Of white-robed Scholars only — this immense
And glorious Work of fine intelligence!

Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore
Of nicely calculated less or more;

So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense
These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof
Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells,
Where light and shade repose, where music dwells
Lingering and wandering on as loth to die;

Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof That they were born for immortality.

II

What awful perspective! while from our sight
With gradual stealth the lateral windows hide
Their Portraitures, their stone-work glimmers, dyed
In the soft chequerings of a sleepy light.
Martyr, or King, or sainted Eremite,

Whoe'er ye be, that thus, yourselves unseen,
Imbue your prison-bars with solemn sheen,
Shine on, until ye fade with coming Night ! —
But, from the arms of silence list! O list!

The music bursteth into second life;

The notes luxuriate, every stone is kissed
By sound, or ghost of sound, in mazy strife;
Heart-thrilling strains, that cast, before the eye
Of the devout, a veil of ecstasy!

III

They dreamt not of a perishable home

Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear

Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here;
Or through the aisles of Westminster to roam :
Where bubbles burst, and folly's dancing foam
Melts, if it cross the threshold; where the wreath
Of awe-struck wisdom droops or let my path
Lead to that younger Pile, whose sky-like dome
Hath typified by reach of daring art

Infinity's embrace; whose guardian crest,
The silent Cross, among the stars shall spread
As now, when She hath also seen her breast
Filled with mementos, satiate with its part
Of grateful England's overflowing Dead.

CATHEDRALS, ETC.

OPEN your gates, ye everlasting Piles!

Types of the spiritual Church which God hath reared;
Not loth we quit the newly hallowed sward
And humble altar, 'mid your sumptuous aisles
To kneel, or thrid your intricate defiles,
Or down the nave to pace in motion slow;
Watching, with upward eye, the tall tower grow
And mount, at every step, with living wiles
Instinct

-to rouse the heart and lead the will By a bright ladder to the world above.

Open your gates, ye Monuments of love

Divine! thou Lincoln, on thy sovereign hill!

Thou, stately York! and Ye, whose splendours cheer

Isis and Cam, to patient Science dear!

TO WILLIAM MATHEWS1

PLAS-YN-LLAN, NEAR RUTHIN,

DENBIGHSHIRE, June 17, 1791.

You will see by the date of this letter that I am in Wales, and whether you remember the place of Jones' residence or no, you will immediately conclude that I am with him. I quitted London about three weeks ago, where my time passed in a strange manner, sometimes whirled about by the vortex of its strenua inertia, and sometimes thrown by the eddy into a corner of the stream. Think not, however, that I had not many pleasant hours. . . . My time has been spent since I reached Wales in a very agreeable manner, and Jones and I intend to make a tour through its northern counties, — on foot, as you will easily suppose.

FROM DOROTHY WORDSWORTH TO MISS

POLLARD

FORNCETT, Sunday Morning, June 26, 1791.

I often hear from my brother William, who is now in Wales, where I think he seems so happy, that it is probable he will remain there all summer, or a great part of it. William, you may have heard, lost the chance (indeed the certainty) of a fellowship, by not combating his inclinations. He gave way to his natural dislike to study so dry as many parts of mathematics, consequently could

1 Mathews, Robert Jones, and Wordsworth were fellow-students at Cambridge.

not succeed at Cambridge. He reads Italian, Spanish, Greek, Latin, and English, but never opens a mathematical book. We promise ourselves much pleasure from reading Italian together at some time. He wishes that I was acquainted with the Italian poets. William has a great attachment to poetry; so indeed has Kit, but William particularly, which is not the most likely thing to produce his advancement in the world. His pleasures are chiefly of the imagination. He is never so happy as when in a beautiful country. Do not think in what I have said that he reads not at all, for he does read a great deal; and not only poetry, and other languages he is acquainted with, but history, &c., &c. Kit has made a very good proficiency in learning. He is just seventeen. At October, '92, we shall lose him at Cambridge.

FROM DOROTHY WORDSWORTH TO MISS

POLLARD

FORNCETT, February 16th, 1793.

Your letter found me happy in the society of one of my dear brothers. Christopher and I have been separated for nearly five years last Christmas.

ports at meeting him again.

Judge then of my trans

has the same traits in his character, but less highly touched. He is not so ardent in any of his pursuits, but is yet more particularly attached to the same pursuits which have so irresistible an influence over William, which deprive him of the power of chaining his attention to others discordant to his feelings. Christopher is no despicable poet, but he can