A constant influence, a peculiar grace; But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for human kind, Is happy as a Lover; and attired With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired; And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw: Or if an unexpected call succeed, a sense And faculty for storm and turbulence, Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be, Are at his heart; and such fidelity "Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high, In the cottage, Town-end, Grasmere, one afternoon in 1801, my sister read to me the Sonnets of Milton. I had long been well acquainted with the n, but I was particularly struck on that occa sion with the dignified simplicity and majestic harmony that runs through most of them.-in character so totally different from the Italian, and still more so from Shakspeare's fine Sonnets. I took fire, if I may be allowed to say so, and produced three Sonrets the same afternoon, the Fist I ever wrote except an irregular one st school Of these three, the only one I distinctly remember is...“ I grieved for Buonaparte. Was Zever written down: the third, which was ete, preserved, I cannot particularize (W) visanurk, De Are those that are by distance made more sweet; Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes, He is a Slave; the meanest we can meet ! III Wings have we,-and as far as we can go, We may find pleasure: wilderness and wood, Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood Which with the lofty sanctifies the low. Dreams, books are each a world; and books, we know. Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow. There find I personal themes, a plenteous store, Matter wherein right voluble I am, dear, THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US THE world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not.-Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the Written at Rydal Mount. The incident of the trees growing and withering put the subject into tay thoughts, and I wrote with the hope of giving Ita loftier tone than, so far as I know, has been given to it by any of the Ancients who have treated of it. It cost me more trouble than almost anything of equal length I have ever writtro Wordsworth.) Laodamia is a very original poem; I mean original with reference to your own manner. You have nothing like it. I should have seen it in a strange place, and greatly admired it, but not suspected its derivation.. (Lamb t Wordsworth. Talfourd, Final Memories of Charles Lamb, p. 151.) "WITH Sacrifice before the rising morn Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired; And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlorn Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I required: Celestial pity I again implore:— restore!" So speaking, and by fervent love en dowed With faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts her hands; While, like the sun emerging from a cloud, |