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.«And page 352 to 354 of the same ode.»O joy that in our embersIs something that doth live,That nature yet remembersWhat was so fugitive!The thought of our past years in me doth breedPerpetual benedictions: not indeedFor that which is most worthy to be blest;Delight and liberty, the simple creedOf childhood, whether busy or at rest,With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: –Not for these I raiseThe song of thanks and praise;But for those obstinate questioningsOf sense and outward things,Fallings from us, vanishings;Blank misgivings of a creatureMoving about in worlds not realized,High instincts, before which our mortal natureDid tremble like a guilty thing surprised!But for those first affections,Those shadowy recollections,Which, be they what they may,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 makeOur noisy years seem moments in the beingOf the eternal silence; truths that wakeTo perish never:Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,Nor man nor boy,Nor all that is at enmity with joy,Can utterly abolish or destroy!Hence, in a season of calm weather,Though inland far we be,Our souls have sight of that immortal seaWhich brought us hither;Can in a moment travel thither –And see the children sport upon the shore,And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.«And since it would be unfair to conclude with an extract, which, though highly characteristic, must yet, from the nature of the thoughts and the subject, be interesting, or perhaps intelligible, to but a limited number of readers; I will add, from the poet's last published work, a passage equally Wordsworthian; of the beauty of which, and of the imaginative power displayed therein, there can be but one opinion, and one feeling.See »White Doe,« page 5.»Fast the church-yard fills; – anonLook again and they are gone;The cluster round the porch, and the folkWho sate in the shade of the prior's oak!And scarcely have they disappear'd,Ere the prelusive hymn is heard; –With one consent the people rejoice,Filling the church with a lofty voice!They sing a service which they feel,For 'tis the sun-rise of their zeal;And faith and hope are in their primeIn great Eliza's golden time.A moment ends the fervent din,And all is hushed, without and within;For though the priest, more tranquilly,Recites the holy liturgy,The only voice which you can hearIs the river murmuring near.When soft! – the dusky trees between,And down the path through the open green,Where is no living thing to be seen;And through yon gateway, where is found,Beneath the arch with ivy bound,Free entrance to the church-yard ground;And right across the verdant sod,Towards the very house of God;Comes gliding in with lovely gleam,Comes gliding in serene and slow,Soft and silent as a dream,A solitary doe!White she is as lily of June,And beauteous as the silver moonWhen out of sight the clouds are drivenAnd she is left alone in heaven!Or like a ship some gentle dayIn sunshine sailing far away –A glittering ship, that hath the plainOf ocean for her own domain.What harmonious pensive changesWait upon her as she rangesRound and through this pile of stateOverthrown and desolate!Now a step or two her wayIs through space of open day,Where the enamoured sunny lightBrightens her that was so bright;Now doth a delicate shadow fall,Falls upon her like a breath,From some lofty arch or wall,As she passes underneath.«The following analogy will, I am apprehensive, appear dim and fantastic, but in reading Bartram's Travels I could not help transcribing the following lines as a sort of allegory, or connected simile and metaphor of Wordsworth's intellect and genius.– »The soil is a deep, rich, dark mould, on a deep stratum of tenacious clay; and that on a foundation of rocks, which often break through both strata, lifting their back above the surface.The trees which chiefly grow here are the gigantic black oak; magnolia magni-floria; fraxinus excelsior; platane; and a few stately tulip trees.« What Mr.Wordsworth will produce, it is not for me to prophecy: but I could pronounce with the liveliest convictions what he is capable of producing.It is the FIRST GENUINE PHILOSOPHIC POEM.The preceding criticism will not, I am aware, avail to overcome the prejudices of those, who have made it a business to attack and ridicule Mr.Wordsworth's compositions.Truth and prudence might be imaged as concentric circles.The poet may perhaps have passed beyond the latter, but he has confined himself far within the bounds of the former, in designating these critics, as too petulant to be passive to a genuine poet, and too feeble to grapple with him; – »men of palsied imaginations, in whose minds all healthy action is languid; – who, therefore, feed as the many direct them, or with the many are greedy after vicious provocatives.«Let not Mr.Wordsworth be charged with having expressed himself too indignantly, till the wantonness and the systematic and malignant perseverance of the aggressions have been taken into fair consideration.I myself heard the commander in chief of this unmanly warfare make a boast of his private admiration of Wordsworth's genius.I have heard him declare, that whoever came into his room would probably find the Lyrical Ballads lying open on his table, and that (speaking exclusively of those written by Mr.Wordsworth himself) he could nearly repeat the whole of them by heart.But a Review, in order to be a saleable article, must be personal, sharp, and pointed: and, since then, the poet has made himself, and with himself all who were, or were supposed to be, his friends and admirers, the object of the critic's revenge – how? by having spoken of a work so conducted in the terms which it deserved! I once heard a clergyman in boots and buckskin avow, that he would cheat his own father in a horse.A moral system of a similar nature seems to have been adopted by too many anonymous critics.As we used to say at school, in reviewing they make being rogues: and he, who complains, is to be laughed at for his ignorance of the game.With the pen out of their hand they are honorable men
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