MODERN BRITISH POETS.
97
| Foes might hang upon their path, snakes rustle near, |
| But nothing from their inward selves had they to fear. |
| “Thought infirm ne’er came between them, |
| Whether printing desert sands |
| With accordant steps, or gathering |
| Forest fruit with social hands; |
| Or whispering like two reeds that in the cold moonbeam |
| Bend with the breeze their heads beside a crystal stream.” |
The Evening Voluntaries are very beautiful in manner, and full of suggestions. The second is worth extracting as a forcible exhibition of one of Wordsworth’s leading opinions.
| “Not in the lucid intervals of life |
| That come but as a curse to party strife; |
| Not in some hour when pleasure with a sigh |
| Of languor, puts his rosy garland by; |
| Not in the breathing times of that poor slave |
| Who daily piles up wealth in Mammon’s cave, |
| Is nature felt, or can be; nor do words |
| Which practised talent readily affords |
| Prove that her hands have touched responsive chords. |
| Nor has her gentle beauty power to move |
| With genuine rapture and with fervent love |
| The soul of genius, if he dares to take |
| Life’s rule from passion craved for passion’s sake; |
| Untaught that meekness is the cherished bent |
| Of all the truly great and all the innocent; |
| But who is innocent? By grace divine, |
| Not otherwise, O Nature! we are thine, |
| Through good and evil thine, or just degree |
| Of rational and manly sympathy, |
| To all that earth from pensive hearts is stealing, |
| And heaven is now to gladdened eyes revealing, |
| Add every charm the universe can show |
| Through every change its aspects undergo, |
| Care may be respited, but not repealed; |
| No perfect cure grows on that bounded field, |
