Page:The Excursion, Wordsworth, 1814.djvu/128

102 Pity and scorn, and melancholy pride,

Not less than that huge Pile (from some abyss

Of mortal power unquestionably sprung)

Whose hoary Diadem of pendant rocks

Confines the shrill-voiced whirlwind, round and round

Eddying within its vast circumference,

On Sarum's naked plain;—than Pyramid

Of Egypt, unsubverted, undissolved;

Or Syria's marble Ruins towering high

Above the sandy Desart, in the light

Of sun or moon.—Forgive me, if I say

That an appearance, which hath raised your minds

To an exalted pitch, (the self-same cause

Different effect producing) is for me

Fraught rather with depression than delight,

Though shame it were, could I not look around me,

By the reflection of your pleasure, pleased.

Yet happier, in my judgment, even than you,

With your bright transports, fairly may be deemed,

Is He (if such have ever entered here)

The wandering Herbalist,—who, clear alike

From vain, and, that worse evil, vexing thoughts,

Casts on these uncouth Forms a slight regard