Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/140

80 Behind his sail the peasant strives to shun

The west that burns like one dilated sun,

Where in a mighty crucible expire

The mountains, glowing hot, like coals of fire.

— sure there is a secret Power that reigns

Here, where no trace of man the spot profanes,

Nought but the herds that pasturing upward creep,

Hung dim-discover'd from the dangerous steep,

Or summer hamlet, flat and bare, on high

Suspended, mid the quiet of the sky.

How still! no irreligious sound or sight

Rouzes the soul from her severe delight.

An idle voice the sabbath region fills

Of Deep that calls to Deep across the hills,

Broke only by the melancholy sound

Of drowsy bells for ever tinkling round;

Faint wail of eagle melting into blue

Beneath the cliffs, and pine-woods steady sugh ;