Page:The Prelude, Wordsworth, 1850.djvu/239

BOOK VIII.] Than he lies down upon some shining rock,

And breakfasts with his dog. When they have stolen,

As is their wont, a pittance from strict time,

For rest not needed or exchange of love,

Then from his couch he starts; and now his feet

Crush out a livelier fragrance from the flowers

Of lowly thyme, by Nature's skill enwrought

In the wild turf: the lingering dews of morn

Smoke round him, as from hill to hill he hies,

His staff protending like a hunter's spear,

Or by its aid leaping from crag to crag,

And o'er the brawling beds of unbridged streams.

Philosophy, methinks, at Fancy's call,

Might deign to follow him through what he does

Or sees in his day's march; himself he feels,

In those vast regions where his service lies,

A freeman, wedded to his life of hope

And hazard, and hard labour interchanged

With that majestic indolence so dear

To native man. A rambling school-boy, thus

I felt his presence in his own domain,

As of a lord and master, or a power,

Or genius, under Nature, under God,

Presiding; and severest solitude

Had more commanding looks when he was there.