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What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme,
The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beum ;
Of smell, the headlong lioness between,
And hound sagacious on the tainted green ;
Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood,
To that which warbles through the vernal wood !
The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine!
Feels at each thread, and lives along the line.

These passages, (to which could be added many others of equal excellence from the same writer,) are highly picturesque, and ought to make the Lake poets treat the name of Pope with a little more respect. They as extravagantly depreciate his powers as Lord Byron overrated them. As I have quoted Wordsworth’s allusion to the Nocturnal Reverie of the Countess of Winchelsea, that poem is not likely to be familiar to

many

of
my

readers, I will introduce a short extract from it.

and as

“When darkened groves their softest shadows wear,

And falling waters we distinctly heur :
When through the gloom more venerable shows
Some ancient fabric, awful in repose :
While sunburnt hills their swarthy looks conceal,
And swelling hay-cocks thicken up the vale :
When the loosed horse, now, as his pasture leads,
Comes slowly grazing through the adjoining meads,
Whose stealing pace, and lengthened shade we fear,
Till torn-up forage in his teeth we hear : &c. &c."

Wordsworth in the following night-scene, taken from one of his sonnets, appears to have had the natural and striking images contained in the last four lines of the passage just extracted, very strongly in his mind.

“Calm is all nature as a resting wheel ;
The kine are couched upon the dewy grass ;
The horse alone, seen dimly as I puss,
Is cropping audibly his later meal,"

Hurdis, in his Favorite Village, has also a similar description :

“ The grazing ox His dewy supper from the savoury herbs Audibly gathering."

Wordsworth abounds in natural images of admirable truth and beauty, which linked as they usually are to lofty and philosophical thoughts, form some of the most delightful poetry in the language. Here is a companion picture to Pope's lonely woodcocks.It is from one of Wordsworth's juvenile productions.

“Sweet are the sounds that mingle from afar,
Heard by calm lakes, as peeps the folding star,
Where the duck dabbles mid the rustling sedge,
And feeding pikes start from the water's edge,
Or the swan stirs the reeds, his neck and bill
Wetting, that drip upon the water still ;
And heron, as resounds the trodden shore
Shoots upward, darting his long neck before.

The duck dabbling in the above passage reminds me of a ludi. crous but very descriptive line of Southey's in a Sonnet to a

Goose :

Or waddle wide, with flat and flabby feet,

Over some Cambrian mountain's plashy moor.”

SONNET.

SCENE ON THE GANGES.

The shades of evening veil the lofty spires
Of proud Benares' fanes! A thickening haze
Hangs o'er the stream. The weary boatmen raise
Along the dusky shore their crimson fires,
That tinge the circling groups. Now hope inspires
Yon Hindoo maid, whose heart true passion sways,
To launch on Gunga's flood the glimmering rays
Of Love's frail lamp,—but, lo! the light expires !
Alas! what sudden sorrow fills her breast !
No charm of life remains. Her tears deplore
An absent lover's doom, and never more
Shall hope's sweet vision yield her spirit rest !
The cold wave quenched the flame--an omen dread
The maiden dares not question ;~he is dead !

SONNET.
Lady! if from my young, but clouded brow,
The light of rapture fade so fitfully-
If the mild lustre of thy sweet blue eye
Awake no lasting joy,-Oh! do not Thou,
Like the gay throng, disdain the mourner's woe,
Or deem his bosom cold !-Should the deep sigh
Seem to the voice of bliss unmeet reply-
Oh! bear with one whose darkened path below
The Tempest-fiend hath crossed ! The blast of doom
Scatters the ripening bud, the full-blown flower
Of Hope and Joy, nor leaves one living bloom,
Save Love's wild evergreen, that dares its power,
And clings to this lone heart, young Pleasure's tomb,

Like the fond ivy on the ruined tower ! 1822.

MORNING.

I.

Behold glad Nature's triumph ! Lo, the sun
Hath burst the pall of night, and o'er the earth
Reviving radiance scattered. Sleep hath done
Her death-resembling reign, and thoughts have birth
That thrill the grateful heart with holy mirth :
While fresh as flowers that deck the dewy ground
Gay Fancy's bright-hued images abound,
And mortals feel the glory and the worth

Of that dear boon-existence ;—all around
Unnumbered charms arise in every sight and sound !

II.

The scene is steeped in beauty---and my soul,
No longer lingering in the gloom of care,
Doth greet Creation's smile. The gray clouds roll
E’en from the mountain peaks and melt in air!
The landscape looks an Eden! Who could wear
The frown of sorrow now? This glorious hour
Reveals the ruling God! The heavens are bare !
Each sunny stream, and blossom-mantled bower

Breathes of pervading love, and proves the Power
That spoke him into life, hath bless'd Man's earthly dower.

EVENING.

I.

Oh! sweet is the hour

When low in the west,
The sun gilds the bower

Where fond lovers rest,
Then gorgeously bright,

Beneath the blue stream, In garments of light,

Departs like a dream!

II.

Oh! sweet and serene

The spell that beguiles,
When night's gentle queen

More tenderly smiles !
The boldest are coy-

The wildest are grave-
The sad feel a joy

Loud mirth never gave !

III.

The spirits of love,

To hallow the time,
From regions above

Pour music sublime;
Their harmonies cheer

The mystical night,
And steal on the ear

Of dreaming delight !

T

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