Page:The Excursion, Wordsworth, 1814.djvu/161

135 No longer in subjection to the past,

With abject mind—from a tyrannic Lord

Inviting penance, fruitlessly endured.

So like a Fugitive, whose feet have cleared

Some boundary, which his Followers may not cross

In prosecution of their deadly chace,

Respiring I looked round.—How bright the Sun,

How promising the Breeze! Can aught produced

In the old World compare, thought I, for power

And majesty with this gigantic Stream,

Sprung from the Desart? And behold, a City

Fresh, youthful, and aspiring! What are these

To me, or I to them? As much at least

As He desires that they should be, whom winds

And waves have wafted to this distant shore,

In the condition of a damaged seed,

Whose fibres cannot, if they would, take root.

Here may I roam at large;—my business is,

Roaming at large, to observe, and not to feel;

And, therefore, not to act—convinced that all

Which bears the name of action, howsoe'er

Beginning, ends in servitude—still painful,

And mostly profitless. And, sooth to say,