his own." The author of an essay on his theory and writings, printed in Blackwood's Magazine for 1830, gives a very fair estimate of his poetical genius. "The variety of subjects," he observes, "which Wordsworth has touched; the varied powers which he has displayed; the passages of redeeming beauty interspersed even amongst the worst and dullest of his productions; the originality of detached thoughts, scattered throughout works, to which, on the whole, we must deny the praise of originality; the deep pathos, and occasional grandeur of his style; the real poetical feeling which generally runs through its many modulations; his accurate observation of external nature; and the success with which he blends the purest and most devotional thoughts with the glories of the visible universe-all these are merits, which so far make up in number what they want in weight,' that, although insufficient to raise him to the shrine, they fairly admit him within the sacred temple of poesy." For our own parts, though we are not among those who call, as some of his admirers do, the poetry of Wordsworth" an actual revelation," we admit to have found in his works beauties which no other poet, perhaps, could have struck out of the peculiar sphere to which he has confined his imagination. His Recollections of Early Childhood, and a few others, are sublime compositions; whilst, on the other hand, his lines to a Glow-worm, et id omne genus, are despicable and ridiculous.

In 1803, he married a Miss Mary Hutchinson, of Penrith, and settled at Grassmere, in Westmoreland, for which county, as well as that of Cumberland, he was subsequently appointed distributor of stamps. In 1807, he gave to the public a second volume of his Ballads; and, in 1809, with an intention to recommend a vigorous prosecution of the war with Spain, he published his only prose production, concerning the relations of Great Britain, Spain, and Portugal to each other. In 1814, appeared, in quarto, his Excursion, a poem, which has been highly extolled, and is undoubtedly one of his most original and best compositions. It was followed, in 1815, by the White Doe of Rylstone; and, in 1819, by his Peter Bell, to the merits of which we must confess ourselves strangers. During the same year, he published his Wagonner, a tale; followed, The private character of Mr. Wordsworth has in 1820, by the River Duddon, a series of sonnets; never been impeached by his most virulent enemies, and Vaudracour and Julia, with other pieces; and if he has any; and no man is more esteemed and Ecclesiastical Sketches. In 1822, he printed Me- | respected for his amiable qualities.

THE EXCURSION,

BEING A PORTION OF THE RECLUSE,

PREFACE.

he had not thought that the labour bestowed by him upon what he has heretofore and now laid before the public, entitled him to candid attention for such a statement as he thinks necessary to throw light upon his endeavours to please, and he would hope, to benefit his countrymen.-Nothing further need be added, than that the first and third parts of the Recluse will consist chiefly of meditations in the author's own person; and that in the intermediate part (the Excursion) the intervention of characters speaking is employed, and something of a dramatic form adopted.

It is not the author's intention formally to announce a system: it was more animating to him to proceed in a different course; and if he shall succeed in conveying to the mind clear thoughts, lively images, and strong feelings, the reader will have no difficulty in extracting the system for himself. And in the mean time the following passage, taken from the conclusion of the first book of the Recluse, may be acceptable as a kind of prospectus of the design and scope of the whole poem.

THE title announces that this is only a portion of a poem ; and the reader must be here apprized that it belongs to the second part of a long and laborious work which is to consist of three parts. -The author will candidly acknowledge that, if the first of these had been completed, and in such a manner as to satisfy his own mind, he should have preferred the natural order of publication, and have given that to the world first; but, as the second division of the work was designed to refer more to passing events, and to an existing state of things, than the others were meant to do, more continuous exertion was naturally bestowed upon it, and greater progress made here than in the rest of the poem; and as this part does not depend upon the preceding, to a degree which will materially injure its own peculiar interest, the author, com- "On man, on nature, and on human life, plying with the earnest entreaties of some valued Musing in solitude, I oft perceive friends, presents the following pages to the public. Fair trains of imagery before me rise, It may be proper to state whence the poem, of Accompanied by feelings of delight which the Excursion is a part, derives its title of Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixt; the Recluse. Several years ago, when the author And I am conscious of affecting thoughts retired to his native mountains, with the hope of And dear remembrances whose presence soothes being enabled to construct a literary work that | Or elevates the mind, intent to weigh might live, it was a reasonable thing that he should The good and evil of our mortal state. take a review of his own mind, and examine how -To these emotions, whensoe'er they come, far nature and education had qualified him for such Whether from breath of outward circumstance, employment. As subsidiary to this preparation, heOr from the soul-an impulse to herself, undertook to record, in verse, the origin and pro- I would give utterance in numerous verse. gress of his own powers, as far as he was acquaint-Of truth, of grandeur, beauty, love, and hope— ed with them. That work, addressed to a dear And melancholy fear subdued by faith; friend, most distinguished for his knowledge and Of blessed consolations in distress; genius, and to whom the author's intellect is of moral strength, and intellectual power; deeply indebted, has been long finished; and the Of joy in widest commonalty spread; result of the investigation which gave rise to it was Of the individual mind that keeps her own a determination to compose a philosophical poem, Inviolate retirement, subject there containing views of man, nature, and society; and To conscience only, and the law supreme to be entitled, the Recluse; as having for its Of that Intelligence which governs all; principal subject the sensations and opinions of a I sing: fit audience let me find though few!' poet living in retirement.-The preparatory poem "So pray'd, more gaining than he ask'd, the is biographical, and conducts the history of the bard, author's mind to the point when he was imboldened to hope that his faculties were sufficiently matured for entering upon the arduous labour which he had proposed to himself; and the two works have the same kind of relation to each other, if he may so express himself, as the antichapel has to the body of a Gothic church. Continuing this allusion, he may be permitted to add, that his minor pieces, which have been long before the public, when they shall be properly arranged, will be found by the attentive reader to have such connexion with the main work as may give them claim to be likened to the little cells, oratories, and sepulchral recesses, ordinarily included in those edifices.

