Page:The Prelude, Wordsworth, 1850.djvu/248

226 Some pensive musings which might well beseem

Maturer years.

A grove there is whose boughs

Stretch from the western marge of Thurston-mere,

With length of shade so thick, that whoso glides

Along the line of low-roofed water, moves

As in a cloister. Once—while, in that shade

Loitering, I watched the golden beams of light

Flung from the setting sun, as they reposed

In silent beauty on the naked ridge

Of a high eastern hill—thus flowed my thoughts

In a pure stream of words fresh from the heart:

(10) Dear native Regions, wheresoe'er shall close

My mortal course, there will I think on you;

Dying, will cast on you a backward look;

Even as this setting sun (albeit the Vale

Is no where touched by one memorial gleam)

Doth with the fond remains of his last power

Still linger, and a farewell lustre sheds

On the dear mountain-tops where first he rose.

Enough of humble arguments; recal,

My Song! those high emotions which thy voice

Has heretofore made known; that bursting forth

Of sympathy, inspiring and inspired,