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Then, while the sailor, mid an open sea
TO THE MOON,
QUEEN of the stars! - so gentle, so benign,
O still belov'd (for thine, meek Power, are charms That fascinate the very babe in arms, While he, uplifted towards thee, laughs outright, Spreading his little palms in his glad mother's sight) O still belov'd, once worshipped! Time, that frowns In his destructive flight on earthly crowns, Spares thy mild splendour; still those far-shot beams Tremble on dancing waves and rippling streams With stainless touch, as chaste as when thy praise Was sung by Virgin-choirs in festal lays; And through dark trials still dost thou explore Thy way for increase punctual as of yore, When teeming Matrons-yielding to rude faith In mysteries of birth and life and death And painful struggle and deliverance — prayed Of thee to visit them with lenient aid. What though the rites be swept away, the fanes Extinct that echoed to the votive strains; Yet thy mild aspect does not, cannot, cease Love to promote and purity and peace; And Fancy, unreproved, even yet may trace Faint types of suffering in thy beamless face.
Then, silent Monitress! let us — not blind To worlds unthought of till the searching mind Of science laid them open to mankind
GIORDANO, verily thy pencil's skill
Hath here portrayed with Nature's happiest grace
In rapture, yet suspending her embrace,
RYDAL MOUNT, 1846.
Who but is pleased to watch the moon on high,
Will reappear before the uplifted eye
WHERE lies the truth? has man, in wisdom's creed, A pitiable doom; for respite brief
A care more anxious, or a heavier grief!
Is he ungrateful, and doth little heed
[* See also, as connected with the series of "Evening VOLUNTARIES," the "Ode composed upon an evening of extraordinary splendour and beauty," p. 311.-H. R.]
"When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past. SHAKSPEARE's Sonnets, No. XXX. Farewell, selfe-pleasing thoughts, which quietness brings foorth."SPENSER: Epitaph on Sir Philip Sidney.
Is there not in this concurrence- obviously casualSHAKSPEARE SPENSER - WORDSWORTH, proof of a trait of the temperament of poetic genius?
This simple stanza appears too to have touched a chord in the heart of Coleridge, who in one of his letters thus refers to it: "To have formed the habit of looking at every thing, not for what it is relative to the purposes and associations of men in general, but for the truths which it is suited to represent - to contemplate objects as words and pregnant symbols the advantages of this are so many, and so important, so eminently calculated to excite and evolve the power of sound and connected reasoning, of distinct and clear conception, and of genial feeling, that there are few of Wordsworth's finest passages-and who, of living poets, can lay claim to half the number? — that I repeat so often as that homely quatrain,
"O Reader! had you in your mind
Such stores as silent thought can bring; O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in every thing."
Note 2, p. 408. "Devotional Incitements."
"Alas! the sanctities combined
By art to unsensualize the mind
How sweet perfumed thou art; how shining clear!
Another time all plain, all quite thread-bare;
Either truth, goodness, virtue are not still
Or we our actions make them wait upon,
And cast them off again when we have done."
They are in truth the Substance, we the Shadows." [This incident is thus narrated by the author or authors of that 'rare' book 'The Doctor,' with one of the rich comments, which distinguish the work:
"When Wilkie was in the Escurial, looking at Titian's famous picture of the Last Supper, in the Refectory there, an old Jeronimite said to him, ‘I have sate daily in sight of that picture for now nearly three-score years; during that time my companions have dropt off, one after another, all who were my Seniors, all who were my contemporaries, and many, or most of those who were younger than myself; more than one gencration has passed away, and there the figures in the picture have remained unchanged! I look at them till I sometimes think that they are the realities, and we but shadows!'
"I wish I could record the name of the Monk by whom that natural feeling was so feelingly and strikingly expressed.
Note 3, p. 424.
"Lines on a Portrait."
