WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

The little actor cons another part ; Filling from time to time his i humorous stage* With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, That Life brings with her in her equipage ;

As if his whole vocation

Were endless imitation.

��Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie

Thy soul's immensity; Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,

Mighty prophet ! Seer blest !

On whom those truths do rest, Which we are toiling all our lives to find. In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave"; Thou, over whom thy Immortality Broods like the Day, a master o'er a slave, A presence which is not to be put by ;

To whom the grave Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight

Of day or the warm light, A place of thought where we in waiting lie; Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight, Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

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