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Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean, and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;
A motion and a spirit, that impels

All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows, and the woods,

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And mountains, and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye and ear, both what they half create
And what perceive; well pleased to recognise
In nature and the language of the sense
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being."

The latter years of the poet's life were spent quietly at Mount Rydal, varied occasionally with a short run to the Continent or a brief visit to Scotland. In 1839, the University of Oxford bestowed an academic degree upon him, in recognition of his genius. Three years later Sir Robert Peel recommended him for a royal grant of three hundred pounds a year; and in 1843, he succeeded his friend Southey as poet-laureate.

His course was now nearly run. On Sunday, 10th March, 1850, he attended divine service in Rydal Chapel for the last time. The following Tuesday he complained of a pain in his side, and retired to rest. Friends who heard of his illness anxiously inquired about him; he was rapidly growing weaker. Sunday, April 7th, was the eightieth anniversary of his birth, and in Rydal Church prayers were offered that he might yet be longer spared. But it was not to be. Gradually he sank, lower and lower, and at last, on the 23rd of April, he peacefully fell asleep. The simple, unaffected piety of his life remained the same till his death. He died in the faith in which he had lived and worked-the faith in a Redeemer's love, and ever-present companionship of God.

2

From 2" Well-spent Lives."

'prejudice, adverse opinion formed without proper grounds or sufficient knowledge. Well-spent Lives, by Herbert Edmonds. The above lesson is a portion of the life of Wordsworth. This book commends itself to all educated people, and may well be classed among the gems of literature.

SHORT PASSAGES FROM
WORDSWORTH.

THE SOLITARY REAPER.
BEHOLD her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland lass!
Reaping and singing by herself.
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain.
Oh, listen! for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chant
So sweetly to reposing bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt
Among Arabian sands:

No sweeter voice was ever heard
In spring-time from a cuckoo-bird.
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest 'Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the 2 plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending ;---
I listen'd till I had my fill:
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.

1 Hebrides, or Western Islands, lying west of Scotland. plaintive, sad; complaining.

COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE,
SEPT. 3RD, 1803.

EARTH has not anything to show more fair :
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty :
This City now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields and to the sky,

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill ;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep,
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

1

NUTTING.

It seems a day

(I speak of one from many singled out),
One of those heavenly days which cannot die;
When forth I sallied from our cottage-door,
With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung,
A nutting-crook in hand, and turn'd my steps
Towards the distant woods, a figure quaint,
2Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds
Which for that service had been husbanded,
By exhortation of my frugal dame.

* Motley accoutrement-of power to smile

At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,—and in truth,
More ragged than need was. Among the woods,
And o'er the pathless rocks, I forced my way,
Until, at length, I came to one dear nook
Unvisited, where not a broken bough

Droop'd with its wither'd leaves, ungracious sign
Of devastation, but the hazels rose

Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung,
A virgin scene! A little while I stood,
Breathing with such suppression of the heart
As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint
Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed

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Among the flowers, and with the flowers I play'd;
A temper known to those, who, after long
And weary expectation, have been bless'd
With sudden happiness beyond all hope.
Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves
The violets of five seasons reappear
And fade unseen by any human eye:
Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on
For ever, and I saw the sparkling foam,

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