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to all that is weighed and measured. Demonstrate as you will" murder to dissect "-you cannot convince the world for any length of time, or with permanent success, that we are but cunninglydevised mechanisms, irresponsible automata, and that, being such, our little life is "rounded by a sleep;" whilst others hope and argue that we are 'spirits," and that there is an underlying, undying soul of all things in the universe which is selfconscious, and hath communion with man, Wordsworth the poet, the seer, felt it.

He felt it in the soul of nature like a "central peace subsisting at the heart of endless agitation." He felt it stirring in the depths of man's nature

"A pleasure, quiet and profound,

Of permanent and universal sway,

And permanent belief."

He felt it in the interlaced and interpenetrating influence of the great Oversoul:

"That Being that is in the clouds and air,
That is in the green leaves among the groves,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the evening air.
Wisdom and Spirit of the Universe,
Thou Soul that art the eternity of thought,
And givest form to images, a breath,

And everlasting motion; not in vain,

By day or starlight, thus from my first dawn
Of childhood, didst thou intertwine for me

The passions which build up a human soul."

This is the Spirit that impels all thinking things, all objects of all thought, and rolls through all things.

It is in such strains that Wordsworth becomes the singer and teacher of our own restless, excited, and materialistic age; and taking up, in its enduring power and popularity, his "Ode on the Immortality of the Soul," we may well substitute for the "recollections of early childhood” the "dis

coveries of modern science," and exclaim, without in the least depreciating their immense importance and practical value—

"Not for these I raise

The song of thanks and praise;
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings,

Blank misgivings of a creature

Moving about in worlds not realized,

High instincts before which our mortal nature

Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised;

But for those first affections,

Those shadowy recollections,

Which, be they what they may,

Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;
Uphold us-cherish-and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal silence; truths that wake
To perish never:

Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
Nor man, nor boy,

Nor all that is at enmity with joy,

Can utterly abolish or destroy!

Hence, in a season of calm weather,

Though inland far we be,

Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither;

Can in a moment travel thither,

And see the children sport upon the shore,

And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.


The Golden Treasury.


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