Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/662

 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

The little actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage' With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, That Life brings with her in her equipage;

As if his whole vocation

Were endless imitation.

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie

Thy soul's immensity;

Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou'eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, Mighty prophet' Seer blest' On whom those truths do rest, Which we are toiling all our lives to find, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; Thou, over whom thy Immortality Broods like the Day, a master o'er a slave, A presence which is not to be put by; Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight, Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life'

O joy' that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers

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