Not doom'd to ignorance, though forced to tread, 3. Come labor, when the worn-out frame requires Repose and hope among eternal things, 4. And what are things eternal?-Powers depart, 5. But by the storms of circumstance unshaken, For our support, the measures and the forms, Whose kingdom is where time and space are not. Of other converse, which mind, soul, and heart, What more, that may not perish? Thou, dread Source Prime, self-existing Cause and End of all, That, in the scale of being, fill their place, Set and sustain'd;-Thou, who didst wrap the cloud Might'st hold, on earth, communion undisturb'd,- 6 This universe shall pass away,—a frame The sun rise up, from distant climes return'd, Attended! Then my spirit was entranced' The measure of my soul was fill' with bliss, WORDSWORTH. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, the greatest of metaphysical poets, and one of the purest and most blameless of men, was born at Cockermouth, Cumberland county, England, on the 7th of April, 1770. He read much in boyhood, and wrote some verses. He received his early education at the endowed school of Hawkshead; entered St. Johns College, Cambridge, in 1787; and though he disliked the system of the university, and attended little to the studies of the Entranced (en trånst'), enchanted; put into an ecstasy.-2 Be &t' itude, highest happiness: blessedness; glory. place, graduated with his degree of B. A. in 1791. In the close of the same year he went to France, where he passed nearly a year; and there he wrote the poem called "Descriptive Sketches," which, with "The Evening Walk,” was published in 1793. In 1795 he received a legacy of £900 from his friend, RAISLEY CALVERT, and at the close of the same began to live with his sister, their first residee being at Racedown, Dorsetshire. He here made the acquaintance of COLERIDGE, and wrote many of the fine passages that afterward appeared in "The Excursion." In the autumn of 1798 he published the first edition of his 64 Lyrical Ballads," and then went to Germany with his sister and COLERIDGE; and, the party separating, Miss WORDSWORTH and her brother passed the winter at Goslar, in Hanover. Here were written "Lucy Gray" and several beautiful pieces. His long residence among the lakes of his native district began immediately after his return to England. His second volume of "Lyrical Ballads" appeared at the close of 1800, with a reprint of the first. In 1802 he married MARY HUTCHINSON, of Penrith, to whose amiability his poems pay warm and beautiful tributes. In the spring of 1813, after various changes of residence, he took up his abode at Rydal Mount, two miles from Grasmere, which was his home for thirty-seven years, and the scene of his death. There, too, he was appointed distributor of stamps for Westmoreland; an office which was executed by a clerk, and yielded about £500 a year. In the summer of 1814 was published "The Excursion," a poem which, if judged by its best passages, without regard to design, has hardly an equal in our language. The following year appeared "The White Doe of Rylstone," a work which, while it evinces the author's incapacity to plan or conduct a sustained narrative, is instinct with dreamy loveliness. From his fiftieth to his eightieth year the poet traveled much, suffered a great deal, and wrote but little. In 1842 he resigned his distributorship in favor of one of his two sons, and received from Sir ROBERT PEEL a pension of £300 a year. In 1843 he was appointed poet-laureate. He died on the 23d of April, 1850. 142. SCENE FROM THE LADY OF LYONS.' MELNOTTE'S cottage-WIDOW bustling about. A table spread for supper. Widow. So I think that looks very neat. He sent me a line, so blotted that I can scarcely read it, to say he would be here almost immediately. She must have loved him well indeed, to have forgotten his birth; for though he was introduced to her in disguise, he is too honorable not to have revealed to her the artifice which her love only could forgive. Well, I do not wonder at it; for though my son is not a prince, he ought to be one, and that's almost as good. [Knock at the door.] Ah! here they are. CLAUDE MELNOTTE, who had received many indignities to his slighted love, from PAULINE, married her under the false appearance of an Italian prince. He afterward repents his bitter revenge; makes immediate amends; and, impelled by affection, virtue, and a laudable ambition, finally conquers a position, and becomes, in fact, her husband. Enter MELNOTTE and PAULINE. Widow. Oh, my boy-the pride of my heart!-welcome, wel come! I beg pardon, Ma'am, but I do love him so! Pauline. Good woman, I really-Why, Prince, what is this? -does the old woman know you? Oh, I guess you have done her some service. Another proof of your kind heart, is it not? Melnotte. Of my kind heart, ay! Pauline. So, you know the prince? Widow. Know him, Madame?-Ah, I begin to fear it is you who know him not! Pauline. Do you think she is mad? Can we stay here, my lord? I think there's something very wild about her. Melnotte. Madame, I-No, I can not tell her! My knees knock together: what a coward is a man who has lost his honor! Speak to her-speak to her-[to his mother]-tell her that O Heaven, that I were dead! Pauline. How confused he looks!-this strange place this woman-what can it mean? I half suspect-Who are you, Madame?-who are you? Can't you speak? are you struck dumb? Widow. Claude, you have not deceived her?-Ah, shame upon you! I thought that, before you went to the altar, she was to have known all? Pauline. All! what? My blood freezes in my veins! MELNOTTE makes a sign of assent. Know you not then, Madame, that this young man is of poor though honest parents? Know you not that you are wedded to my son, Claude Melnotte? Pauline. Your son! hold! hold! do not speak to me-[approaches MELNOTTE and lays her hand on his arm.] Is this a jest? Is it? I know it is: only speak-one word-one lookone smile. I can not believe-I, who loved thee so-I can not believe that thou art such a-No, I will not wrong thee by a harsh word.-Speak! Melnotte. Leave us-have pity on her, on me: leave us. Widow. O Claude! that I should live to see thee bowed by shame! thee, of whom I was so proud! [Exit WIDOW Pauline. Her son! her son! Melnotte. Pauline. Now, lady, hear me. Hear thee Ay, speak. Her son! have fiends a parent? Speak, Melnotte. No, curse me: Thy curse would blast me less than thy forgiveness. Pauline [laughing wildly]. "This is thy palace, where the perfumed light Steals through the mist of alabaster lamps, And every air is heavy with the sighs Of orange-groves, and music from sweet lutes, In Lyons! Hast thou in thy heart one touch No, it can not, It can not be! this is some horrid dream: I shall wake soon. [Touching him.] Art flesh? art man? or but The shadows seen in sleep?-It is too reäl. What have I done to thee-how sinn'd against thee, That thou shouldst crush me thus? Melnotte. Pauline! by pride Angels have fallen ere thy time; by pride- And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee. |