’Nor less I deem that there are Powers
  Which of themselves our minds impress;
  That we can feed this mind of ours
  In a wise passiveness.

  Think you, ’mid all this mighty sum
  Of things for ever speaking,
  That nothing of itself will come,
  But we must still be seeking?’

Mr. William Davies writes: 

“Is he absolutely right in attributing these powers to the objects of Nature, which are only symbols after all?  Is there not a more penetrative and ethereal perceptive power in the human mind, which is able to transfer itself immediately to the spiritual plane, transcending that of visible Nature?  Plato saw it; the old Vedantist still more clearly—­and what is more—­reached it.  He arrived at the knowledge and perception of essential Being:  though he could neither define nor limit, in a human formula, because it is undefinable and illimitable, but positive and abstract, universally diffused, ’smaller than small, greater than great,’ the internal Light, Monitor, Guide, Rest, waiting to be seen, recognised, and known in every heart; not depending on the powers of Nature for enlightenment and instruction, but itself enlightening and instructing:  not merely a receptive, but the motive power of Nature; which bestows itself upon Nature, and only receives from it that which it bestows.  Is it not, as he says farther on, better ‘to see great truths,’ even if not so strictly in line and form, ‘touch and handle little ones,’ to take the highest point of view we can reach, not a lower one?  And surely it is a higher thing to rule over and subdue Nature, than to lie ruled and subdued by it?  The highest form of Religion has always done this.”

Ed.]

[Footnote B:  Compare ‘The Old Cumberland Beggar’, l. 49 (vol. i. p. 301).—­Ed.]

[Footnote C:  For a hint in reference to this road, I am indebted to the late Dr. Henry Dodgson of Cockermouth.  Referring to my suggestion that it might be the road from Cockermouth to Bridekirk, he wrote (July 1878),

“I scarcely think that road answers to the description.  The hill over which it goes is not naked but well wooded, and has probably been so for many years.  Besides, it is not visible from Wordsworth’s house, nor from the garden behind it.  This garden extends from the house to the river Derwent, from which it is separated by a wall, with a raised terraced walk on the inner side, and nearly on a level with the top.  I understand that this terrace was in existence in the poet’s time....  Its direction is nearly due east and west; and looking eastward from it, there is a hill which bounds the view in that direction, and which fully corresponds to the description in ‘The Prelude’.  It is from one and a half to two miles distant, of considerable height, is bare and destitute of trees, and has a road going directly over its summit, as seen from the terrace in Wordsworth’s garden.  This