Page:The Excursion, Wordsworth, 1814.djvu/238

212 Death's Hireling, who scoops out his Neighbour's grave,

Or wraps an old Acquaintance up in clay,

As unconcerned as when he plants a tree?

I was abruptly summoned by his voice

From some affecting images and thoughts

And from the company of serious words.

Much, yesterday, was said in glowing phrase

Of our sublime dependencies, and hopes

For future states of Being; and the wings

Of speculation, joyfully outspread,

Hovered above our destiny on earth;

But stoop, and place the prospect of the soul

In sober contrast with reality

And Man's substantial life. If this mute earth

Of what it holds could speak, and every grave

Were as a volume, shut, yet capable

Of yielding its contents to eye and ear,

We should recoil, stricken with sorrow and shame,

To see disclosed, by such dread proof, how ill

That which is done accords with what is known

To reason, and by conscience is enjoined;

How idly, how perversely, Life's whole course,

To this conclusion, deviates from the line,