WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, ONE of the most celebrated poets of modern times, was born at Cockermouth, in Cumberland, on the 7th of April, 1770; was educated at Cambridge, with his brother, the late Rev. Christopher Wordsworth, D.D., and after a long career of the truest glory, is still living. A complete edition of his works has been published in Philadelphia, under the care of his friend Professor Henry Reed. INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY, FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD. "The child is father of the man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety." THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and spring, Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more. The rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the rose; The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare: Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth, But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief; The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; Land and sea gay: Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Doth every beast keep holiday;- Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; My head hath its coronal, The fulness of your bliss-I feel-I feel it all. And the children are culling On every side, In a thousand valleys far and wide, Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, But there's a tree, of many one, A single field which I have looked upon, Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream? Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting And cometh from afar; Not in entire forgetfulness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, The youth, who daily farther from the east Is on his way attended; At length the man perceives it die away, Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; The homely nurse doth all she can Behold the child among his new-born blisses,- And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: To dialogues of business, love, or strife; But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride Filling from time to time his "humorous stage" Were endless imitation. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep On whom those truths do rest, Which we are toiling all our lives to find, Thou, over whom thy immortality Broods like the day,-a master o'er a slave, A presence which is not to be put by ; Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! Is something that doth live, The thought of our past years in me doth breed For that which is most worthy to be blest; Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise, But for those obstinate questionings Those shadowy recollections, Are yet the fountain light of all our day, Are yet a master light of all our seeing; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence, in a season of calm weather, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Can in a moment travel thither, And see the children sport upon the shore, Then sing, ye birds! sing, sing a joyous song! |