CCLXII.

MILTON.

MILTON! thou shouldst be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart :
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea :
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,

So didst thou travel on life's common way,

In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

CCLXIII.

TRANSIENT JOY.

SURPRISED by joy-impatient as the wind

I turned to share the transport-Oh! with whom But Thee, deep-buried in the silent tomb,

That spot which no vicissitude can find?

Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind—

But how could I forget thee? Through what power,

Even for the least division of an hour,

Have I been so beguiled as to be blind

To my most grievous loss ?-That thought's return

Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,

Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more ;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

CCLXIV.

THE TIMES THAT ARE.

O FRIEND! I know not which way I must look For comfort, being, as I am, opprest,

To think that now our life is only drest

For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook,
Or groom!— We must run glittering like a Brook
In the open sunshine, or we are unblest:
The wealthiest man among us is the best :
No grandeur now in nature or in book
Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
This is idolatry; and these we adore:
Plain living and high thinking are no more :
The homely beauty of the good old cause
Is gone our peace, our fearful innocence,
And pure religion breathing household laws.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

CCLXV.

TO SLEEP.

A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by,
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky
By turns have all been thought of, yet I lie
Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees;
And the first Cuckoo's melancholy cry.

Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
So do not let me wear to-night away:

Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
Come, blessed barrier between day and day,

Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

CCLXVI.

AFTER-THOUGHT.

(Conclusion to the Sonnets to the River Duddon.)

I THOUGHT of Thee, my partner and my guide,

As being past away.-Vain sympathies!
For, backward, Duddon! as I cast my eyes,

I see what was, and is, and will abide;
Still glides the stream and shall for ever glide;
The Form remains, the Function never dies;
While we the brave, the mighty, and the wise,
We men, who in our morn of youth defied

The elements, must vanish ;-be it so!

Enough, if something from our hands have power

To live, and act, and serve the future hour;

And if, as toward the silent land we go,

Through love, through hope, and faith's transcen

dent dower,

We feel that we are greater than we know.