Festival of song: a series of evenings with the poets . ber measurement Times happy swiftness brings,When birds of Paradise have lent their plumage for his wings ? Here is a sweet pastoral sketch, by Wordsworth ; let us, inimagination, go a-nutting with the philosophic poet:— Among the woods,And oer the pathless rocks, I forced mv wayUntil, at length, I came to one dear nookUnvisited, where not a broken boughDrooped with its withered leaves, ungracious signOf devastation, but the hazels roseTall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung,A virgin scene,—or beneath the trees I sateAmong the flowe
Festival of song: a series of evenings with the poets . ber measurement Times happy swiftness brings,When birds of Paradise have lent their plumage for his wings ? Here is a sweet pastoral sketch, by Wordsworth ; let us, inimagination, go a-nutting with the philosophic poet:— Among the woods,And oer the pathless rocks, I forced mv wayUntil, at length, I came to one dear nookUnvisited, where not a broken boughDrooped with its withered leaves, ungracious signOf devastation, but the hazels roseTall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung,A virgin scene,—or beneath the trees I sateAmong the flowers, and with the flowers I played:A temper known to those who, after longAnd weary expectation, have been blestWith sudden happiness beyond all hope. And I saw the sparkling , with my cheek on one of those green stones That, fleeced with moss, beneath the shady trees,Lay round me, scattered Hke a flock of sheep,I heard the murmur and the murmuring that sweet mood when pleasure loves to payTribute to ease : and, of its joys secure,. The heart luxuriates with indifferent things. Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air. Then up I rose. And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash And merciless ravage ; and the shady nook Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up Their quiet being : and, unless I nowConfound my present feelings with the past,Even then, when from the bower I turned awayExulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,I felt a sense of pain when I beheldThe silent trees and the intruding , dearest maiden ! move along these shadesIn gentleness of heart ; with the gentle handTouch—for there is a spirit in the woods. Wordsworth, it has been said, appealed to the universal spirit,and strove to sound sweeter strings, and deeper depths, than othershad essayed to do ; and sought to make poetry a melodious anthemof human life, with all its hopes, dreads, and passions. The ap-
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1860, booksu, booksubjectenglishpoetry
