when he heard one of his nieces moving near his bed, he asked, "Is that Dora?" The next morning[1] he fell gently, without pang or struggle, into the sleep of death. Three days after, he was laid in Grasmere Church-yard, near the graves of his own darling little ones, whom so long before it had pleased Heaven to take from him.
Though Wordsworth has doubtless been seen by many who may read these pages, there are some who may perhaps ask for a description of his personal appearance. He stood about five feet ten, and there was nothing striking or majestic in his carriage. His eyes were weak and not lustrous, but he had a nose "worthy a Trajan or an Antonine,"[2] and his broad and lofty forehead gave an intensely intellectual expression to a face which was
"The marble index of a mind for ever
Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone."
In Wordsworth's habits there was nothing very marked or eccentric. He was simple in his tastes, regular and temperate in his style of living, and frugal in his expenditure. His natural spirits were good at every period of his life. If not in his mirth boisterously hilarious, he had an even flow of tranquil good-humour, and in after life a calmness of demeanour which contrasted with the impetuosity of his youth. He was never so thoroughly happy as when wandering in the open air, drinking in the mountain breezes, and basking in the genial sunshine. A peripatetic poet, he composed as he walked abroad, or loitered in his garden. He would trust to his memory to reproduce what he had composed, and his sister would commit to paper under his dictation the result of his
