“Child of loud-throated War! the mountain Stream
Roars in thy hearing; but thy hour of rest
Is come, and thou art silent in thy age.”

“What art thou, from care
Cast off,—­abandon’d by thy rugged Sire,
Nor by soft Peace adopted?”

             “Shade of departed Power,

Skeleton of unflesh’d humanity,
The chronicle were welcome that should call
Into the compass of distinct regard
The toils and struggles of thy infant years!”

          
                                                                              Kilchurn Castle.

“Advance,—­come forth from thy Tyrolean ground,
Dear Liberty! stern Nymph of soul untam’d;
Sweet Nymph, O rightly of the mountains nam’d! 
Through the long chain of Alps from mound to mound,
And o’er th’ eternal snows, like Echo, bound;
Like Echo, when the hunter-train at dawn
Have rous’d her from her sleep; and forest-lawn,
Cliffs, woods, and caves her viewless steps resound,
And babble of her pastime!”

    “Ye Storms, resound the praises of your King! 
    And ye mild Seasons—­in a sunny clime,
    Midway on some high hill, while father Time
    Looks on delighted—­meet in festal ring,
    And long and loud of Winter’s triumph sing! 
    Sing ye, with blossoms crown’d, and fruits, and flowers,
    Of Winter’s breath surcharg’d with sleety showers,
    And the dire flapping of his hoary wing! 
    Knit the blithe dance upon the soft green grass;
    With feet, hands, eyes, looks, lips, report your gain;
    Whisper it to the billows of the main,
    And to th’ aerial Zephyrs as they pass,
    That old decrepit Winter—­He hath slain
    That Host which render’d all your bounties vain.”
                                    Son. to Lib., Pt. ii. 10, 35.

In the foregoing passages, the imagery of course loses more or less of its force and beauty from being cut out of its proper surroundings; for Wordsworth’s poetry, too, is far from being mere gatherings of finely-carved chips:  as a general thing, the several parts of a poem all rightly know each other as co-members of an organic whole.  Far more must this needs be the case in the passages that follow, inasmuch as these are from the most dramatic of all writing; so that the virtue of the imagery is inextricably bound up with the characters and occasions of the speakers: 

            “Look, love, what envious streaks

Do lace the severing clouds in yonder East: 
Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.”

          
                                                                Rom. and Jul., iii. 5.

“Death, that hath suck’d the honey of thy breath,
Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty: 
Thou art not conquer’d; beauty’s ensign yet
Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,
And death’s pale flag is not advanced there.”