The Your very poorest rich in peace of thought home; And in good works; and him, who is endowed ward With scantiest knowledge, master of all truth Which the salvation of his soul requires.

voyage

Conscious of that abundant favour showered
On you, the children of my humble care,
And this dear land, our country, while on
earth

We sojourn, have I lifted up my soul,

Joy giving voice to fervent gratitude.

These barren rocks, your stern inheritance;
These fertile fields, that

pains;

740

recompense your

The shadowy vale, the sunny mountain-top;
Woods waving in the wind their lofty heads,
Or hushed; the roaring waters, and the still—
They see the offering of my lifted hands,
They hear my lips present their sacrifice,
They know if I be silent, morn or even : 750
For, though in whispers speaking, the full heart
Will find a vent; and thought is praise to him,
Audible praise, to thee, omniscient Mind,
From whom all gifts descend, all blessings
flow!"

This vesper-service closed, without delay,
From that exalted station to the plain
Descending, we pursued our homeward course,
In mute composure, o'er the shadowy lake,
Under a faded sky. No trace remained
Of those celestial splendours; grey the vault-
Pure, cloudless, ether; and the star of eve 761
Was wanting; but inferior lights appeared

Faintly, too faint almost for sight; and some
Above the darkened hills stood boldly forth
In twinkling lustre, ere the boat attained
Her mooring-place; where, to the sheltering

tree

Our youthful Voyagers bound fast her prow,
With prompt yet careful hands. This done, we
paced

The dewy fields; but ere the Vicar's door
Was reached, the Solitary checked his steps; 770
Then, intermingling thanks, on each bestowed
A farewell salutation; and, the like
Receiving, took the slender path that leads
To the one cottage in the lonely dell

:

But turned not without welcome promise made
That he would share the pleasures and pursuits
Of yet another summer's day, not loth

To wander with us through the fertile vales,
And o'er the mountain-wastes.

"Another

Said he, "shall shine upon us, ere we part; 780
Another sun, and peradventure more;

If time, with free consent, be yours to give,
And season favours."

To enfeebled Power,

From this communion with uninjured Minds,

What renovation had been brought; and what
Degree of healing to a wounded spirit,
Dejected, and habitually disposed

To seek, in degradation of the Kind,
Excuse and solace for her own defects;

How far those erring notions were reformed; 790
And whether aught, of tendency as good

Y

The Solitary's farewell promise

The story And pure, from further intercourse ensued ; left This if delightful hopes, as heretofore,

half-told

Inspire the serious song, and gentle Hearts
Cherish, and lofty Minds approve the past—
My future labours may not leave untold.

END OF THE NINTH BOOK.

NOTE BY THE POET

ON THE

SPEAKERS, STORIES AND TOPOGRAPHY OF THE EXCURSION

DICTATED TO MISS ISABELLA FENWICK IN 1843

SOMETHING must now be said of this poem, but chiefly, as has been done through the whole of these notes, with reference to my personal friends, and especially to her who has perseveringly taken them down from my dictation. Towards the close of the first book stand the lines that were first written, beginning, "Nine tedious years," and ending, "Last human tenant of these ruined walls." These were composed in '95 at Racedown; and for several passages describing the employment and demeanour of Margaret during her affliction, I was indebted to observations made in Dorsetshire, and afterwards at Alfoxden in Somersetshire, where I resided in '97 and '98. The lines towards the conclusion of the fourth book-beginning, “For, the man, who, in this spirit," to the words "intellectual soul "—were in order of time composed the next, either at Racedown or Alfoxden, I do not remember which. The rest of the poem was written in the vale of Grasmere, chiefly during our residence at Allan Bank. The long poem on my own education was, together with many minor

poems, composed while we lived at the cottage at Town-end. Perhaps my purpose of giving an additional interest to these my poems in the eyes of my nearest and dearest friends may be promoted by saying a few words upon the character of the Wanderer, the Solitary, and the Pastor, and some other of the persons introduced. And first, of the principal one, the Wanderer. My lamented friend Southey (for this is written a month after his decease) used to say that had he been born a papist, the course of life which would in all probability have been his was the one for which he was most fitted and most to his mind, that of a Benedictine monk in a convent, furnished, as many once were and some still are, with an inexhaustible library. Books, as appears from many passages in his writings, and as was evident to those who had opportunities of observing his daily life, were in fact his passion; and wandering, I can with truth affirm, was mine; but this propensity in me was happily counteracted by inability from want of fortune to fulfil my wishes. But, had I been born in a class which would have deprived me of what is called a liberal education, it is not unlikely that, being strong in body, I should have taken to a way of life such as that in which my Pedlar passed the greater part of his days. At all events, I am here called upon freely to acknowledge that the character I have represented in his person is chiefly an idea of what I fancied my own character might have become in his circumstances. Nevertheless, much of what he says and does had an external existence that fell under my own youthful and subsequent observation. An individual named Patrick, by birth and education a Scotchman, followed this humble occupation for many years, and afterwards settled in the town of Kendal. He married a kinswoman of my wife's, and her sister Sarah was brought up from her ninth year under this good man's roof. My own imaginations I was happy to find clothed in reality, and fresh ones suggested, by what she reported of this man's tenderness of heart, his strong and pure imagination, and