Page:The Prelude, Wordsworth, 1850.djvu/207

BOOK VII.] Rests underneath the little rock-like pile

When storms are raging. Happy are they both—

Mother and child!—These feelings, in themselves

Trite, do yet scarcely seem so when I think

On those ingenuous moments of our youth

Ere we have learnt by use to slight the crimes

And sorrows of the world. Those simple days

Are now my theme; and, foremost of the scenes,

Which yet survive in memory, appears

One, at whose centre sate a lovely Boy,

A sportive infant, who, for six months' space,

Not more, had been of age to deal about

Articulate prattle—Child as beautiful

As ever clung around a mother's neck,

Or father fondly gazed upon with pride.

There, too, conspicuous for stature tall

And large dark eyes, beside her infant stood

The mother; but, upon her cheeks diffused,

False tints too well accorded with the glare

From play-house lustres thrown without reserve

On every object near. The Boy had been

The pride and pleasure of all lookers-on

In whatsoever place, but seemed in this

A sort of alien scattered from the clouds.

Of lusty vigour, more than infantine