To William Wordsworth

Friend of the Wise! and Teacher of the Good!     Into my heart have I received that Lay     More than historic, that prophetic Lay     Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright)     Of the foundations and the building up     Of a Human Spirit thou hast dared to tell     What may be told, to the understanding mind     Revealable; and what within the mind     By vital breathings secret as the soul     Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the heart     Thoughts all too deep for words!                             Theme hard as high!     Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears     (The first-born they of Reason and twin-birth),     Of tides obedient to external force,     And currents self-determined, as might seem,     Or by some inner Power; of moments awful,     Now in thy inner life, and now abroad,     When power streamed from thee, and thy soul received     The light reflected, as a light bestowed     Of fancies fair, and milder hours of youth,     Hyblean murmurs of poetic thought     Industrious in its joy, in vales and glens     Native or outland, lakes and famous hills!     Or on the lonely high-road, when the stars     Were rising; or by secret mountain-streams,     The guides and the companions of thy way!     Of more than Fancy, of the Social Sense     Distending wide, and man beloved as man,     Where France in all her towns lay vibrating     Like some becalmd bark beneath the burst     Of Heaven's immediate thunder, when no cloud     Is visible, or shadow on the main.     For thou wert there, thine own brows garlanded,     Amid the tremor of a realm aglow,     Amid the mighty nation jubilant,     When from the general heart of human kind     Hope sprang forth like a full-born Diety!     Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck down,     So summoned homeward, thenceforth calm and sure     From the dread watch-tower of man's absolute self,     With light unwaning on her eyes, to look     Far on, herself a glory to behold,     The Angel of the vision! Then (last strain)     Of Duty, chosen Laws controlling choice,     Action and Joy! An Orphic song indeed,     A song divine of high and passionate thoughts     To their own music chaunted!                  O great Bard!     Ere yet that last strain dying awed the air,     With stedfast eye I viewed thee in the choir     Of ever-enduring men. The truly great     Have all one age, and from one visible space     Shed influence! They, both in power and act,     Are permanent, and Time is not with them,     Save as it worketh for them, they in it.     Nor less a sacred Roll, than those of old,     And to be placed, as they, with gradual fame     Among the archives of mankind, thy work     Makes audible a linkd lay of Truth,     Of Truth profound a sweet continuous lay,     Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes!     Ah! as I listened with a heart forlorn,     The pulses of my being beat anew:     And even as Life returns upon the drowned,     Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of pains     Keen pangs of Love, awakening as a babe     Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart;     And Fears self-willed, that shunned the eye of Hope;     And Hope that scarce would know itself from Fear;     Sense of past Youth, and Manhood come in vain,     And Genius given, and Knowledge won in vain;     And all which I had culled in wood-walks wild,     And all which patient toil had reared, and all,     Commune with thee had opened out, but flowers     Strewed on my corse, and borne upon my bier,     In the same coffin, for the self-same grave!     That way no more! and ill beseems it me,     Who came a welcomer in herald's guise,     Singing of Glory, and Futurity,     To wander back on such unhealthful road,     Plucking the poisons of self-harm! And ill     Such intertwine beseems triumphal wreaths     Strew'd before thy advancing!                         Nor do thou,     Sage Bard! impair the memory of that hour     Of thy communion with my nobler mind     By pity or grief, already felt too long!     Nor let my words import more blame than needs.     The tumult rose and ceased: for Peace is nigh     Where Wisdom's voice has found a listening heart.     Amid the howl of more than wintry storms,     The Halcyon hears the voice of vernal hours     Already on the wing.                 Eve following eve,     Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of Home     Is sweetest! moments for their own sake hailed     And more desired, more precious, for thy song,     In silence listening, like a devout child,     My soul lay passive, by thy various strain     Driven as in surges now beneath the stars,     With momentary stars of my own birth,     Fair constellated foam, still darting off     Into the darkness; now a tranquil sea,     Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the moon.     And when, O Friend! my comforter and guide!     Strong in thyself, and powerful to give strength!     Thy long sustaind Song finally closed,     And thy deep voice had ceased, yet thou thyself     Wert still before my eyes, and round us both     That happy vision of belovd faces,     Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close     I sate, my being blended in one thought     (Thought was it? or aspiration? or resolve?)     Absorbed, yet hanging still upon the sound,     And when I rose, I found myself in prayer.