Holiest of men.-Urania, I shall need Thy guidance, or a greater muse, if such Descend to earth or dwell in highest heaven! For I must tread on shadowy ground, must sink Deep—and, aloft ascending, breathe in world To which the heaven of heavens is but a veil. All strength-all terror, single or in bands, That ever was put forth in personal form; Jehovah with his thunder, and the choir Of shouting angels, and the empyreal thronesI pass them unalarm'd. Not chaos, not The darkest pit of lowest Erebus, Nor aught of blinder vacancy-scoop'd out By help of dreams, can breed such fear and awe As fall upon us often when we look The author would not have deemed himself Into our minds, into the mind of man, Justified in saying, upon this occasion, so much of My haunt, and the main region of my song. performances either unfinished, or unpublished, if-Beauty-a living presence of the earth,

Surpassing the most fair ideal forms

Which craft of delicate spirits hath composed
From earth's materials-waits upon my steps;
Pitches her tents before me as I move,
An hourly neighbour. Paradise, and groves
Elysian, fortunate fields-like those of old
Sought in th' Atlantic main, why should they be
A history only of departed things,

Or a mere fiction of what never was
For the discerning intelleet of man,
When wedded to this goodly universe
In love and holy passion, shall find these
A simple produce of the common day.
-I, long before the blissful hour arrives,
Would chant, in lonely peace, the spousal verse
Of this great consummation ;-and, by words
Which speak of nothing more than what we are,
Would I arouse the sensual from their sleep
Of death, and win the vacant and the vain
To noble raptures; while my voice proclaims
How exquisitely the individual mind
(And the progressive powers perhaps no less
Of the whole species) to the external world
Is fitted; and how exquisitely, too,
Theme this but little heard of among men,
Th' external world is fitted to the mind;
And the creation (by no lower name
Can it be call'd) which they with blended might
Accomplish:-this is our high argument.
-Such grateful haunts foregoing, if I oft
Must turn elsewhere-to travel near the tribes
And fellowships of men, and see ill sights
Of madding passions mutually inflamed;
Must hear humanity in fields and groves
Pipe solitary anguish ; or must hang
Brooding above the fierce confederate storm
Of sorrow, barricadoed evermore

Within the walls of cities; may these sounds
Have their authentic comment,-that even these
Hearing, I be not downcast or forlorn?
-Descend, prophetic spirit! that inspirest
The human soul of universal earth,
Dreaming on things to come; and dost possess
A metropolitan temple in the hearts

Of mighty poets; upon me bestow

A gift of genuine insight; that my song
With star-like virtue in its place may shine;
Shedding benignant influence, and secure,
Itself, from all malevolent effect

Of those mutations that extend their sway
Throughout the nether sphere !--And if with this
I mix more lowly matter; with the thing
Contemplated, describe the mind and man
Contemplating, and who, and what he was,
The transitory being that beheld
This vision, when and where, and how he lived;
Be not this labour useless. If such theme
May sort with highest objects, then, dread power,
Whose gracious favour is the primal source
Of all illumination, may my life
Express the image of a better time,

More wise desires, and simpler manners ;-nurse

*Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come.
Shakspeare's Sonnets.
53

My heart in genuine freedom :-all pure thoughts
Be with me;-so shall thy unfailing love
Guide, and support, and cheer me to the end!"

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

WILLIAM, EARL OF LONSDALE, K. G. &c. &c.

OFT, through thy fair domains, illustrious peer!
In youth I roam'd, on youthful pleasures bent;
And mused in rocky cell or sylvan tent,
Beside swift-flowing Lowther's current clear.
-Now, by thy care befriended, I appear
Before thee, Lonsdale, and this work present,
A token (may it prove a monument!)
Of high respect and gratitude sincere.
Gladly would I have waited till my task
Had reached its close; but life is insecure,
And hope full oft fallacious as a dream:
Therefore, for what is here produced I ask
Thy favour; trusting that thou wilt not deem
The offering, though imperfect, premature.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

Rydal Mount, Westmoreland,

July 29, 1814.

THE EXCURSION.

ARGUMENT.

A summer forenoon. The author reaches a ruined cottage upon a common, and there meets with a revered friend the Wanderer, of whom he gives an account. The Wanderer while resting under the shade of the trees that surround the cottage relates the history of its last inha bitant.

BOOK FIRST.

THE WANDERER.

'Twas summer, and the sun had mounted high:
Southward the landscape indistinctly glared
Through a pale steam: but all the northern downs,
In clearest air ascending, show'd far off
A surface dappled o'er with shadows flung
From brooding clouds: shadows that lay in spots
Determined and unmoved, with steady beams
Of bright and pleasant sunshine interposed;
Pleasant to him who on the soft cool moss
Extends his careless limbs along the front
Of some huge cave, whose rocky ceiling casts
A twilight of its own, an ample shade,

Where the wien warbles; while the dreaming man,

Half conscious of the soothing melody,
By power of that impending covert thrown
With sidelong eye looks out upon the scene,
To finer distance. Other lot was mine;
Yet with good hope that soon I should obtain
As grateful resting-place, and livelier joy.
Across a bare wide common I was toiling
With languid steps that by the slippery ground
Were baffled; nor could my weak arm disperse
The host of insects gathering round my face,
And ever with me as I paced along.

Upon that open level stood a grove,
The wish'd for port to which my course was bound.

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