may these words attest

How oft, to elevate our spirits, shone

Thy visionary majesties of light,

How in thy pensive glooms our hearts found rest."

Sonnet to Wansfell, p. 251.

TO MRS. MARSHALL FROM DOROTHY

WORDSWORTH

RYDAL MOUNT, Thursday morning, 1813.

Arrived yesterday. The weather is delightful, and the place a paradise; but my inner thoughts will go back to Grasmere. I was the last person who left the house yesterday evening. It seemed as quiet as the grave; and the very churchyard, where our dead lie, when I gave a last look upon it, seemed to cheer my thoughts. Then I could think of life and immortality. The house only reminded me of desolate gloom, emptiness, and cheerless silence. But why do I turn to these things? The morning is bright, and I am more cheerful.

DOROTHY WORDSWORTH.

"WANSFELL! THIS HOUSEHOLD HAS A FAVOURED LOT"

WANSFELL! this Household has a favoured lot,

Living with liberty on thee to gaze,

To watch while Morn first crowns thee with her rays, Or when along thy breast serenely float

Evening's angelic clouds. Yet ne'er a note

Hath sounded (shame upon the Bard!) thy praise
For all that thou, as if from heaven, hast brought
Of glory lavished on our quiet days.

Bountiful Son of Earth! when we are gone

From every object dear to mortal sight,

As soon we shall be, may these words attest

How oft, to elevate our spirits, shone

Thy visionary majesties of light,

How in thy pensive glooms our hearts found rest.

"THE MASSY WAYS, CARRIED ACROSS THESE HEIGHTS " 1

THE massy Ways, carried across these heights
By Roman perseverance, are destroyed,

Or hidden under ground, like sleeping worms.
How venture then to hope that Time will spare
This humble Walk? Yet on the mountain's side
A POET's hand first shaped it; and the steps
Of that same Bard — repeated to and fro
At morn, at noon, and under moonlight skies
Through the vicissitudes of many a year-
Forbade the weeds to creep o'er its grey line.
No longer, scattering to the heedless winds
The vocal raptures of fresh poesy,

Shall he frequent these precincts; locked no more

In earnest converse with beloved Friends,

Here will he gather stores of ready bliss,

As from the beds and borders of a garden

Choice flowers are gathered! But, if Power may spring Out of a farewell yearning-favoured more

1 The walk is what we call the Far-terrace, beyond the summer-house at Rydal Mount. The lines were written when we were afraid of being obliged to quit the place to which we were so much attached. (Wordsworth's Note.)