honored; beneath the shade of those yews planted by his own hands, in sound of Rotha murmuring her plaintive strain that few or none Hear her voice right now he is gone. While round about in phalanx firm stand the mountains old, faithful guardians of the sacred spot. Earth has no more fitting resting-place for the dust of William Wordsworth. These words in gold beneath his title wrought — 'Singer of Humble Themes and Noble Thought." 1 There was but one thing more which his countrymen could do for him, and this was not long left undone, for in the Venerable Abbey, surrounded by the memorials of Keble, Arnold, Kingsley, and Maurice, may be seen the life-size statue of the poet in white marble; he is represented seated in the attitude of contemplation, the characteristic of all his portraits being thus strikingly reproduced in the marble. Underneath are engraved the words above quoted, "Blessings be with them and eternal praise,” etc. But perhaps the most significant tribute to his worth as a man and poet is the medallion in Grasmere Church erected by his friends and neighbors. It bears the following inscription: TO THE MEMORY OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, A TRUE PHILOSOPHER AND POET, WHETHER HE DISCOURSED ON Man or Nature, TIRED NOT OF MAINTAINING THE CAUSE AND SO IN PERILOUS TIMES WAS RAISED UP NOT ONLY OF NOBLEST POESY, IS PLACED HERE BY HIS FRIENDS AND NEIGHBOURS RESPECT, AFFECTION, AND GRATITUDE. ANNO 1851. 1 H. D. Rawnsley. Ir thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven, And they that from the zenith dart their beams, Though half a sphere be conscious of their brightness) Are yet of no diviner origin, No purer essence, than the one that burns, Like an untended watch-fire on the ridge Of some dark mountain; or than those which seem WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS "When Superstition left the golden light And fled indignant to the shades of night; 30 When pure Religion reared the peaceful breast And lulled the warring passions into rest, Drove far away the savage thoughts that roll In the dark mansions of the bigot's soul, Enlivening Hope displayed her cheerful ray, And beamed on Britain's sons a brighter day: So when on Ocean's face the storm subsides, Hushed are the winds and silent are the tides; The God of day, in all the pomp of light, Moves through the vault of heaven, and dissipates the night; 40 Wide o'er the main a trembling lustre plays, The glittering waves reflect the dazzling blaze. Science with joy saw Superstition fly The shades of night no more the soul involve, She sheds her beam, and, lo! the shades dissolve; No jarring monks, to gloomy cell confined, With mazy rules perplex the weary mind; No shadowy forms entice the soul aside, 51 Secure she walks, Philosophy her guide. Britain, who long her warriors had adored, And deemed all merit centred in the sword; Britain, who thought to stain the field was fame, Now honoured Edward's less than Bacon's Written at Hawkshead. The beautiful image with which this poem concludes, suggested itself to me while I was resting in a boat along with my companions under the shade of a magnificent row of sycamores, which then extended their branches from the shore of the promontory upon which stands the ancient, and at that. time the more picturesque, Hall of Coniston, the seat of the Le Flemings from very early times. The poem of which it was the conclusion was of many hundred lines, and contained thoughts and images most of which have been dispersed through my other writings. DEAR native regions, I foretell, My soul will cast the backward view, Thus, while the Sun sinks down to rest |