Page:The Excursion, Wordsworth, 1814.djvu/98

72 Who, having entered, carelessly looked round,

And now would have passed on; when I exclaimed,

"Lo! what is here?" and, stooping down, drew forth

A Book, that, in the midst of stones and moss

And wreck of party-coloured earthen-ware,

Aptly disposed, had lent its help to raise

One of those petty structures. "Gracious Heaven!"

The Wanderer cried, "it cannot but be his,

And he is gone!" The Book, which in my hand

Had opened of itself, (for it was swoln

With searching damp, and seemingly had lain

To the injurious elements exposed

From week to week,) I found to be a work

In the French Tongue, a Novel of Voltaire,

His famous Optimist. "Unhappy Man!"

Exclaimed my Friend; "here then has been to him

Retreat within retreat, a sheltering-place

Within how deep a shelter! He had fits,

Even to the last, of genuine tenderness,

And loved the haunts of Children; here no doubt

He sometimes played with them; and here hath sate

Far oftener by himself. This Book, I guess,

Hath been forgotten in his careless way;