55
Rydal Mount, Westmoreland.
(The Residence of Wordsworth.)
The influence of a moral spell
Is found around this scene,
Giving new shadows to the dell,
New verdure to the green.
With every mountain-top is wrought
The presence of associate thought,
A music that has been;
Calling that loneliness to life
With which the inward world is rife.
His home—our English Poet's home—
Amid these hills is made;
Here with the morning hath he come,
Here with the night delay'd.
On all things is his memory cast,
For every place wherein he past,
Is with his mind arrayed,
That wandering in a summer bower,
Asked wisdom of the leaf and flower.
Great Poet, if I dare to throw
My homage at thy feet;
'Tis thankfulness for hours which thou
Hast made serene and sweet;
As wayfarers have incense thrown
Upon some mighty altar-stone,
Unworthy, and yet meet,
The human spirit longs to prove
The truth of its uplooking love.
Until thy hand unlocked its store,
What glorious music slept!
Music that can be hushed no more,
Was from our knowledge kept.
But the great mother gave to thee
The poet's universal key,
And forth the fountains swept—
A gushing melody for ever,
The witness of thy high endeavour.
