Certainly not in the quiet of a mossy graveyard, nor in a church where priests mumble unmeaning words at fixed times, nor yet alone on the mountain-side—­for he chafed at solitude—­but he should have been buried at sea.  In the midst of storm and driving sleet, at midnight, the sails should have been lowered, the great engines stopped, and with no requiem but the sobbing of the night-wind and the sighing of the breeze through the shrouds, and the moaning of the waves as they surged about the great, black ship, the plank should have been run out, and the body wrapped in the red, white and blue of the Republic:  the sea, the infinite mother of all, beloved and sung by him, should have taken his tired form to her arms, and there he would rest.

If not this, then the Pantheon.

WM. WORDSWORTH

Even such a shell the universe itself
Is to the ear of Faith; and there are times,
I doubt not, when to you it doth impart
Authentic tidings of invisible things;
Of ebb and flow and ever-during power;
And central peace subsisting at the heart
Of endless agitation.  Here you stand,
Adore and worship, when you know it not;
Pious beyond the intention of your thought;
Devout above the meaning of your will.

          
                                                          —­Wordsworth

[Illustration:  William Wordsworth]

Some one has told us that Heaven is not a place but a condition of mind, and it is possible that he is right.

But if Heaven is a place, surely it is not unlike Grasmere.  Such loveliness of landscape—­such sylvan stretches of crystal water—­peace and quiet and rest!

Great, green hills lift their heads to the skies, and all the old stone walls and hedgerows are covered with trailing vines and blooming flowers.  The air is rich with song of birds, sweet with perfume, and the blossoms gaily shower their petals on the passer-by.  Overhead, white, billowy clouds float lazily over their background of ethereal blue.  Cool June breezes fan the cheek.  Distant knolls are dotted with flocks of sheep whose bells tinkle dreamily; and drowsy hum of beetle makes the bass, while lark song forms the air of the sweet symphony that Nature plays.  Such was Grasmere as I first saw it.

To love the plain, homely, common, simple things of earth, of these to sing; to make the familiar beautiful and the commonplace enchanting; to cause each bush to burn with the actual presence of the living God:  this is the poet’s office.  And if the poet lives near Grasmere, his task does not seem difficult.

From Seventeen Hundred Ninety-nine to Eighteen Hundred Eight, Wordsworth lived at Dove Cottage.  Thanks to a few earnest souls, the place is now secured to the people of England and the lovers of poetry wherever they may be.  A good old woman has charge of the cottage, and for a slight fee shows you the house and garden and little orchard and objects of interest, all the while talking:  and you are glad, for, although unlettered, she is reverent and honest.  She was born here, and all she knows is Wordsworth and the people and the things he loved.  Is not this enough?