WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH was born April 7, 1770, and on the 23d of April, 1850, "he closed a life so pure, serene, and priest-like in its consecration to lofty purpose, that we must go back to Milton in order to find its parallel."

He was a graduate of Cambridge University. In 1839, Oxford University recognized his ability by conferring upon him the degree of D. C. L. In 1843, he was made poet-laureate of England.

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Wordsworth studied Shakespeare, Milton, Spenser and Chaucer, as models. He was the founder of the "Lake School" of poets, composed of Wordsworth, Coleridge and Southey. As a writer, he first came public notice in two poems, An Evening Walk, and Descriptive Sketches Taken During a Pedestrian Tour among the Alps. The simplicity, refinement, and originality shown in these poems attracted general attention. The Excursion is, without doubt, Wordsworth's finest and most important production.

Most of the poet's life was devoted to a special study of poetry. Two legacies bequeathed him, gave means of support. His desire was to secure simpli

city of language.

The first efforts were so extremely simple that they were considered simple by all. This apparent silliness was ridiculed and laughed at by Jeffrey.

He is now loved and admired by all the world. His poetry is completely emancipated from the artificial. As Coleridge says, "He is austerely accurate in the use of words." By common consent, we place Wordsworth on the list of great poets, next to Milton, where his "all-embracing humanity" will forever shine.

From "The Excursion."

HE mountain-ash,

Decked with autumnal berries that outshine

Spring's richest blossoms, yields a splendid show,
Amid the leafy woods; and ye have seen,

By a brook-side or solitary turn,

How she her station doth adorn; the pool
Glows at her feet, and all the gloomy rocks
Are brightened round her. In his native vale
Such and so glorious did this youth appear;
A sight that kindled pleasure in all hearts.
By his ingenuous beauty, by the gleam
Of his fair eyes, by his capacious brow,

By all the graces with which Nature's hand
Had bounteously arrayed him. As old bards.
Tell in their idle songs of wandering gods,
Pan or Apollo, veiled in human form:

Yet, like the sweet-breath'd violet of the shade
Discovered in their own despite to sense

Of mortals (if such fables without blame

May find chance-mentioned on this sacred ground)
So, through a simple rustic garb's disguise,
And through the impediment of rural cares,

In him revealed a scholar's genius shown;

And so, not wholly hidden from men's sight,

In him the spirit of a hero walked

Our unpretending valley-How the quoit

Whizzed from the stripling's arm! If touched by him,

The inglorious foot-ball mounted to the pitch

Of the lark's flight, or shaped a rainbow curve,

Aloft, in prospect of the shouting field!
The indefatigable fox had learned
To dread his perseverance in the chase.
With admiration he could lift his eyes
To the wide-ruling eagle, and his hand.
Was loath to assault the majesty he loved,
Else had the strongest fastnesses proved weak
To guard the royal brood. The sailing glead,
The wheeling swallow, and the darting snipe,
The sportive sea-gull dancing with the waves,
And cautious waterfowl, from distant climes,
Fixed at their seat, the centre of the Mere,
Were subject to young Oswald's steady aim.

From "An Evening Walk."

AR from my dearest friend, 'tis mine to rove

Through bare grey dell, high wood, and pastoral cove,

His wizard course where hoary Derwent takes,
Thro' crags and forest glooms and opening lakes,

Staying his silent waves, to hear the roar

That stuns the tremulous cliffs of high Lodore,

Where peace to Grasmere's lonely island leads
To willowy hedgerows, and to emerald meads;
Leads to her bridge, rude church, and cottaged grounds,
Her rocky sheepwalks, and her woodland bounds;
Where, bosom'd deep, the shy Winander peeps
'Mid clustering isles, and holy-sprinkled steeps;
Where twilight glens endear my Esthwaite's shore.
And memory of departed pleasures, more.

Fair scenes! erewhile I taught, a happy child,
The echoes of your rocks my carols wild;
Then did no ebb of cheerfulness demand
Sad tides of joy from Melancholy's hand;

In youth's wild eye the livelong day was bright,
The sun at morning, and the stars at night,
Alike, when first the valves the bittern fills
Or the first woodcocks roamed the moonlight hills.
In thoughtless gayety I coursed the plain,

And hope itself was all I knew of pain;
For then, even then, the little heart would beat