The best of what we do and are,
Just God, forgive!

The same high moral wisdom characterises Wordsworth's chief poems, even when in other respects most dissimilar. None of his poems are less like each other than "Resolution and Independence" and "Laodamia." The former belongs to the earlier period of his poetry, the latter to one comparatively late. The former is to a large degree descriptive; it is also psychological in character; the latter treats a classic theme with a classic majesty. But in each case the strongest effect left behind on the reader results from the challenge addressed to his moral being by a wisdom which belongs, in the first of these poems, to the region of the imagination, and which in the latter is blended with a stately passion, a passion restrained. Both poems abound in vivid imagery and intense human interest; both address themselves not merely to our understanding but yet more to our sympathies; the lesson taught by the earlier one being that, so long as action is possible, the severest calamities should but develop our energies more and more; while the second tells us that, when the time for action is irrevocably past, a something greater than all action remains to us in absolute submission to the Divine Will. "Resolution and Independence" is Wordsworth's most signal example of rough and massive strength steadied by the weight of a brooding mind. "Laodamia" proves that his genius might, had he pleased, have embodied itself in forms the opposite

of those which he habitually chose for them, while their spirit would still have remained the same. He gave to this poem all the satisfying perfection of shape and all the marmorean stateliness which belongs to antiquity; but he breathed into it a soul which no bard of old Greece could have imparted to it. There are two very different modes of dealing with the antique. The first is that of imitation. The second is that which, while appropriating, recreates and elevates the classical. To the second class "Laodamia" belongs. Many a recent failure proves that antique form cannot be made to coalesce with the modern spirit; but it willingly subordinates itself, at the call of a great master, to that Moral Truth which is restricted to no age, and to that Spiritual Beauty a gleam from which has fallen upon all ages of song. Protesilaus brings back with him from the abode of the Departed a loftier spirit than any pagan poet attributed to the "Strengthless Heads." He makes no lament either for the lost pride or pleasures of man's life

Earth destroys

These raptures duly-Erebus disdains :

Calm pleasures there abide-majestic pains.

Laodamia cannot believe that the husband restored to her through the force of her intercession is indeed to tarry with her but three hours' space

The gods to us are merciful, and they

Yet further may relent; for mightier far
Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway
Of magic, potent over sun and star,

Is love, though oft to agony distress'd,

And though his favorite seat be feeble woman's breast.

With Protesilaus human love ness belongs to it no more. country, and all is well

remains, but its weak

He had died for his

Love was given,

Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end;
For this the passion to excess was driven-
That self might be annulled, her bondage prove
The fetters of a dream, opposed to love.

He tells her

Of worlds whose course is equable and pure;
No fears to beat away, no strife to heal;
The past unsighed for, and the future sure :

Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there
In happier beauty; more pellucid streams,
An ampler ether, a diviner air,

And fields invested with purpureal gleams.

It is in vain; she cannot bring herself to consent to the Divine Will, and she dies. She has to wear out her penance time—

Apart from happy ghosts who gather flowers

Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers.

It is an abject thing to say that the high spiritual reason of this poem may be philosophy or religion, but is not poetry; such a remark doubtless applies to many a poem which boasts of a moral "tagged on at the close, and to many a dissertation in verse, no part of which has an inspiration. It does not apply to those thoughts which are born of high imagination in union with the spiritual reason. The objector should remember that, as love-poetry, or patriotic poetry

only exists for one who can form the idea of affection or of country, so philosophical poetry seeks no response except from those who have some habitual interest in philosophic thought.

II. Let us now pass on to the second part of our theme-the Wisdom of Wordsworth's poetry when it treats of man's political relations. In his political opinions a great change took place after early youth; in his aims and aspirations, none. From first to last he was a lover of Liberty, though till taught by experience he did not know how necessary for the interests of Liberty it is to distinguish between Liberty and License. The liberty of the individual, the purity and the peace of the family, and the freedom of faith have never been more ruthlessly sacrificed, or with effects more fatal to morals as well as to happiness, than by enthusiasts whose dream was the brotherhood of The true meaning of Liberty has been stated

man.

in two memorable lines

What, then, is Freedom? Rightly understood,
A universal license-to be good.

Wordsworth, like Coleridge and Southey in their youth, was among those who were caught by the promise of the French Revolution (to which Walter Scott is said to have owed his Tory principles)—a period of his life commemorated in his "Prelude." Before long he

was undeceived by the excesses of those whose best excuse would have been that they had loved liberty "not wisely but too well." With him the delusion

1 Sonnet by Hartley Coleridge.

Serene will be our days and bright,

And happy will our nature be,
When love is an unerring light,
And joy its own security.

And they a blissful course may hold
Even now who, not unwisely bold,
Live in the spirit of this creed,

Yet find that other strength, according to their need.

I, loving freedom, and untried,

No sport of every random gust, Yet being to myself a guide,

Too blindly have reposed my trust. And oft when in my heart was heard Thy timely mandate, I deferred

The task imposed, from day to day;

But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.

Through no disturbance of my soul,

Or strong compunction in me wrought,

I supplicate for thy control;

But in the quietness of thought Me this unchartered freedom tires,

I feel the weight of chance desires.

My hopes no more must change their name,
I long for a repose which ever is the same.

Stern lawgiver! yet thou dost wear

The Godhead's most benignant grace, Nor know we anything so fair

As is the smile upon thy face.

Flowers laugh before thee on their beds ;

And fragrance in thy footing treads;

Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;

And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong.

To humbler functions, awful Power!

I call thee; I myself commend

Unto thy guidance from this hour;

Oh let my weakness have an end.

Give unto me, made lowly wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice;

The confidence of reason give;

And, in the light of truth, thy bondsman let me live!