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 endeavor,
          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.

  X.

  Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! 
        And let the young lambs bound
        As to the tabor’s sound! 
  We in thought will join your throng,
        Ye that pipe and ye that play,
        Ye that through your hearts to-day
        Feel the gladness of the May! 
  What though the radiance which was once so
          bright
  Be now forever taken from my sight,
        Though nothing can bring back the hour
  Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;
        We will grieve not, rather find
        Strength in what remains behind;
        In the primal sympathy
        Which, having been, must ever be;
        In the soothing thoughts that spring
        Out of human suffering;
        In the faith that looks through death,
  In years that bring the philosophic mind.

  XI

  And O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves,
  Forebode not any severing of our loves! 
  Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
  I only have relinquished one delight
  To live beneath your more habitual sway. 
  I love the brooks which down their channels fret,
  Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;
  The innocent brightness of a new-born day
        Is lovely yet;
  The clouds that gather round the setting sun
  Do take a sober coloring from an eye
  That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality;
  Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
  Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
  Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,—­
  To me the meanest flower that blows can give
  Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

* * * * *

SOLILOQUY:  ON IMMORTALITY.

    FROM “CATO,” ACT V. SC.  I.

    SCENE.—­CATO, sitting in a thoughtful posture, with book on
    the Immortality of the Soul in his hand, and a drawn sword on
    the table by him.