-add the gleam,

The light that never was on sea or land,

The consecration, and the poet's dream,'

No poet ever had a nobler purpose in his work than Wordsworth. He claimed for every great poet that he should be a teacher, and he desired to be a teacher himself or nothing. In a letter written to Lady Beaumont, in May, 1807, he describes his object to be: "To console the afflicted; to add sunshine to daylight by making the happy happier ; to teach the young and the gracious of every age to see, to think, and feel, and therefore to become more actively and securely virtuous." It is impossible for "the gracious" not to love and venerate the memory of a man whose purpose was so holy, and whose life and work so consistently fulfilled it.

Wordsworth's natural qualifications were of the highest order. He had a power of observation which has been well compared to that of Turner, and a realisation of the spirit of nature which enabled him to speak for her with the chaste dignity of her own tongue. He had a profound sincerity of soul which he showed, both in the selection and the treatment of his subjects, and a loyalty to truth in its large and imaginative sense, which invests with moral grandeur the work he elevated by poetic instinct. He was forcible and original in thought, vivid and rich in imagination, and had a wondrous power over the elements of purity, beauty, and dignity in simple diction. He was a good as well as a wise man, and spoke the truth as well as the desire of his heart, when he said of his own works, "They will co-operate with the benign tendencies in human nature and society,

and will, in their degree, be efficacious in making men wiser, better, and happier."

He recognised in a fuller degree than any of his predecessors that truth, in all its splendid variety of aspect, is the first law of poetry; and he saw with a keener eye than they did the inexhaustible resources of truth, to be explored by quiet thought— "On man, on nature, and on human life," He realised with Duke senior in As You Like It (act ii., scene 1), the teaching power of nature, and studied among the hills of Cumberland the lesson that the Duke learnt in the Forest of Arden :

Duke S. Now, my co-mates, and brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
The season s difference; as, the icy fang,
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind;
Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say,-
This is no flattery: these are counsellors,
That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Sweet are the uses of adversity,

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;

And this our life exempt from public haunt,

Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.

By constant intercourse with Nature Wordsworth became, as it were, her own familiar spirit, to whom she specially revealed herself, making him her mouthpiece, or as Matthew Arnold puts it, taking the pen out of his hand and writing for him, "with her own bare, sheer, penetrating power."

To him the world was "full of souls," and

everything had life and hope. The mountains talked to him, and the valleys responded to his thought; the tree that bowed its head for want of water prayed after its manner for the summer rain, and every blade of grass that bent and breakfasted upon the morning dew, returned its grateful thanks. Infused with this spirit, nature became, in a moral and spiritual sense, vital and companionable, and the poet when most in solitude was least alone. To this intercourse with "things inanimate," this communion with "higher nature," he sought to introduce humanity. Realising the truth of Blake's line, "Great things are done when men and mountains meet," he urged the union of men and mountains, and chanted aforetime "the spousal verse." He drew deeply of nature's wellspring at its source, and found therein "a fountain of living water," full of refreshment and inspiration for the jaded heart of man, and having rested on enchanted ground and quaffed the nectar of perennial youth with all a saviour's purpose, he invites the weary into quiet resting places and bids the thirsty drink. ALFRED H. MILES.

POEMS IN LYRICAL FORM.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

1.-LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

I

1798.

HEARD a thousand blended notes,

While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link

The human soul that through me ran;

And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played;

Their thoughts I cannot measure :—
But the least motion that 2 they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent.
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man ?

II.-EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY.

1798.

"WHY William, on that old

grey stone,

Thus for the length of half a day,

Why, William, sit you thus alone,

And dream your time away?

Where are your books?—that light bequeathed
To Beings else forlorn and blind!
Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed
From dead men to their kind.

You look round on your Mother Earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you;
As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before you!"

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet, I knew not why,
To me my good friend Matthew spake,
And thus I made reply:

"The eye-it cannot choose but see;
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
Against, or with our will.

Nor less I deem that there are Powers

Which of themselves our minds impress;

That we can feed this mind of ours

In a wise passiveness.

Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum
Of things for ever speaking,
That nothing of itself will come,

But we must still be seeking?