Page:The Excursion, Wordsworth, 1814.djvu/142

116 Oh! tremble Ye to whom hath been assigned

A course of days composing happy months,

And they as happy years; the present still

So like the past, and both, so firm a pledge

Of a congenial future, that the wheels

Of pleasure move without the aid of hope.

For Mutability is Nature's bane;

And slighted Hope will be avenged; and, when

Ye need her favours, Ye shall find her not;

But, in her stead—fear—doubt—and agony!"

This was the bitter language of the heart;

But, while he spake, look, gesture, tone of voice,

Though discomposed and vehement, were such

As skill and graceful Nature might suggest

To a Proficient of the tragic scene,

Standing before the multitude, beset

With sorrowful events; and we, who heard

And saw, were moved. Desirous to divert,

Or stem, the current of the Speaker's thoughts,

We signified a wish to leave that Place

Of stillness and close privacy, which seemed

A nook for self-examination framed,