And part far from them :-sweetest melodies
Are those that are by distance made more sweet;
Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes,

He is a Slave; the meanest we can meet !

III.

Wings have we,-and as far as we can go
We may find pleasure: wilderness and wood,
Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood
Which with the lofty sanctifies the low.

Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know,

Are a substantial world, both pure and good:

Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,

Our pastime and our happiness will grow.

There find I personal themes, a plenteous store,
Matter wherein right voluble I am,

To which I listen with a ready ear;1

Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear,-2

The gentle Lady married to the Moor;

And heavenly Una, with her milk-white Lamb.

IV.

Nor can I not believe but that hereby
Great gains are mine; for thus I live remote
From evil-speaking; rancour, never sought,
Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie.
Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I

Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought:
And thus from day to day my little boat
Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably.
Blessings be with them-and eternal praise,
Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares-
The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays!
Oh! might my name be numbered among theirs,
Then gladly would I end my mortal days.

The stanza referred to as disliked by Miss Fenwick is the first. The text of this poem was little altered, and was fixed in 1829. The

half-kitchen and half-parlour fire

of 1807, was a reminiscence of Dove Cottage, which we regret to lose in the later editions.

In the Baptistery of Westminster Abbey, there is a statue of Wordsworth of great merit by Frederick Thrupp, placed there by the late Dean Stanley, beside busts of Keble, Maurice, and Charles Kingsley. Underneath the statue of Wordsworth are the four lines from Personal Talk

Blessings be with them-and eternal praise,
Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares-
The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays !

Dean Stanley found it difficult to select from Wordsworth's poems the lines most appropriate for inscription, and adopted this at the suggestion of his friend, Principal Shairp.

With the l'nes

Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes,
He is a Slave, &c.,

compare The Prelude, Book XII. (Vol. III. p. 368)—

A

I knew a maid,

young enthusiast who escaped these bonds; Her eye was not the mistress of her heart.

-ED.

ADMONITION.

Intended more particularly for the perusal of those who may have happened to be enamoured of some beautiful Place of Retreat, in the Country of the Lakes.

WELL may'st thou halt-and gaze with brightening eye!1 The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook

Hath stirred thee deeply; with its own dear brook,

Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!

But covet not the Abode:-forbear to sigh,2
As many do, repining while they look;

Intruders who would tear from Nature's book 3

This precious leaf, with harsh impiety.

Think what the home must be if it were thine,5

Even thine, though few thy wants!-Roof, window, door, The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,

The roses to the porch which they entwine:

Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day

On which it should be touched, would melt away.

Think what the Home would be if it were thine,

1807.

6

1827.

would melt and melt away.

1807.

With the lines

its own dear brook,

Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!

compare those in Peter Bell—

Where deep and low the hamlets lie
Beneath their little patch of sky,

And little lot of stars.

The Cottage at Town-end, Grasmere-where this Sonnet was composed-may have suggested it. Some of the details, however, are scarcely applicable to Dove Cottage; the "brook" (referred to elsewhere) is outside the orchard ground, and there is scarcely anything in the garden to warrant the phrase, "its own small pasture." It is unnecessary to localise the allusions.--ED.

"BELOVED Vale!" I said, "When I shall con
Those many records of my childish years,
Remembrance of myself and of my peers
Will press me down: to think of what is gone
Will be an awful thought, if life have one."
But, when into the Vale I came, no fears
Distressed me; from mine eyes escaped no tears;1
Deep thought, or dread remembrance, had I none.2
By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost

I stood, of simple shame the blushing Thrall;

Distressed me; I looked round, I shed no tears;

1807.

HOW SWEET IT IS, WHEN MOTHER FANCY ROCKS 29

So narrow seemed the brooks, the fields so small!1
A Juggler's balls old Time about him tossed;

I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed; and all
The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.

Doubtless the "Vale" referred to is that of Hawkshead; the Brooks, the one that feeds Esthwaite, and Sawrey beck, but above all, "the famous brook within our garden boxed." (See The Prelude, passim, and The Fountain.)-ED.

How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks
The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood!

An old place, full of many a lovely brood,

Tall trees, green arbours, and ground-flowers in flocks; And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks,

Like a bold Girl, who plays her agile pranks2

At Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks,When she stands cresting the Clown's head, and mocks The crowd beneath her. Verily I think,

Such place to me is sometimes like a dream

Or map of the whole world: thoughts, link by link,
Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam
Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink,

And leap at once from the delicious stream.

To see the Trees, which I had thought so tall,
Mere dwarfs; the Brooks so narrow, Fields so small. 1807.

2.1827.

Like to a bonny Lass, who plays her pranks.

1807.