Page:The Prelude, Wordsworth, 1850.djvu/312

290 He loved the Poets, and, if now alive,

Would have loved me, as one not destitute

Of promise, nor belying the kind hope

That he had formed, when I, at his command,

Began to spin, with toil, my earliest songs.

As I advanced, all that I saw or felt

Was gentleness and peace. Upon a small

And rocky island near, a fragment stood

(Itself like a sea rock) the low remains

(With shells encrusted, dark with briny weeds)

Of a dilapidated structure, once

A Romish chapel, where the vested priest

Said matins at the hour that suited those

Who crossed the sands with ebb of morning tide.

Not far from that still ruin all the plain

Lay spotted with a variegated crowd

Of vehicles and travellers, horse and foot,

Wading beneath the conduct of their guide

In loose procession through the shallow stream

Of inland waters; the great sea meanwhile

Heaved at safe distance, far retired. I paused,

Longing for skill to paint a scene so bright

And cheerful, but the foremost of the band

As he approached, no salutation given