Page:The Excursion, Wordsworth, 1814.djvu/354

328 Of that tall Pine, the shadow of whose bare

And slender stem, while here I sit at eve,

Oft stretches tow'rds me, like a long straight path

Traced faintly in the green sward; there, beneath

A plain blue Stone, a gentle Dalesman lies,

From whom, in early childhood, was withdrawn

The precious gift of hearing. He grew up

From year to year in loneliness of soul;

And this deep mountain Valley was to him

Soundless, with all its streams. The bird of dawn

Did never rouse this Cottager from sleep

With startling summons; not for his delight

The vernal cuckoo shouted; not for him

Murmured the labouring bee. When stormy winds

Were working the broad bosom of the lake

Into a thousand thousand sparkling waves,

Rocking the trees, or driving cloud on cloud

Along the sharp edge of yon lofty crags,

The agitated scene before his eye

Was silent as a picture: evermore

Were all things silent, wheresoe'er he moved.

Yet, by the solace of his own pure thoughts

Upheld, he duteously pursued the round