Page:The Prelude, Wordsworth, 1850.djvu/219

BOOK VII.] As the black storm upon the mountain top

Sets off the sunbeam in the valley, so

That huge fermenting mass of human-kind

Serves as a solemn back-ground, or relief,

To single forms and objects, whence they draw,

For feeling and contemplative regard,

More than inherent liveliness and power.

How oft, amid those overflowing streets,

Have I gone forward with the crowd, and said

Unto myself, "The face of every one

That passes by me is a mystery!"

Thus have I looked, nor ceased to look, oppressed

By thoughts of what and whither, when and how,

Until the shapes before my eyes became

A second-sight procession, such as glides

Over still mountains, or appears in dreams;

And once, far-travelled in such mood, beyond

The reach of common indication, lost

Amid the moving pageant, I was smitten

Abruptly, with the view (a sight not rare)

Of a blind Beggar, who, with upright face,

Stood, propped against a wall, upon his chest

Wearing a written paper, to explain

His story, whence he came, and who he was.

Caught by the spectacle my mind turned round