Page:The Excursion, Wordsworth, 1814.djvu/352

326 Which in his soul he lovingly embraced,—

And, having once espoused, would never quit;

Hither, ere long, that lowly, great, good Man

Will be conveyed. An unelaborate Stone

May cover him; and by its help, perchance,

A century shall hear his name pronounced,

With images attendant on the sound;

Then, shall the slowly-gathering twilight close

In utter night; and of his course remain

No cognizable vestiges, no more

Than of this breath, which frames itself in words

To speak of him, and instantly dissolves.

—Noise is there not enough in doleful war—

But that the heaven-born Poet must stand forth

And lend the echoes of his sacred shell,

To multiply and aggravate the din?

Pangs are there not enough in hopeless love—

And, in requited passion, all too much

Of turbulence, anxiety, and fear—

But that the Minstrel of the rural shade

Must tune his pipe, insidiously to nurse

The perturbation in the suffering breast,

And propagate its kind, where'er he may?