The shows of things are better than themselves,"
says the author of the tragedy of Nero, whose name, also, I could wish had been forthcoming; and the clas sical reader will remember the lines of Sophocles:
̔Ομῶ γὰρ ἡμᾶς οὐδὲν ὄντας ἄλλο, πλὴν
These are reflections which should make us think
"Of that same time when no more change shall be, But steadfast rest of all things, firmly stayd
Upon the pillars of Eternity,
That is contraire to mutability;
For all that moveth doth in change delight:
But thenceforth all shall rest eternally
With Him that is the God of Subnoth hight,
O that great Sabaoth God grant me that Sabbath's sight."
SPENSER. "The Doctor," Vol. III. p. 235.-H. k
gentle and unassuming. She is endeared too by a more than sisterly devotion, which paused only at his grave, to one of the most winning writers in the language,
[The following is one of the poems by Mr. Southey, whose intellectual efforts were probably best encouraged by her who cheered the loneliness of his hearth.
which are referred to:
SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF TWO FEMALES
Note 4, p. 368.
"ON MY OWN MINIATURE PICTURE
TAKEN AT TWO YEARS OF AGE.
I search myself in vain, and find no trace
Lisped with delight the godlike deeds of Greeco
And when thou shouldst have prest amid the crowd,
"The Lady Blanch, regardless of all her lovers' fears.
This saintly lady Abbess hath made me justly fear,
"It nothing will avail me that I were worshipped here." Poetical Works of Charles Lamb.-H. R.]
Note 5, p. 425.
"Ode to Duty.”
"The genial sense of Youth :"
[-"diffidence or veneration. Such virtues are the sacred attributes of Youth: its appropriate calling is not to distinguish in the fear of being deceived or degraded, not to analyze with scrupulous minuteness, but to accumulate in genial confidence; its instinct, its safety, its benefit, its glory, is to love, to admire, to feel, and to labour. " COLERIDGE: The Friend,' Vol. III. p. 62. — H. R.]
Note 6, p. 426. "Ode to Duty.
"And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live!"
I cannot deny myself the gratification of introducing into this group of poems suggested by paintings another, also from the pen of one of Mr. Wordsworth's friends one, to whom I am confident he would delight in seeing any tribute paid in connection with his own writings. I have therefore less hesitation in in-law of moral to physical natures, and having contem
[“A living Teacher, to be spoken of with gratitude as of a benefactor, having, in his character of philosophical Poet, thought of morality as implying in its essence voluntary obedience, and producing the effect of order, transfers, in the transport of imagination, the
plated, through the medium of that order, all modes of existence as subservient to one spirit, concludes his address to the power of Duty in the following words:
serting here the following lines by Mary Lamb, included among the poems of her brother, the late Charles Lamb, and at the same time of using these pages to express a grateful admiration of an individual who has exhibited one of the most beautiful examples of the delicacy of female authorship to be met with in the records of English literature. In a few unambitious poems mingled among her brother's—as indeed her very existence seems to have been blended with his-and in that most graceful children's classic, 'Mrs. Leicester's School', there are tokens of a spirit as lofty in its purity as it is 3 E
To humbler functions, awful Power!
The confidence of reason give!
And in the light of Truth thy Bondman let me live !”—W. W
COLERIDGE: The Friend,' Vol. III. p. 64. H. R.]
Or, pilgrim-like, on forest moss reclined,
Then, haply, Beaumont! words in current clear
TO SIR GEORGE HOWLAND BEAUMONT, BART.
FAR from our home by Grasmere's quiet lake,
What on the plain we have of warmth and light,
What shall I treat of? News from Mona's Isle?
On that proud pageant now at hand or past,
-This dwelling's inmate more than three weeks' space Soon as the herring-shoals at distance shine
Like beds of moonlight shifting on the brine.
And oft a prisoner in the cheerless place,
A bridge to copy, or to paint a mill,
Mona from our abode is daily seen,
But with a wilderness of waves between;
And some the hovering clouds, our telegraph, declare
For Fancy hath her fits both hot and cold,